Gunslinger Girl

by Lyndsay Ely

  “Pity, thank goodness!” Luster waved at her from the deserted bar. “Relieve this horrid boredom, please.”

  She limped over and settled herself on a stool, stiffening as she spotted Siena Bond at the end of the bar.

  “You okay?” said Garland. “You look like a cat that’s been rubbed the wrong way.”

  Pity dropped her gaze from the bounty hunter. “It’s been a long few days.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Flossie flounced over, lips pursed with annoyance. “You’d think someone had spread a rumor that we’re out of champagne.” She set her hands on her hips. “It’s a good thing Daneko is gone, because I’d kill him myself for the amount of bad business he’s caused us.”

  “They’ll be back,” Garland reassured her. “They never stay away for long.”

  “I know. But they won’t be back tonight. If y’all don’t want to hang around, don’t bother.” She stalked off.

  “Well,” said Luster. “That’s that. What are we doing for the rest of the night?”

  “Whatever it is, can we do it somewhere else?” Pity’s skin crawled, as if someone were holding a knife a hairsbreadth away from it. Was Siena Bond watching her? Or was her attention on the half empty bottle keeping her company? In the dim light, it was impossible to tell.

  Then again, maybe the bounty hunter had the right idea. Pity glanced around for Olivia, then reached over the bar and grabbed a bottle of bourbon. If she couldn’t shoot her troubles away, maybe she could drown them for a while. “And can we start with this?”

  They quit the Gallery in favor of Garland’s room. Larger than Pity’s, the sprawling bed was big enough for all three of them to stretch out on. As Luster flipped through the broadcast channels, searching for a film to watch, Garland slipped on a faded old shirt, torn along one hem.

  Settled in the center of the bed, Pity smirked into her glass.

  “What?” he said.

  “It’s just funny. You come back to your room to unwind and put on more clothes.”

  He jumped in beside her with a sly grin. “I wouldn’t want you ladies to tire of the view.”

  Pity rolled her eyes at him, but the humor was welcome. Anxiety still slithered at the edge of her mind, but for the first time in days she felt the grip of tension retract slightly, loosened by a generous pour of bourbon and the relaxed company. At Luster’s suggestion, they ordered up dinner and watched a bumbling black-and-white comedy as they ate.

  “I wish CONA would make films like this.” Luster licked at a spoonful of ice cream. “Might convince me to join up, become a star.”

  “They do.” Pity shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. Her wound, irritated by her overzealous practice, now ached like an infected tooth. “They’d show them on the commune a couple of times a month.”

  “Those hokey things they call movies?” Luster laughed. “More propaganda than stories, and no soul at all. Now, this… Would you stop squirming?”

  “Sorry. My leg hurts.”

  “Take one of Starr’s pain pills. That’s what they’re for, right?”

  “I left them in my room.” You could always call a porter to go get them. Pity eyed Luster. Or…“I don’t suppose there’s something in that stash of yours that would do the trick?”

  Surprise, followed by impish appreciation, flashed in Luster’s eyes. “Aren’t you feeling wicked?”

  “Don’t tease. Not tonight.”

  Luster, chastened, said, “Well, not exactly. But I’ve got something that’ll have you feeling no pain.” She pulled out her tin, picked a pill, and offered it.

  No pain. Pity reached for the pill, then hesitated. Is this what you want? She knew this road. One day, long ago, her mother had started on it and never turned back.

  Frustration flared.

  I’m not my mother. If the last few weeks had taught her anything, it was that.

  She swallowed the pill dry. It left a bitter trail on her tongue.

  “And so you don’t feel alone…” Luster grinned as she gave one to Garland and took another for herself.

  Garland raised his up. “Cheers!”

  Quicker than Pity expected, the pain in her leg began to recede. At the same time, her attention started to wander; minutes passed, or maybe it was only seconds. The colors in the room seemed to sharpen as an intense calm spread through her. When she moved her head, she felt adrift.

