by Kay Camden
I pull away because I can’t get down with that right now. There’s too much, too many other things to work out. She scoots forward, marks one cheek and half my chin and stops there.
“Only half a warrior?” I ask, lifting my non-painted arm.
She takes that arm and stretches it out, writing words on it like she’s done before.
Moores suck.
And I get up and head toward the fire because I’m laughing too hard.
*
She naps for three hours. I do push-ups and practice leaps out of trees because the pill’s still in my system. I don’t want to take a sleeping one because I won’t wake in time for battle. Two a.m. is what we decided. I eat all the snacks on me and head to the car for more but can’t find it. It’s even invisible to the touch—at least I think I remember where we parked. I could be feeling around in the wrong spot.
I unload and reload my .45 a few times, sharpen my knife. I need to email my gaming crew with an update so they know I’m alive. I can’t afford to lose the only friends I’ve ever had. Honesty is where it’s at, but I know that’s the pill talking. Maybe I should go with it though. I’m not capable of making correct decisions unaided. Before I can talk myself out of it, I fire off a group email: Sorry, guys. Dealing with some bad stuff right now. Had to leave my house. No worries though. I’m okay, except for not being able to get online. Hopefully you won’t hate me too much by the time I get back.
I hit send, feeling twitchy and exposed and unable to determine how much of that is the pill and how much is the real me.
Finally it’s time to wake her up, but the moths have beat me to it. They’re flapping against her cheeks and arms and she’s stirring, not even swatting them away like most people would be if insects were all over them. I can’t figure out where her hair ends and the moths begin.
“Bevans are weird.” Yeah, she can’t hear me, but maybe the moths will pass it along to her.
She stomps out the dying fire while I pack up the stuff we brought from the car. The half moon is high now, directly overhead. I wonder if that’s why she suggested two a.m. We change clothes—pocketed camo pants, boots, and a clean tee for me, dark jeans and black tee for her. Still those soft boots. She leaves her amulet outside her shirt. It catches a beam of moonlight, and I know what she’s about to do.
Look at your arm, Rex. Bevan war paint, remember? Being bound to her amulet makes no difference now. You’ve already joined the wrong side.
Point taken. But it’s temporary. Only part of my strategy. I haven’t joined them, I’m using them.
I realize I’ve stiffened against whatever she’s going to do with her amulet when she takes my phone from my hand, and I practically pull a muscle from the flinch I have to suppress.
She types into my phone. I need to ask you something before we go.
“Okay, shoot.” I’m a little terrified though.
What did your family do to my dad when he lived with them?
I doubt she wants to hear they took in Bevan trash and gave him shelter and education and training and put up with all the times he attacked people for no reason. She wants to hear the bad stuff. Probably needs some motivation for what we’re about to do. “I can only tell you what I heard.”
She signs an O followed by K. I can’t believe I recognize it.
“They chained him in those crappy old buildings and didn’t feed him. Destroyed his things, tortured his mother. Probably smacked him around a lot. Fun stuff like that.” From the way she’s put a hand to her mouth, I should stop here, but why end it before the best part? “And you know they tricked him into thinking they killed his wife and new baby, right? And he bought it. For like, fifteen years.”
Her eyes have gone watery. She slowly hands my phone back. Rigid shoulders, unfocused stare—she appears to be going into a state of shock. So she didn’t know all this? Well she needs to know. I’m not sure why, but it’s important.
I show her the screen and say, “After that he executed everyone in the house. Did you know that?”
Tears are running now, but she’s not wiping them because she’s glued to the screen.
“Tons of people. Thirty? Fifty? I don’t know. That was when my great-granduncle and his son were in charge. The two Martins. And they sent guys after him for years and he killed them all. You know how many of our guys he’s killed?”
Her eyes flick from the screen to my face. There’s a hint of disbelief in all that shock, and I’m afraid I’m dishing out too much. It’s starting to sound too hard to believe. Well, it is, if you don’t know it’s true. I lower the phone because, wow, what if it’s not true? My family isn’t famous for their honesty. And think about it: how could one dude kill so many Moores? We’re impossible to kill. Is it some kind of tall tale to rally the troops?
