We wander the Queen’s mansion until we find a promising room. It’s a big dining hall, but not as stiflingly luxurious as the one where we dined with the Queen. This room is more understated, with wooden tables and chairs adorned with crude carvings and stains. It’s full of traders and raiders and other wasteland wanderers, many carrying bottles of liquor like us. It seems like this is the place to mingle. Some sit in small groups and speak in lowered voices, having the kind of conversations that stop whenever someone draws too close. Others seem much more relaxed. Cards and dice are strewn over the tables, with rowdy groups playing games and shouting at each other. Often it’s hard to tell if they’re having fun or about to break into a fight, but since there are no weapons out I assume the former.
We attach ourselves to one of the groups, which is playing some sort of card game. The guys play while I watch and try my best to follow. Dolly stands behind my chair and dutifully watches our surroundings. One man attempts to speak with her, and she responds with utter silence and a devastatingly cold glare. No one else tries to be friendly to her.
A whirl of noise surrounds me. I watch the game go by without understanding it, and listen to Pretty Boy chat with traders. He has a gift for striking up conversations, talking with strangers as if they’re old friends.
“Hey, weren’t you one of Big Ben’s crew?” he asks the man to his left, a thick-necked, red-faced guy with a shaved head and facial piercings. “Whatever happened to him?”
“Saint,” he says, spitting the word like a curse. “Got a hold of him and most of the others a few weeks back.”
“Really? Damn.”
“Radio said they were all executed a few days later,” the man says, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ Saint. We can’t touch anything as far up as Sniper’s Gorge.”
“Well, shit. It’s the same out in Blackfort,” Pretty Boy says. He pauses, looking thoughtful, and then lowers his voice. “He’s expanding fast. The Queen isn’t threatened by it?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” the raider says. “But between you and me, she ain’t really in a position to do anything about it. Old bitch isn’t doing so well. Especially with that cough she’s got, and the way she’s been acting… she’s pretty fucked.”
Pretty Boy looks suddenly nervous, glancing around the room.
“Few months ago, one of her men might’ve shot you for saying shit like that,” he says finally, relaxing when it’s clear nothing is going to happen.
“Heh, yeah. Few months is a long time.”
I hang on to the conversation, but when their talk turns to the game they’re playing, I lose interest. With nothing else to do, I take small drinks from the bottle whenever it’s passed my way. It never tastes good, exactly, but it seems a little less awful with each sip. Maybe I’m getting used to it, or maybe it’s slowly killing my taste buds. Either way, I keep drinking and keep to myself.
It’s interesting to observe what’s happening around me when there’s such a strange variety of people in the room. There are traders trying to sell their goods, men and women selling their services as bodyguards or bounty hunters, raiders like us enjoying a danger-free day. The Queen’s women slip among them selling their wares, and from what I see, they’re a hot commodity. I’m in no place to judge; everyone is trying to get by.
It feels so nice not to have to worry about danger or dehydration or where I’m going to sleep. The Queen’s palace really does feel like a safe haven. I’m happy to sit and drink and let sleepy contentment wash over me.
I’m startled out of my little bubble when one of the men playing slams his fists down on the table. The illusion of peace shatters like glass. Conversation ceases as he rises from his chair. It’s the man Pretty Boy was talking to earlier, and he’s even more intimidating standing up, towering over everyone at the table.
He points a beefy and accusatory finger at Pretty Boy.
“You goddamn cheat!” he shouts, causing heads all around the room to turn. The circle of card players is tense and motionless aside from him.
“What are you talking about?” Pretty Boy asks. He doesn’t cower away like I’d expect, instead staying in his chair and tilting his chin up to look the man in the eye. Maybe the liquor lent him some courage. The raider stares down at him, scowling, his face turning nearly purple with anger.
Behind us, I notice Dolly is holding a knife that I’m sure wasn’t in her hand until a few seconds ago. She doesn’t even raise her eyes to the standing man, but casually twirls it in her hand, a clear threat. He notices, and begins to sink back into his seat.
