1503951200

by Camille Griep

  “I believe you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t. Don’t be.” I hugged her closer.

  “Cedar took my dad’s gun. If there’s any way, can you get it back to Jayne? I know it doesn’t make any sense, I just don’t want him to have it.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  She backed up a step, still speaking low. “Whatever happens, don’t let Nelle near the reservoir.”

  I nodded. My father had been right about one thing: Nelle was planning to open the floodgates, destroy the Ward, and had been the whole time.

  Syd looked up at Troy expectantly, hopeful, even, despite it all. He refused to meet her eye. Didn’t even budge from his place just behind my father. Their mouths had the same ugly set, and for the first time in my life I hated them both equally. Syd’s face drained of color, and though she tried to hold her face still, her eyes glazed over in pain and, worse, deep shame.

  Since she’d returned, I’d been so concerned about what Syd would do to Troy, when I should have been worried about the opposite. I had always assumed she had life all figured out, though she was as vulnerable as—if not more than—the rest of us, with just enough confidence to land her in real danger.

  Len stared at Troy, disgusted. I sank to my knees. How had everything gone so spectacularly wrong?

  I wasn’t the only one about to lose it, though. The Survivor escorts arrived, and the gate began to open. The Governor’s posse shoved Syd back into formation, and, just as they started to pass her off to the men outside, Deacon Pi took a run at the men on the other side of the gate. One of the Survivors made a move to stop him, and he and the Deacon fell to the hard ground in a heap. There was a snap of bone and both men cried out. The Governor barked an order at the guards, and one of them brandished a club.

  The Deacon never saw the hit coming, but when Syd turned to see him fall unconscious, the dignity she’d tried so hard to protect evaporated. She was hysterical, thrashing and screaming. Begging them to let her go. Even when the gate closed and Survivors crested the rise, we could still hear her terrified, grieving sobs echoing like a bloodred warning song floating through the still, blue sky.

  My mother’s group made their way to the social hall, heads bent in gossip. The rest of us stood there, while my father watched the empty horizon, smug and self-satisfied. Eventually Becky and her group broke apart, shaking their heads, and it was just us: Len, Troy, and me. And the Governor.

  I stood and turned to Troy first. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “Oh, it gets better, Cas,” Len said, theatrically. He pulled his flask out of his pocket. The drinking was not unusual. Flaunting it in front of my father was. “He took her to bed last night, didn’t you, champ?”

  “What?” I asked, the question catching in my throat. The look on Syd’s face was made all the more wrenching with context. I could only imagine how it must have felt to wait for Troy to say something, anything at all. To simply acknowledge her. “How could you?”

  “You think you know everything,” Troy said. He sounded unsure, but it quickly turned into accusation. “She was leaving, and she promised me she wouldn’t. She’s a liar.”

  “What are you talking about? Is this your way of getting back at her for leaving you when she was just a kid?”

  “Don’t give him that much credit,” Len said. “He’s just a bootlicker like all the rest.”

  “This isn’t any of your business,” Troy said, tipping his hat low, perhaps to escape the twin burning of the sun and the Governor’s glowering.

  “Listen, all three of you,” said the Governor. “As of now, I forgive you. You can start anew or—”

  “I don’t want your forgiveness. I want Syd back. What if she gets hurt? Or worse? Those people, they hate her. She doesn’t deserve to be a pawn in whatever political game you’re playing with the Survivor camp. Or whatever you’re trying to pull with Troy’s loyalty.”

  The Governor drew close to me. “Cressyda Turner is no longer your concern. Being an Acolyte is your concern. Being a lady is your concern. Being a Willis is your concern.”

  “I never asked to be a lady or an Acolyte or a Willis. I never asked for any of this.” I point at Len. “We never asked.”

  “Tell that to the Bishop, then,” the Governor said, dusting off his cuffs. “I’m sure he’ll be most amused at the years he’s spent preparing you for service to the Spirit.”