“You think I’m lying? Ask Aaron.” I shove the phone at her. Because no way it’s a lie. I’ve believed that shit my whole life.
She takes it mechanically. Reads my last words on the screen. I step beside her because I want to see his reply come in as she does. She opens a text to Aaron and types, This is Sloane. How many Moores has my dad killed?
He’s not going to reply in the middle of the night, but we stand and wait anyway. An owl calls from far away, the sound gaining volume until large striped wings soar down, flapping once to land in a low limb. If Sloane notices, she doesn’t take her eyes from the screen.
His reply pops in: A hundred.
She inhales sharply. He’s including their trained guys and he’s underestimating. Probably better that way so she doesn’t think he’s pranking her.
Another text comes in: But most were self-defense. He’s not a bad guy no matter what Rex says.
Trey Bevan not a bad guy? Fuck Aaron. I take the phone from her, wishing I’d have thought before bringing Aaron into this. Yeah, I needed him to vouch for me, but I forgot what a shit-head traitor he is.
I hold the phone in front of her so she can read my words. “Your father killed Aaron’s grandfather and cut off my mother’s pinky when I was a baby. Came to the house completely unprovoked. That sound like a fucking bad guy to you?”
She steps back, shaking her head, and I see how close I had that phone in her face. Her tears are big now, puddling under her eyes, running down both cheeks, a glint in the moonlight. And the shuddering gasps coming out of her, the rawness of it—I’m not sure I’ve ever heard someone cry, or if I have, I’ve never cared enough to pay attention.
I’m paying attention now, and it’s cutting me up inside. So much that I don’t need to find some way to release my anger with Aaron, it’s just disappeared on its own.
I untuck my shirt and wipe her cheeks with the bottom of it. She just stands there letting me do it. It’s pointless though. More tears come. I wipe those too. Her makeup is coming off and I don’t know how to wipe without smearing it worse. I could do more, like apologize, but for what? Telling the truth? I need to do more but I don’t know what.
Then I remember what she did to me when I was pissed off and in my car about to leave her at Trey Bevan’s cottage in the woods. How that hug laid such a heavy calm on me. So I wrap my arms around her and fold her against me. She loses it then, crying hard against my chest, and I know it’s because I’m doing something wrong. I’ve never hugged anyone before. Never been hugged—well, only by her. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I can’t let her go though. My arms won’t release. I’m making her cry harder, and I don’t know how to stop it. Her arms go around me and she’s holding on, tight enough for the shudder in her chest to become a part of me. I’m afraid of what this is doing to me. It just might be irreversible.
Chapter 21
Sloane
It’s so obvious to me now, what my dad carries inside him. All the little things my mom has told me over the years. The walks my dad takes on his own for hours at a time. That bottle of li
quor in the cabinet, its level regularly scrutinized by my mom and Aunt Tara, even by Dad himself. They don’t know I see them do it. They don’t know I’ve caught on.
How my dad disappears sometimes when Marcas or I really piss him off. The distance he creates when things get tense. How he leaves certain things up to my mom to handle. He doesn’t think he can trust himself. He learned from abusers, and he’s afraid he’s one too.
Okay, I can deal with that. He’s not an abuser. He’s in a good place now.
But what he’s done, I’m not sure how to accept. Holding onto Rex seems like the only answer until I come up with something better. He knows I’ve stopped crying because I feel his voice rumbling through his chest against my cheek. It might be an apology for the rough delivery of the truth, but I can’t even blame him for that. There’s hurt on both sides of this, and his is just as valid as my own.
When all this is over, I can’t let him go back to those people, even if they’re cured. He needs to stay away from them, from the memories, from that house.
Rex is trying to untangle himself, so I finally let him go. His shirt is wet and wrinkled from where I was plastered against him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. The two of us, what we’re doing together, it’s a curse. Nothing good will come of it, and we have to stop. We need to do what we need to do, part ways, and move on with our lives.