And then there’s a gun in his hand. I can’t even tell where he pulled it from. As my head jerks toward him, the world takes a few seconds to catch up. I may have had a bit more to drink than I thought. Maybe for that reason, it’s hard to keep up with what’s happening. All I know is within a few seconds, literally everyone has a gun in hand… except me.
I clutch my bottle tightly and shrink down in my seat, wondering if I should slip under the table and hide.
“I didn’t cheat,” Pretty Boy insists. Though he has a gun in hand, he’s halfway out of his chair, as if he has yet to decide whether he wants to fight or run. He teeters, eyes flicking around the circle. “And even if I did, what would it matter? We’re just playing for fun, aren’t we?”
Even with alcohol slurring his words, his go-to reaction is to try to talk himself out of trouble. I glance around to see if anyone is convinced, and find only unreadable faces. Aside from my friends, the other four men playing cards don’t even seem to be together, and nobody is sure where to point their guns. One of them, looking absolutely baffled by the situation, rapidly switches the barrel of his gun between Pretty Boy and the other man.
The humor in the situation strikes me and, to my horror, I feel laughter bubble up within me. I can’t fight it; no matter how serious the situation may be, it looks pretty ridiculous. I let out a loud laugh before I can stop myself, and slap a hand over my mouth.
Everyone’s eyes move to me. Again I wish I could disappear.
The pierced man who started it all starts to grin, and then to guffaw. He slides his gun into the back of his pants and sits, gesturing for the game to continue. Everybody relaxes and the weapons disappear. The game resumes. In the aftermath I notice Pretty Boy surreptitiously slide a card into his sleeve. Tank reaches over and ruffles my hair, giving me his big, good-natured grin as he takes the bottle from my hands.
“Well, this feels lighter… how much you been drinking, Kid?”
“Enough,” I say with a smile, and he laughs.
Soon I start to think perhaps it was more than enough. I grow more and more nauseous as the alcohol hits me. It’s hard to focus on anything or talk to anyone. My vision blurs and spins, and everything looks hazy.
“I think I’m gonna go to bed,” I say eventually, not even sure who I’m telling. If I’m going to be sick, I don’t want it to be here.
I push out my chair and stand, only to immediately stagger as the world tries to slide out from beneath my feet.
“Whoa.” I grab on to the nearest solid object for support. It turns out to be Dolly, who shoots me a confused look. “Ah, sorry.”
“You all right, Kid?” Tank asks. He grabs my arm and steadies me.
“I’m fine. Just, uh…”
“Drunk,” Tank says.
“Yeah, maybe that.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” he asks, raising a hand. I squint as my vision blurs.
“Is that a trick question?”
Tank chuckles.
“Really though, Kid, you can’t just wander around here alone. It’s not safe.”
I wave him away, shaking my head.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.” My nausea hasn’t receded, and upchucking seems like a serious threat. “I really gotta go.” I shake off his grip and slip away, making my unsteady way through the crowd. I accidentally bump into several people. Unfamiliar faces swim in the air around me, some angry and s
ome amused. I wander through a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke that almost makes me gag. It feels like I’ll never find the door with the whole room tilting and spinning. I can’t even remember which direction I’m heading and where I came from.
Finally I find the door. I fumble with the knob before bursting into the open hallway outside.
As the door shuts behind me, it’s like turning off all the sound with a switch. The quiet is instantly relieving. I pause to take a few deep breaths of air that isn’t laden with the smell of sweat and alcohol and smoke. I want to curl up on the floor here, but the thought of a bed keeps me going. I only make it halfway down the hall.
“Hey, Kid, wait up!”
I turn toward the voice sluggishly, trying to find its source as the hallway lurches in my vision. It’s a struggle just to stay on my feet. To my surprise, it’s Pretty Boy coming toward me. His feet are almost as unsteady as mine.
“Hi?”