  “The Spirit has nothing to do with any of this. I won’t do the Bishop’s bidding any more than I’ll do yours. You can be his plaything, but I refuse.”

  His slap was clean and loud. My cheek stung, but I felt stronger than ever.

  “I will not have your disrespect. Of me or of this family.”

  “You left me to the Bishop just like you left Syd to the camp. Do you know what he’s asking of me? Do you even care?”

  “You are to obey him in service of the Spirit. You are to obey me as my daughter. I don’t care what he asks of you. Your purpose is to heed.”

  “Never.”

  The Governor’s cheeks are fury purpled. “Apologize, girl.”

  I no longer cared about repercussions, only demanding my father’s respect. I looked him square in the eye. “My name is not girl.”

  Troy stamped the ground. “Just say it, Cas.”

  “Apologize!” the Governor bellowed.

  “You’re the one who should apologize to me.” I forced myself to stand there in place, even though I wanted nothing more than to run fast and far. I could hear Len whispering to himself, to me, not an order, but a mantra: Careful, careful, careful.

  But my father didn’t hit me again. He did me one better. “Apologize, or you can forget about being part of this family.”

  I was crying, but not hard enough to break eye contact. After what felt like hours, he finally looked up at the sky. “Boys,” he said, “let’s go home.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Syd

  I’ve never felt as out of control as I do being led away from the New Charity gates.

  I don’t know if Pi is safe or who will take care of him. If he’ll be taken into Sheriff Jayne’s custody or thrown into the Willises’ basement with Nelle. If Nelle will restore New Charity’s power in time to destroy everyone. I don’t know if I deserve the way Troy treated me at the gate—his refusal to even look at me. I know the conclusions he made, but not why he refused me the opportunity to explain. After last night. After I’d promised him. I promised. I was keeping my promise. And it didn’t matter: his first impulse was to dismiss me. I’m a fool.

  I should be thinking about how to take care of myself at the Survivor camp, but instead I’m racking my brain to figure out how I read Troy so wrong. Was it as simple as he changed his mind? Or when he said he wanted his father back, had he meant by any means necessary?

  The look on the Governor’s face during the goodwill dinner probably came closest to an explanation. But Cas and Len had stood up for me in front of their father. Was it so unrealistic to think my lover would do the same?

  I know who Dr. Mangold and a few more of my escorts are from the night they stormed the gate. At some point one of the men unbinds my wrists, which tingle as the blood rushes back to where the Governor’s men had cinched them together.

  By the time we reach the clearing, I’m huffing and puffing. My ribs ache from sobbing, and there are fingerprints in my forearms from my own fingers. I don’t remember when I last ate, and I’d do almost anything for a drink of water. We come to a stream and I drop down to my knees. Mangold hauls me back up by the collar, shaking his head.

  “You don’t really believe the water is dangerous,” I say.

  “Your immunity doesn’t cover giardia. It’s a critter that predates the Bishop, and you don’t want it in your system. We have safe water at the camp. It’s just a bit farther and you’ll have all you can drink.”

  Today his tone is not kind, nor is it particularly cruel. Just matter-of-fact. He seems to have f
orgotten the names he once called me in the low light of the gate.

  Through the trees and up a small rise, the camp spreads out in a neat grid. Probably a hundred tents in all, some big enough for two, some large enough to hold four or so.

  From the clearing we walk past four or five rows of tiny tents. Mangold points to a small green one. “You’re here,” he says, “You’ll be under watch, so don’t waste everyone’s time planning an escape.”

  “Can I have some water now?” I croak. Someone brings me a canteen, and I drink it, then another, the metallic zing of iodine tablets coating my mouth. I crouch to inspect the tent. Someone has lined the bottom with a thick mat of pine needles and placed blankets over the top. I should talk to these people. I should find out what they know, what they’re planning, what they’re going to do with me. But I can’t even string two thoughts in a row.

  I crawl inside the tent and, drained, sleep a black and dreamless sleep.