I sign, Ready?
He hands me his phone. What’s the plan?
We get inside the house. Find every one of your relatives and do what I did to you.
And?
I shrug. And we leave.
That’s not a plan.
Unsure what to say, I frown at him. How is that not a plan?
He takes his knife from his boot and tests the blade on his thumb. Just tell me what I need to do.
I don’t know yet. We’ll figure it out when we get there.
That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard.
Oh, he’s going to be rude? I’m so done with this. I shoulder my bag and take off for the car, but he’s become a roadblock. He points to his phone still in my hand. I’m so sick of reading that stupid screen. I want to see his face and his hands, not words on a screen.
He says my name. Seeing it on his lips like that does something to me. I tighten my jaw against my stinging eyes. He says it again, almost like he knows what a weapon it is, how completely it can disarm me. Then one hand is in the air and he’s fingerspelling. S-L-O-A-N-E.
I drop my bag, ready to shove him to the ground. Now isn’t the time for him to pretend to care about learning to speak my language. But he’s already caught me by the shoulders, and I fear he knows me too well. How could I have let this happen? Rex Moore is the last person who should be predicting my moves.
And no one learns to fingerspell after one casual glance on a phone. He’d have to have been studying it.
He releases my shoulder to point to himself. On his lips: don’t have. He points to me. Then he fingerspells, instincts … I need orders.
I don’t have your instincts. I need orders.
It’s a pitiful attempt at signing but it’s beautiful. And his eyes, locked on mine, so fierce and needy for acceptance—no one has ever made such a desperate attempt to connect with me.
OK, I sign, but I’m not sure what to tell him. This job has been coded into my blood by my ancestors. His role, a last minute add-on by me. I’ve never created or given orders to anyone in my life. To save myself from fingerspelling it all, I go back to his phone.
Follow my lead. Be my backup. I need fresh running blood from each Moore and about fifteen seconds with each of them. Forehead to forehead, remember? You’ll need to keep the room clear and keep everyone else away. And we need to do everyone in the house. I’m not going back in a second time.
He smiles, bloodthirsty and savage. Raises his fist for a bump. Our knuckles connect, and I wonder what kind of monster I’ve enlisted for the good I’m about to do.
*
The house looks even more massive on foot. Rex snaps a picture from the sidewalk before we go around the side and climb the short stone wall. The packed-together urban-ness of it is so unusual to me it’s hard to get nervous about what I’m about to do. It’s more like a game or an outing in some foreign country.
Rex has morphed into hardcore soldier mode. He even looks the part with his pistol in a shoulder strap and pockets heavy with extra magazines. He swore he’d try not to shoot anyone, but the suppressor he brought along doesn’t give much weight to that. I’ll just need to be efficient enough so he doesn’t have to.
We duck behind a holly bush near a door to an all-glass garden room jutting into the rear lawn. He points—that’s the door he wants. I keep watch of all the windows facing us as he sneaks away. Three stories high, a million glass panes wide. All dark. Most curtained. I’d know if someone was watching, right? I’m afraid calling upon the animals will create too much commotion or put them in danger. We’re on our own.
I take inventory of the yard, the patches of moonlight and shadow, still and reverent in the calm of night. It’s easier with no breeze. Movement will stand out to me. A well-tended garden of mixed flowers and herbs sleeps beside me, seasoning the air with a heady mix so much like our garden at home. I lean to identify the plants, hoping to disprove how similar they are but what I see does the opposite.
Rex returns to our hiding spot with a thumbs-up. He breached the door. Time to go in. I raise my eyes to the moon one last time. Ancestors, guide me.
He opens the door just enough to allow us to slip inside. I expect darkness, but the shadows are dialed up so they’re merely gray instead of black. I get a few steps into the room, concentrating on silent footfalls until they take over as default. That’s when I sense the dark cloud of hate. I reach for Rex’s hand—I’m not sure why. He comes up beside me. Something inside me is opening, drawing forward to tap into that cloud so similar to the one in Rex’s house. I need to cough but I stifle it, holding a fist against my mouth, swallowing it down. That dark lump I took from Rex’s head has come alive in my chest. Missing for so long, it’s now being revived.