“Hi,” he replies with a crooked smile. He stands strangely close to me, his hand resting on my lower back. I don’t understand. My mouth opens and shuts uncertainly.
I don’t realize I’m moving backward until I hit the wall. I think maybe I stumbled, but then understand he must have pushed me there. His hands are on my hips all of a sudden, bunching up the fabric of my dress and exposing more of my legs. His face is very close to mine, his breath warm and heavy with liquor.
“What—” I start to say, and his mouth covers mine.
Getting kissed by him is not at all like I thought it would be. I’ve never been much for romance, but I know this is wrong. It feels wrong. It’s too much, his tongue in my mouth and his hands all over me, his touch sloppy and rough. He tastes like that awful booze and it makes me nauseous all over again. His body presses hard against mine, but it doesn’t make me excited like I’d expect. I feel like throwing up.
I stand there stiffly for a few seconds, not sure how to react, before placing my hands on his chest and pushing him away.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, hands catching my wrists.
“Umm,” I say. I try to form an answer, but it’s hard to even form thoughts. My brain feels hazy and my tongue clumsier than normal.
“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he says, slurring his words. “I know you want this.” He smiles, his eyes crawling down my body.
“I don’t feel good.” I try to turn away, but his hold on my wrists prevents me from escaping. Nausea bubbles up through my stomach and into my throat. He leans close, letting go of my wrists and putting his hands on my body again.
I vomit all over him.
He releases me instantly, taking a step back and looking down in horror at the chunky mess.
“Holy fucking shit,” he says, his voice filled with disgust.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I just want to sit down and maybe cry. I turn away from him and walk in the direction I hope my room is in, but Pretty Boy grabs my shoulder and spins me around. I nearly fall over.
“I just want to go to bed,” I say, struggling to break free of his grip. “Please, I don’t—”
He shoves me back against the wall with a frightening force, knocking the wind out of me.
“S-Stop it!” I yell.
“You little bitch, you think you can—”
He stops. There’s a knife at his throat. Moving very slowly, he takes his hands off me. He raises them in the air and the knife retracts.
It’s Dolly. I’m not even sure when she got here, but I’m relieved she did.
“Don’t touch her again,” Dolly says, giving Pretty Boy an icy look.
“I wasn’t—” He gestures wildly, taking a step back. “She was coming on to me—”
“Don’t. Touch. Her.”
Dolly slashes near him with the knife. He stumbles and falls on his ass.
“This is bullshit,” he says. “I didn’t do anything.”
Dolly takes a step toward him and he scrambles backward on the floor. She turns to me next, and I try not to flinch under the coldness of her gaze even though it’s not meant for me.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice shaky. “I’m… going to go to bed now.” I resume walking. After a moment Dolly falls in step beside me and taps me on the shoulder. She jerks a thumb in the opposite direction. I nod and turn. Dolly follows, and neither of us looks back at Pretty Boy as we head to our room.
As soon as we arrive, I go for my backpack and pull out my papa’s blanket. Clutching it tightly and inhaling the familiar smell, I flop onto the bed face-first. I still feel sick and confused and upset, but I try to stifle it. When I look up, I find Dolly staring at me.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Better since throwing up.” It’s true, the world isn’t spinning so much.
“That’s not what I meant,” she says quietly.
“I’m fine.”
She blinks at me.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat, and turn away from her. Exhaustion swallows my whirring thoughts, and I fall asleep with my face pressed into my blanket.
XVI
Betrayal
When I wake up, my head is pounding and my whole body hurts. I taste old vomit in the back of my throat. A groan escapes me and I raise my blanket over my head, trying to will myself back to sleep. It takes me a while to realize the pounding sound isn’t coming from inside my skull. Someone’s knocking at the door.
Bleary-eyed, I lower the blanket and look around. The sunlight coming through the room’s sole window is nearly blinding. I can barely see Dolly standing beside the doorway, a knife in her hand. I stare at her.