  It is midafternoon by the time I drag myself from the tent again. I wouldn’t have come out at all, but I have to pee, and my stomach is doing that thing where it’s so empty it feels as if it’s digesting itself. I stumble to my feet and look around.

  My guard stands up from the stump he’s been sitting on. “What do you need?”

  I weigh my two needs. “Bathroom.” He points to a tall tent at the edge of the camp. There. “Don’t get any ideas, okay?”

  “Like I could run with a bladder this full,” I say.

  On the way back to my tent, I realize I can smell horses nearby. Making sure I’m in sight, I head to the edge of the trees and look down, where, at the bottom of the hill, a dozen Turner Ranch horses graze. I don’t need any more proof of my dad’s hand in the survival of this camp. I need to talk to Mangold.

  “I’m Syd,” I say, rejoining the guard.

  “I know who you are.”

  “What are the chances I can talk to Mangold right now?”

  “That’s Doctor Mangold to you. And chances are zero. He’s resting.”

  I could give Mangold until morning. It would be smart for me to have my thoughts together before I see him. At any rate, I can eat first.

  “Well, can you point a girl toward some food? I mean, I can pick berries or whatever, if you show me where.”

  “Come on,” he says, leading me northwest to a tiny bluff above the camp. I can smell the fire, though it’s well made and almost smokeless. A bear of a man tends to the pots and skillets in and around the fire.

  “This is our cook, Linsey.” My guard retreats to the edge of the kitchen space, seemingly grateful for the excuse to put some distance between us.

  Linsey’s voice is weighted with a hodgepodge of accents. “Hello, gal,” he says. “Welcome to the kitchen.”

  “No point in wasting your kindness,” says the guard. “This one’s the traitor.”

  “What’s the matter, Paul?” Linsey asks. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little estrogen?”

  “I don’t know why we agreed to this,” Paul says, looking at me like I’m a side of beef. “She’ll just burn resources, rile up the men.”

  “Matters not,” Linsey says. “Gal’s hungry. I’m gonna feed ’er.”

  Paul shrugs and goes back to whittling a stick to a sharp point.

  “What’s your name, love?”

  “I’m Syd,” I say, holding my hand out to him.

  “Syd? Ha! That’s a man’s name.” His handshake is like a vise grip.

  “Short for Cressyda.”

  “Ah. Your mother was a fan of the Bard then?”

  “Let’s say that.” There is no point in dragging Cress the car into this conversation.

  He smiles. “What is your favorite thing to eat?”

  I can’t help but like Linsey. If we were back in the City, I would make it a point to make him my friend. I bet he would understand why I want to protect the people inside New Charity. But I don’t say any of this. “I really like SpaghettiOs.”

  “Well, let’s see,” he says. I watch him putter around, opening a can of this, stirring that, flipping something else. And in a few minutes, he delivers a tiny pot of fire-baked pasta. It’s quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

  “Don’t tell anyone, but they’re my favorite, too,” he says, winking.

  “This is the best meal of my life.” Linsey doesn’t seem to be offended when I talk with my mouth full.

  “You’ll still be hungry for supper, right, love? Mangold doesn’t abide by anyone but himself missing supper unless they’re gravely ill.”

  “Does he come out for dinner, then?” This is my chance. All I have to do is find a way to sit next to him.

  “No, no, love. He takes his meals in his tent.”

  “I don’t suppose you need a delivery lady for the evening?”

  Before he can answer, Paul calls over to me. “Hey, princess! Are you finished yet?”

  I give him the finger. “I’m not a princess.”

  “Sure doesn’t eat like one, Paul.” Linsey guffaws again. There are noodles on the front of my old T-shirt, but I don’t care. I’m just happy the gnawing is gone from the middle of me, for a while anyway.

  “Whatever. She’s not my problem again until morning. It’s James’s turn.”

  A man limps up to the clearing with his arm in a sling, and stands next to Paul.

  “This is who you’ve got guarding me next?” I say.

  Paul draws a carving knife from his waistband and offers it to James.