  “See?” Luster’s voice poured like syrup. “Better, right?”

  Pity nodded. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  Luster tucked her knees to her chest. She looks like hardly more than a child sometimes, Pity thought. On the other side of her, Garland looked like anything but. Everything about him was acutely mature—square jaw, high cheekbones, bronze skin. His hair, so naturally dark compared to Max’s, gleamed like obsidian.

  “Told you.” Luster took Pity’s calf in her hands and ran a gentle hand over the bandage. “Poor Pity’s leg.”

  Through the fabric and gauze, Pity felt a shiver of electricity run through her. Beneath her, the linens, always soft, now felt like pure silk. Silk that was about to melt into cream. “It could have—should have been worse. If Beau hadn’t… if I’d only…”

  “Stop thinking about that.” Garland turned onto his side next to her, head propped on one arm. The other reached out and took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “It happened. It’s over now.”

  “That’s not how it feels. The last assassin—”

  “Isn’t your problem to worry about.” Luster released Pity’s leg and fell back among the pillows. Her hair fanned out around her like dark corn silk. “Whatever’s happening to him, he deserves it.”

  “Maybe.”

  Garland seemed to move closer to Pity. Or maybe she moved closer to him. It was hard to tell—the feeling of his hand encompassing hers made her thoughts flutter and break apart like leaves in an autumn wind. Comforting warmth radiated off him, and Pity found her eyes drawn to where his shirt had pulled up a little at the waist, a mesmerizing boundary where fabric ended and his skin began.

  “Y’know what?” Luster’s sat up abruptly, face bright. “I’m tired of lying around. I’m gonna go see what Dutch is up to.”

  Pity let go of Garland’s hand and started to rise. “We can…”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Luster said. “You need to take it easy, stay off that leg. Relax—do you understand me?” With a meaningful wink, she left, closing the door behind her.

  Pity turned back to Garland. His eyes—darker than usual, all black pupils—gazed at her. She felt a rush of embarrassment at being alone with him, like this. But it was gone the next instant, flushed out by a more carnal sensation.

  “Should we… Do you want to go with her?” Her heart thudded. Get up, an apprehensive voice in her head said. It’s time to go. But a stronger desire kept her right where she was.

  “Not particularly,” said Garland. “Do you?”

  No. “No.”

  “Then let’s stay here.” He touched her cheek.

  Pity reached up, intending—probably—to move his hand away, but when her fingers touched his wrist, they locked there. When she turned her head, his fingertips ran over her lips. She felt the ridiculous urge to kiss them, but he pulled away too quickly. A moment later, his shirt slipped off.

  Pity’s whole body pulsed, as if there was too much blood in her veins. She reached out, then stopped.

  “It’s okay,” he said, taking her hand and putting it to his chest.

  The skin there was warm, wonderful. She traced the line of his collarbone, losing herself in the exquisite sensation.

  What about Max? said the apprehensive voice. Pity’s fingers pulled back, as did the rest of her. Something in her gut softened. But a flash of anger followed.

  What about Max? The soft spot hardened again. He’s not here. And he made it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t want to be if he was. She shoved the thoughts back, drowning them beneath the sensuous, gossamer layer of desire
that coated her mind—a desire that reflected only Garland.

  Garland, who leaned over and kissed her, instead of pushing her away.

  His lips found her mouth, then her neck, and finally the base of her throat. Each caress sent a ripple of pleasure through her. When he began undoing the buttons of her shirt, she helped him. Moments later, her pants were gone, too. Left in only her underclothes, Pity shook with the sudden chill.

  Garland kissed both of her knees and then the skin above her bullet wound. “Does it still hurt?”

  She shook her head no, too out of breath for words. As he crawled back up the bed, she felt the heat of his breath on her belly. A glorious ache spread through her.

  Wait, her last shred of sense cried. “Garland, I can’t… we… shouldn’t…”

  “Why not?”