Rex is looking at me hard, all business. Yes, that’s how I must be too. So I take a breath and hold it, let it out slowly. Whatever darkness roosts in this house will soon have nothing left to feed it and it will die. That’s my job, and I’m not leaving this house until it’s finished.
I point to a fancy staircase ahead. Rex leads the way.
We go up and up. The temperature rises with each flight. An insignificant change, probably, but I’m sweating already from nerves and it feels like a hundred degrees of difference. Rex gets ahead of me, almost out of sight down a large hall. I follow the carpeted runner and meet him at a closed ornate wooden door. He puts a hand on the doorknob, a finger to his lips.
In we go. Moonlight casts a dim glow on a figure sleeping in a large canopied bed. Rex has closed the door and is screwing the suppressor on his pistol. I’m trying to control my breathing. Trying not to throw up.
Rex tilts his head toward the sleeper like he wants me to do something. I can’t even remember why we’re here, what we’re doing. I want to go, get out under the trees and start running until I’m safe back in Montana where I’ll stay forever. He jerks his head now, impatient.
Okay. Inhale. Exhale. Take a step. Take another. Rex is behind me, aiming that long barrel over my shoulder at the person in the bed—a woman, not old, but not young either. My mom’s age maybe. A tap on my shoulder, an offered handle of a knife. Rex’s belt knife. I take it, look behind me into his eyes. He gives me a you-got-this nod.
My palms are slick with sweat. I tighten my grip on the knife. Restrain her, then cut her, or cut her then restrain her?
Motion explodes in front of me. She’s up, scattering pillows, scrambling away from us. Rex makes a successful grab of her ankle but his other hand is occupied by t
hat off balance pistol that’s now in my hands and aiming at the woman. Rex is in her face dishing out tight-lipped words. He has both her wrists now. She stops fighting.
Recognition crosses her face. His name on her lips. His name again, more force.
Rex says something to her that makes her look at the gun I’m pointing and close her mouth. Then he’s lifted his arm to expose that discolored patch on his arm in her direction, making sure she sees. Anger boils under the words he’s saying to her now. I sense the cloud of hate building in response. She allows a glance at his scar, but her attention moves to his other arm, the one marked as a Bevan warrior. Her expression changes with a new recognition so ripe with disgust I feel struck.
The dark power rises in me. Reaching for the hanging cloud of hate now connecting, drawing down. It’s attempting an exchange of power I have no control of. And it’s dipping heavy between them, so close to me I can’t get away. I have to do what we came here to do. We’ve gone too far to go back now.
But something has changed in Rex. He’s released her and slid back; she’s speaking directly into his face, inching closer with each word. She lays a hand on his arm but there’s no flinch, no touch-me-not reaction from him. Her other hand is sliding to the edge of the mattress, in perfect line with Rex’s knife I dropped in the commotion. She locks eyes with me—she knows I know she wants that knife.
I’m faster. In one swipe it’s off the ground and transferred to Rex. The contact of my hand against his snaps him out of his trance. He checks what I’ve just given him like he just awoke and needs to catch up. Awareness fills back into his eyes like water pouring into a bowl, and now he’s turning them on her, newly savage, all patience lost.
He snaps an arm around her shoulders and spins her off the bed, slicing down the length of one arm. The wound wells with ready blood, dark and syrupy in the dim room. Now he’s restraining both her arms, her back against him like he’s presenting her to me. But that arm, that’s way more blood than I need. The gush of it, the quickly accumulating puddle we’re standing in—oh elements, he’s sliced the brachial artery longwise. I stumble back. He’s saying my name. Then again with added demand. He kicks the woman’s legs from under her and goes to his knees bringing her weight lower. Her head slumps forward. He drops her, splattering blood outward. She hits the floor like a limp corpse.