Radicals (Blood & Fire)

by Frankie Rose

  “Luke, do you think I could have a few minutes?”

  His brow knits together, but he nods. “I guess. I’ll go tell James you’re back. He said he wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Yeah, I want to talk to him about something, too. I need to kick his ass for not waiting for me. Again.

  “Thanks, Luke.” He nods and leaves me standing outside the door, chewing on my lip. This is stupid. I hate fear. It seems to be the most common emotion I’ve experienced since my halo stopped working, and right now I’m afraid again. I have a terrifying suspicion that the Haze has injured Ryka in some way, fractured his mind or something. I remember how it made me feel when the priestesses’ assassin attacked me, and I was only dosed with a tenth of what Ryka was hit with. He could be a jabbering wreck on the other side of this door for all I know.

  I decide to stop being such a coward and press down on the door handle, letting myself into the room. I panic for a second, thinking perhaps I should have knocked first or something, but then I’m glad I didn’t.

  Ryka lies on his back on a small cot in the corner of the empty room. He’s sleeping. The long windows have been covered with torn white sheets, although they don’t keep much of the daylight out. Just enough to dim the room. Ryka’s hand rests on his stomach, the other one tossed high over his head, and I smirk a little when I see the shirt he’s wearing. It’s white. During the time I’ve known him, Ryka has never worn anything but black. The contrast highlights the tanned colour of skin. I don’t sit on his bed; I don’t want to wake him, so I crouch down beside him and study the gentle frown on his face. The black lines of the tattoos on the backs of his arms distract me, and I absentmindedly trace my fingers over the single marks on the undersides of my own wrists. They represent my only pit kill: Sam. I sense myself dangerously close to drifting into memories I don’t want to get lost in, and pull myself back to the here and now.

  Ryka shifts, exhaling deeply in his sleep. I consider reaching out and touching my fingertips to the frown he’s still wearing, but I decide against it. Instead, I watch him for a moment, feeling very awkward. I would feel weird if I woke up to find someone staring at me. I just can’t seem to help it, though. The rise and fall of his chest in his white shirt makes for a very pleasant distraction. I’m probably a little too absorbed in staring at the way his muscles pull the material taught when I catch the minuscule flecks of red just over his heart. The tattoo the priestesses gave him—he must have still been bleeding a little when he put the shirt on.

  I get up and pace to the window. From this height, everything below us looks so small and inconsequential, yet once upon a time this place meant something. Meant something to a lot of people.

  “You’re late, little Kit.” Ryka’s voice breaks the silence. It’s a whisper, a little shaky. I turn and his eyes are open, the deepest brown I’ve ever seen them. He’s still in exactly the same position as a moment ago, but he seems more relaxed now. His small worry frown is gone.

  “Sorry. I got waylaid.”

  He moves slowly and holds out a hand to me, gesturing for me to come to him. I don’t hesitate; I just go. Our fingers twine together, and he flashes me a brilliant smile. “Feel like I’ve been beaten to death and then brought back to life,” he groans.

  “I’ll beat you to death if you ever let those priestesses near you again,” I tell him. “They cause nothing but heartache and pain.”

  Ryka swallows and looks away for a second, and I know he’s thinking about Olivia. “You’re right there.” His fingers start stroking up and down my wrist, the movement gentle and comforting. I’m not sure who he’s comforting, though—me or him. I sigh and lean down, pressing my lips to his warm forearm, and he closes his eyes.

  “You okay?” I whisper.

  He nods. “Just tired. Glad you’re here.” He shifts on the small cot, pressing closer to the wall and grimacing at the effort. His body must be sore. I felt the same way after my experience with the Haze. “Come here,” he murmurs, patting the empty bed beside him. I feel my cheeks prickle, but I climb up beside him anyway. Ryka folds his body around mine and pulls me as close as possible, his chest to my back. His breathing is soft and even, yet mine feels a little off kilter. When he gently presses his lips against the bare skin of my neck, I inhale and go still.