  “All right, all right,” I say, the mood darkening as if someone has thrown a bucket of water on the fire. “I’m only joking.”

  Linsey cuffs Paul upside the head. “You great daft thing. You don’t need a knife, just feed her and put her to bed. She’s too tired to run off, can’t you see?”

  Paul waves him off and leaves the three of us, muttering to himself.

  James looks me up and down with dark eyes flecked with firelight. He looks as bad as I feel. Maybe a walk would help things. “Do you want to show me the rest of the estate?”

  “Kinda dark for that,” James says.

  “How about we sit here and sulk then?” I take a seat on a log that’s been padded on top with layers of wool blanket.

  James grimaces at me. “Mangold reset my shoulder, but something’s wrong on my back.”

  I snap into clinic duty as if I’d never left the City. “May I?”

  Linsey hollers at us, “Don’t you bleed on my dinner, you silly cur.”

  James gingerly lifts his shirt up and over his head, though I’m finding it difficult to examine the back of someone who refuses to turn his back on me. I try to stay in his view so that he’ll keep still.

  “Looks like a bad case of pine needle burn,” I say. “But more importantly you have a fairly sizable sliver embedded under the skin, which is probably the pain you’re feeling.”

  “Can you pull it out?”

  “Maybe we should wait until morning. There’s not a lot of light.”

  “I’d rather risk it now than let it fester.”

  Linsey comes up with a kitchen first aid kit that thankfully includes tweezers. By the time I pull the plug of wood out and Linsey pours some sort of alcohol over it, it feels as if we’re a halfway coordinated team.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “You’re welcome.” I am pleasantly surprised that I mean it. “I did some nursing in the City.”

  “Who was that man who didn’t want you to leave New Charity?”

  I am momentarily caught off guard by the question because I want so badly to answer Troy. I’m embarrassed, humiliated. I wish I could wash our night together off my body, out of my head full of shame. Every time I think about it, I feel like I’m being punched in the heart. “Ask me again?” I ask, having lost track of the question.

  “In New Charity. Who tackled me?”

  “My uncle. Pious. He’s the Deacon. I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you personally. It’s just, we’re the only family th
e other has.” I try not to panic about Pi. He’s safe, I tell myself. Cas and Len will make sure of it. I have to trust them.

  “These are the breaks when you sign up for a gig like this. But you. Man. You’re a New Charitan with Sanctuary family and you came from the City? That’s messed up.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “What did you do before?”

  “Ballerina.”

  “No shit? That’s cool. I guess. Is that why you started nursing? Can’t use dance much anymore?”

  I let my annoyance at his question brush past me. “How about you?”

  “Mechanical engineer. Aerospace. We’ll have planes again someday, I’m sure. In the interim, they keep me because I can weld just about anything.”

  “Good for you,” I say. His optimism is a breath of fresh air.

  “And the other guy?”

  “That’s Paul. He’s a metal fabricator. Makes the big metal statues used to be in front of art museums and courthouses. Artist type. That’s why he’s always so goddamned moody. No offense.”

  “None taken,” I say, overjoyed someone still considers me an artist. “Say, were you at the gate the night Mangold came for Nelle?” I would think I would remember him, as striking as he is, his bronze skin almost glowing, as if the sun was still shining on it, even in the dark.

  “Paul was there.”

  “I thought so.”

  James rolls his shoulders back. “I was supposed to go in with Mangold and Nelle, see. We had a plan to breach the gate, then go in and open the reservoir.”

  “You knew everyone would die, right?”

  “We’re all dying, Syd.” He laughs a little, like I’m the oblivious one.

  “Yeah, but still. Is this what we have to become in order to get what we want?”

  “They forced our hand. And your loyalty has been compromised,” he says. “For what it’s worth, I understand.”

  I don’t tell him that, a week ago, my loyalty to the City was unquestionable.

  “When Perry took Nelle, he caught us by surprise. We can’t go through with our plan with Nelle in there.”