  “Because… I… Well, I’m fertile to start, and I can’t… I mean, I don’t want to accidentally…”

  “Oh, stop.” Garland gently nipped the skin of her stomach with his teeth. “You commune ladies aren’t half as innocent as you act. I’m sure you can think of a few things that will definitely not put you in any unwanted situations.” He moved away a few inches. “But if you want to go back to ice cream and movies, say the word.”

  Pity threaded her fingers through his dark hair and pulled him toward her. “I didn’t say anything about going back to ice cream and movies.” She laughed at the surprise that flashed across his face. But all resistance was gone, burned away by the heat between them. She wanted the touch of his lips again and the delicious feeling they carried—a heady anchor in the typhoon of emotions that tossed her.

  The room floated for a while, formless, before slowly turning solid again. Desire burned off, Pity felt other sensations return: cold as well as warmth, pain as well as pleasure. But everything was still too sharp, limned with artificiality. When she sat up and tried to climb out of the bed, she listed sideways into the nightstand, rattling the glasses abandoned there.

  Garland roused from where he had been dozing beside her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” Pity felt around the floor, looking for her clothes. “I’m going back to my room.” The movement made her stomach turn. She regretted the food and drink from earlier—it sloshed around inside her like a lukewarm stew.

  “Why?” He yawned. “You can stay here.”

  “It’s late,” she lied, having no idea what the time might be. She found her shirt and pulled it on, then reached for her pants and boots. She sat on the edge of the bed. “And… I’m not feeling well.”

  Garland put his hands on her shoulders. She tensed. “Pity, are you okay? Is this because of what we—”

  “No.” And it wasn’t. Even now, the feeling of his hands was enough to set her skin tingling. It was a bit of fun. That’s all.

  So why don’t you feel any better than before?

  “I want to sleep in my own bed. That’s all.”

  His hands lingered for a moment before letting go. “If that’s what you want.”

  Pity felt the mattress ripple as he lay back down but couldn’t bring herself to turn, to see whatever look was on his face. If I do, I might want to stay a little longer.

  She stood and headed toward the door. It moved back and forth in her vision as she stumbled forward and caught the handle. No wonder—she had forgotten about her leg. It ached distantly.

  “Are you sure you’re okay to—”

  “Yes.” Pity yanked the door open. Light spilled in, far too bright. She blinked. “I’ll see you later.”

  She staggered into the hallway, the door snapping shut behind her. Too late, she remembered that Garland’s room was nowhere near hers. She took one corner and then another, realized it was the wrong way, and turned back around. The hall spun; for a moment she lost her orientation completely. Everything looked the same—same corridors, same doors, same patterned carpet. Spotting a stairwell, she entered it, at least certain that she needed to be a few floors down. She gripped the railing as she descended, her injured leg even more untrustworthy than the rest of her. At one landing, she sat and tried to gather herself. A black number wavered on the wall above her head.

  Her floor. She smiled.

  “Pity?”

  The relief disintegrated.

  No, not now. She refused to look around, praying that voice was in her imagination, another manifestation of Luster’s pill.

  But Max was really there. He slid into her vision, a smear of paint on one cheek—reddish-brown, like dried blood.

  “Pity, are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m…” She struggled back to her feet. “Just heading to bed.”

  “Pity, look at me.”

  She meant to ignore him, but in the next moment found herself staring into his gray eyes.

  “Geez, your pupils are as big as dinner plates. What are you on?”

  She shook her head. He couldn’t see her like this. Not like this, not now. Go away, she thought. Go away, Max. “Nothing… Luster…”

  That scant mouthful was all he needed. “Dammit, Luster. C’mon, I’ll get you back to your room.”

  “No…”

  He got on her weak side and put an arm around her.

  “No!” She pushed him away. “Stop it—I don’t need your help!” A whiplash of anger snapped her vision into focus. Mouth agape, Max looked like she had struck him. It only made her angrier. “I can take care of myself! I don’t need you always coming to the rescue!”

  Pity grabbed the door of the stairwell, jerked it open, and plunged through.