  “It’s okay, little Kit. It’s just a kiss. Nothing more.” His voice is thick with sleep. He winds his arms around my body and briefly pauses before sliding a hand up the inside of my shirt. He doesn’t go very far. He lets his palm rest against my stomach, and his fingers draw slow, sleepy circles over my hipbone. It’s not a touch that makes me nervous. It calms me, tells me he’s okay and so am I, and that everything else is going to be just fine, too. When he stops, I know he’s fallen back to sleep.

  ******

  “Kit!”

  Ryka sits bolt upright on the bed, kicking me in the process. I roll and almost fall onto the floor, but he grabs hold of me just in time. My heart is hammering away in my chest, and by the look on Ryka’s face, I’m not the only one.

  “Kit!”

  It’s Luke, outside the door. The room is almost dark except for the dusky light ebbing in through the sheets at the windows. An orange glow burns on the other side of the material, and for a second I panic. A fire. The city is on fire. Luke’s come to get us because we need to evacuate. I stumble out of the bed and rip down one of the sheets, but the city isn’t on fire after all. It’s the sunset, all oranges and pinks and purples, and it’s glorious.

  “Penny’s group is back! You have to come and see her!” Luke shouts through the door. Ryka blows out a deep breath and scrubs his hands over his face.

  “Kay, Luke. We’ll be out in a minute.”

  “But—”

  “I said okay, Luke!”

  Silence. I think he’s gone, but then there’s a loud thud and the door rattles in its frame. What was that? Did he just kick the door? I storm over there and pull the thing open, but the corridor is empty and Luke is nowhere to be seen. My mouth is open when I turn around.

  “I’m going to throttle him,” I say. Ryka just smirks softly.

  “He’s hitting puberty all at once. That’s gotta be hard.”

  Whatever. I’ll give him hard. I vow to make his life a living hell for the next twenty-four hours. I’m about to go find him when I notice the red patch on Ryka’s chest has grown. More blood.

  “I guess that’s why you wear black a lot, huh?” I point to the mark on his shirt and Ryka frowns. I reach out tentatively and then stop. “Can I…I want to see what they did.”

  Ryka doesn’t take his eyes from me. He gives me a small nod, but doesn’t do anything else. I asked for it, so I guess this is all on me. I brush the bottom of his shirt with my fingers and nearly lose my nerve. What the hell am I doing? The pressure inside my chest feels like it’s going to explode and I have no idea why. The corners of Ryka’s mouth tug upwards as he watches me, like he knows what’s going on in my head. Still, he doesn’t move. Cruel bastard. He could at least do it for me and save me from my own awkwardness. I don’t want to be awkward. I want to see the tattoo, so I carefully take hold of his shirt and lift it upwards. Ryka helps in this at least—he lifts his arms so I can draw the material across his skin and over his head. Now I have his shirt in my hands, and his eyes are burning into me like hot pokers.

  I don’t know if he’s feeling what I’m feeling. I don’t even know how to describe it. My skin prickles, tingles all over. My lips burn like crazy. I’m heating up. The deep knife marks on Ryka’s otherwise perfect chest are the only thing that manages to tamp the feeling down. A triangle has been etched into his skin, and the thin band of a circle encompasses it, but it’s not really that simple. Swirls and curlicues, intricate and elegant in their design, weave in an out of the shapes, making it kind of beautiful. It’s only kind of beautiful because it still looks sore and bloody.

  “What is it?”

  “It means protector,” he says, so quiet
ly I almost can’t hear him. Protector. This is the role the priestesses have given him. The one he did not want, but is so naturally good at. I want to touch it. I reach out without thinking, but then freeze. Maybe I’ll hurt him. It does look painful. Ryka’s eyes are still fixed on me, though, intense and serious. He takes me gently by the wrist and brings my hand the rest of the way, touching my fingers to his chest.

  I trace my index around the design, careful not to apply any pressure or touch directly over the cuts. I inch closer, until my body is perilously close to his, skimming my fingers upwards toward the base of his neck, across his collarbone, his shoulder, down his arm. Ryka shivers, and when I look up, his eyes are closed. I pull in a sharp breath and take a step back.

  “We should really go and find Luke,” I say quickly. I hold out his shirt to him, and Ryka opens his eyes. He seems faintly amused, but a hunger burns in his eyes all the same. He doesn’t take his shirt.