“What are you doing?” I ask croakily. It is way too early for her to have a knife already.
“Trouble,” she says.
“What? Why?” I sit up, wincing as my stomach rolls. “Already?”
“Wolf isn’t here. That means trouble.”
“How do you know he’s not with—”
“He said he’d be here,” Dolly says, cutting me off. “And he’s not. Trouble.”
I’m really not in the mood to deal with trouble right now, but the knocking is insistent and Dolly seems pretty confident that some bad shit is about to go down. I drag myself out of bed, roll up my blanket, and grab my pack. I fumble around until I find my gun, and place the blanket inside.
“What kind of trouble?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder. Dolly shrugs. I stand up, reach to put my gun into the back of my pants, and stop as I realize I’m still wearing a dress. “Aw, shit. There’s no way I can fight in this.” I search around for my old clothes, but there’s no sign of them.
“No choice,” she says.
I heave a sigh and nod. When she places a hand on the door, I hold the gun behind my back in what I hope is a subtle way.
The door opens.
Rather than a host of armed guards like I was expecting, I find myself greeted by the face of the red-headed woman I met yesterday: Ruby. She’s wearing clothes this time, albeit scanty ones that strongly accentuate her womanly features. She shows her gap-toothed smile and holds up a tarnished silver tray.
“Brought you ladies some fresh water,” she says cheerfully, “and your old clothes. Though you look much cuter in that, miss!”
I’m too tired to respond. Dolly puts her knife away and steps out from her hiding place behind the door. The redhead squeaks at her sudden appearance, but quickly covers her surprise with a smile.
“Hey there, Dolly.” She glances from her to me. “You okay, miss? You look sick.”
“Hangover,” I answer hoarsely. I may not have experienced it before, but I’ve seen the symptoms enough times to be familiar with them. Now I understand why my papa hated being woken up in the morning.
“Well, drink up, that should at least help a little.” She sets the tray on the bed and gestures to the water. I pick one up. My mouth is as dry as the wastes, and the water looks tantalizing.
“Don’t drink that,” Dolly says. She shuts and locks the door behi
nd her.
“What? Why?”
Dolly doesn’t answer, and advances toward the red-haired woman. The knife is in her hand again. Ruby retreats, raising her hands palms out.
“Whoa, Dolly! What are you—” She cuts off with a squeal as Dolly holds the knife to her throat.
“Where’s Wolf?”
“I don’t know what you’re—” Dolly presses the knife closer, drawing blood and a whimper. The woman loses her composure, eyes filling with tears. “T-The Queen has him! That’s all I know!”
I gape dumbly, still holding the glass of water.
“What do you mean she has him? What’s going on?”
“She betrayed us,” Dolly says.
“But she can’t do that! Isn’t she… what do you call it? Neutral?”
“She’s supposed to be.” Dolly glares at the woman. Her furious eyes are all the more frightening in her icy face. “Why is she betraying us?”
“I don’t know!” When Dolly’s expression darkens, Ruby starts to cry. Her tears leave gunky black trails down her face. “I swear, that’s all she told me! I was just supposed to come here, a-and act like everything was normal—”
“Please tell me there’s not something wrong with the water,” I say, looking longingly at the glass in my hand. Ruby bites her lip and looks away. I sigh. “Aww, man, I’m really thirsty…”
“Why?” Dolly asks.
“She didn’t tell me!” She can barely speak through her tears.
“I think she’s telling the truth,” I say, feeling a pang of sympathy. “You’re not going to kill her, are you?”
Dolly looks over to me, back at her captive, and pulls the knife away. The woman sinks to the floor, whimpering.
“No,” Dolly says. “We need a hostage.”
“You really think that’ll work?”
“Ruby is very valuable.”
“Dolly, you can’t do this to me!” Ruby wails. “This is crazy! Do you know how many guards the Queen has?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Ruby stares at her with wide eyes.
“What the hell happened to you?” she whispers. “How did you end up like this? With them?”
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