  It was too much. Her feet pedaled forward but wouldn’t stop. She struck the opposite wall of the hallway and slid to the floor. The contents of her stomach rose to the back of her throat, and when she closed her eyes, the whole world spun.

  Some seconds later, she felt Max take her arms. She didn’t resist this time but couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes, either. If she did, the frustrated tears would flow.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Slow now.”

  Pity allowed herself to be led. Blind, she became aware of Garland’s scent, still hanging about her like a haze. Her embarrassment grew. Could Max smell it, too?

  It doesn’t matter what he thinks. It doesn’t matter at all.

  Eventually, she heard a door open and felt the familiar aura of her room. She opened her eyes to find her bed before her.

  “Lie down,” said Max.

  “No.”

  “You need to sleep it off.”

  “I don’t want to sleep.” Pity pulled away and listed toward the bathroom. “I want a bath.”

  “Are you trying to drown yourself?”

  Yes.

  “Lie down.”

  It was too hard to fight. Pity closed her eyes again and let the bed envelop her. A moment later, she felt Max pull her boots off.

  “There,” he said. “Get under the covers.”

  “Max…” Her voice sounded distant. Tendrils of unconsciousness tugged at her. “Please… please just go…”

  She woke sometime later. The room was as black as pitch. She shifted.

  “Pity?”

  The voice had come from below. Max was on the floor, she realized, beside the bed. How long has he been there?

  Staying stone-still, eyes pressed closed, she forced her breaths into a sedate pattern. After a few minutes, she heard Max stand, followed by the muted shuffle of his feet against the carpet. Her eyelids lit up when he opened the door to the hall. The vermilion glow lingered for a few moments—one breath in, one breath out—and then faded.

  The door closed, and Max was gone.

  CHAPTER 23

  Shadowed in the upper ranks of the theatre’s seats, Pity rolled a bullet back and forth between her fingers, watching the act below slowly knit itself together. The floor of the arena was a hectic patchwork of performers and props, but with a hint of underlying reason to it, too, a pattern working itself out. By the time of the next show, order would be established, she had no doubt, and t
he act would emerge as another of the Theatre’s mesmerizing creations.

  Already she found herself craving the day when all she had to worry about was pleasing her audience. Onstage, she knew what to expect, how to react. Onstage, her mother’s guns were as familiar as her own two hands. Nothing escaped her; she dispatched every one of the Theatre’s targets with merciless precision.

  Below, oblivious to her presence, Max adjusted pieces of the blossoming set.

  A pang of guilt pierced her.

  The arena was simple. Everything beyond it was where her control seemed to fray.

  Footsteps approached, dragging her from her thoughts.

  “Hi.” It was Garland. “Mind if I join you?”

  Pity’s fist tightened around the bullet. “I was about to leave—”

  “No, you weren’t.” He sat down next to her. “I think we need to have a talk. You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Don’t look away like that; it gives away the lie. You’ve been avoiding me,” he repeated, “and you’ve been avoiding Luster. She thinks you’re mad at her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Garland said with a mix of patience and amusement, “we’ve hardly caught a glimpse of you for days. And here you are, hiding in the dark.” He paused. “But I don’t think you’re mad at her or at me.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’m not. Now I’ve got to—”

  “I think you’re mad”—he nodded in the direction of the arena floor—“because what happened the other night didn’t happen with the person you really wanted it to.”

  Halfway out of her seat, Pity stopped. She sank back down, defeated. “Dammit, does anything stay a secret in this place?”

  He smirked. “Not much. Don’t worry. Luster didn’t say anything.”

  “Then how did you—”

  “Pity…” His tone turned serious but not unkind. “I’ve seen how you look at Max. And it’s nothing like how you look at me.”

  Her cheeks burned. “Oh.”

  Was it really that obvious? There was no mistaking what she felt around Garland. But even now her attention was drawn below, to where Max worked. It was Max who always seemed to rise to the surface of her thoughts, along with that brief moment on the night of her debut when he seemed to kiss her back.