  “Are you frightened of me, little Kit?”

  I smile too easily, pretending that this feeling swelling in the pit of my stomach is nothing, but I can’t. I can’t hide it. The smile disappears. “Yes. A little,” I breathe.

  His fingers brush mine as he finally takes the balled-up white material from me. “Good. ’Cause you scare the hell out of me.”

  Oh, Gods, this is too much. I take a small step back, clenching and unclenching my hand. “Ha! Why on earth would you have reason to be afraid of me?” The idea is preposterous. A loud banging sound echoes out in the corridor, followed by a shout. Ryka takes a step toward me, closing the distance again.

  “You know how I feel about you, Kit. You can feel it. I might not have said the exact words, but I told you back in Freetown, and every day I hope and pray you’re going to realise you feel the same way about me. That you’re going to be able to tell me.”

  More shouts reverberate in the corridor, closer this time. I can hear footfall now, too. The world could be crumbling to dust outside, though, and all I would be able to focus on are the words Ryka is saying to me. I’m desperate to hear them, and yet paralysed with fear at the same time.

  “We keep nearly dying, Kit. We keep nearly not getting to do this. I can’t stand that anymore. I know it’s just words, but they’re important ones.” He stabs his fingers through his hair, messing it up, giving him an incredibly boyish and nervous look. “I may have been forced into this role,” he says, pointing to the tattoo on his chest, “but I need you to know that before anyone else, before Freetown, before my family, before myself, I’m always going to protect you, Kit. I’m always going to keep you safe.” He tenses and I know what’s about to happen. I’ve stopped breathing altogether, and it feels like I’m seconds from breaking down into tears. Ryka strokes his hand so softly across my cheek that I lean into him, but I don’t close my eyes. I can’t risk breaking the connection between us right now. I don’t want to. His steady gaze is the only thing keeping me grounded.

  “I love you,” he breathes. “I love you, Kit. I love you so much.”

  “KIT!”

  Ryka goes still. I do, too. The call came from out in the corridor, where the sounds of people rushing, stumbling, struggling, grow louder by the second. I can’t move. I’m locked solid, staring into Ryka’s eyes. Horror is reflected back at me. I know why—we both know that voice. But it can’t be. It can’t.

  The door to the room explodes open, and Ryka’s face drains of colour. I can’t turn around.

  “Kit?”

  Oh, Gods, no.

  “Don’t, okay! Don’t go in there!” a female voice calls out. It’s Penny. She’s here, one of the people standing in the doorway behind me. Ryka’s hand falls from my cheek. Our connection is broken. He looks at one me last time and then swallows. He glances away, pulling his shirt on over his head, and takes two exhausted steps toward the window, turning his back on the rest of the room. The movement looks like it kills him.

  A hand lands on my shoulder, and the contact hurts more than any wound I’ve ever received, any pain I’ve ever suffered, any pain I am ever likely to suffer again. I’m pulled around and I can’t deny it any longer. He’s here. It really is him.

  Caius.

  I’ve spilled tea everywhere. The scalding liquid has burned my tongue, but I can’t feel it. I can’t feel any of it. Caius sits across the table from me with a cup of tea set in front of him, too. He’s staring at me, and I’m staring at the trembling amber liquid in my cup. We’re on a relatively low floor, green ten, where Opa’s people have set up a canteen of sorts. A small crowd has followed us down here and are sitting at other tables, talking quietly, but mostly just watching us. They’re not very subtle. We have privacy in a small way, I guess, because the seating area surrounding us is empty, three tables deep, a fallout zone should something terrible happen. And I guess it feels like something terrible might happen.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Cai whispers. I spin the cup around in my hands and try not to throw up.

  “How?” It’s all I can think right now. How? How is he alive?

  Cai blows out his cheeks and glances around the room, tugging on his hair. His face is so familiar to me, and yet it’s wholly different. It’s expressive, full of life. It’s also full of confusion. “Didn’t you watch the holostick? Penny told me she gave it to you.”

  I’m finally brave enough to lift my gaze, and our eyes meet. It feels like I’m falling, so very out of control. “I did. I watched...” I lick my lips. Why is my mouth so damned dry? “I watched some of it.”

  Cai narrows his eyes at me. “Some of it?”

  I nod. “It was hard after… I didn’t know how to deal with it. With any of it. After you…” After you died!

  Caius’ mouth scrunches up to one side, like he’s trying to process that. His eyebrows rise unreasonably high. “Well, then. I guess I’d better start with the fact that I didn’t die. Surprise. If you’d sat through my recordings, you probably would have learned that.” He sounds angry. He should be angry. I should have watched. I thought he’d died for me. It was the least I could have done, and yet instead my new boyfriend was the one who sat through what I could not. What kind of a friend does that make me?

  “I’m sorry, okay. I wasn’t expecting…I wasn’t expecting any of this.” I look around at where we are and I still can’t believe half of it. “The guilt of what I’d done nearly killed me those first few weeks, Caius. I still can’t breathe at night sometimes. I felt awful. I just wanted to…I wanted to—”

  “Forget?”

  If there were fingerprints on my face right now, I wouldn’t be surprised; it feels like he’s slapped me. My eyes start burning. “No. Not forget, Caius,” I say. My voice is stone cold. “I wanted to die. I couldn’t cope with the knowledge that you’d sacrificed yourself so that I could live. I’d had no warning. I had no time to come to terms with my emotions. I was barraged with so much pain and fear and guilt that I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stand looking at your face and knowing that you’d given up everything for me.”

  Caius has been progressively changing colour as I struggle to spit my words out, and now he is an unhealthy shade of pale green. “It wasn’t perfect, Kit. I know that, but what else was I supposed to do?”

  That’s a pretty good question. The fair thing to do would be to try and consider what I might have done in his place, but I’m not quite there yet. Maybe later I will be, but not now. I don’t say anything. I stab my fingernail into the back of my hand until he reaches across the table and stills me. “Stop.”

  We glare at each other for a moment before I look away. I can’t bear the intensity in his eyes; it’s destroying me. If I let myself, I could cry right now and I might never stop. I just want this whole thing to be over, and for tomorrow to be completely normal between us. That’s going to be hard now, though, given how the dynamics of our relationship have changed. Plus there’s still something hanging between us. Something pretty huge. We’ve always been straight with each other—a side
effect of our halos—but it still feels strange to be skirting around a subject now. Kind of dishonest in some weird, backward way. “Do you want to talk about why you’re really mad at me?” I ask softly.

  Caius’ face hardens. He knows exactly what I mean. Thankfully he still respects me enough to refrain from pretending otherwise. “No, Kit. I don’t want to talk about that. I really, really don’t.”

  He doesn’t want to talk about what he found when he burst into Ryka’s room—Ryka, shirtless, with my hand pressed against his chest, his hand pressed against my cheek. Our stances alone must have screamed out loud what Ryka had just put into actual words only seconds earlier. I suddenly feel really sick. The sensation worsens when a realisation dawns on me, brought to the forefront of my mind by the memory of Ryka. He watched the holostick. He watched it. Did he…did he know Caius was still alive? No. No, surely not. He couldn’t have. He’s known this whole time that I’ve thought Cai dead. Ryka would never let me carry on believing that if he knew it wasn’t true.

  Caius and I sit stiffly for another minute before he says, “Look, I don’t know what’s been happening the past few months, okay? I don’t know anything that’s happened to you. There’s a break in communication here that we should probably try to mend before either of us gets mad.”

  A break in communication? That is a very mild way of putting it. There are a few choice words I picked up while in Freetown that would go much further to describing this than a ‘break in communication.’ I mutter one under my breath and hear snickering behind me. I can identify the owner of that sadistically entertained laughter without looking, but I do anyway. James has his feet kicked up on a table, eating from a plate that he holds over his stomach. He doesn’t look up, just keeps his eyes on his food.

  “Did you know about this?” The words come out with the force of a sledgehammer. James scrapes one last forkful of food together, shoves it into his mouth, stands and walks off without saying a word. I hate him.