Solatium (Emanations, an urban fantasy series Book 2)

by Becca Mills

  Still, Williams was right that her behavior during the attack had been strange. And if there was an innocent explanation, why hadn’t she offered it?

  I turned over and pressed my face into the pillow, frustrated.

  I didn’t want to become a paranoid, suspicious person who saw threats and plots all around. That’d be a horrible way to live.

  I also didn’t want to be a rube who got taken in by every rat who came along. When the next Graham Ryzik walked into my life, I wanted to recognize him for what he was. Him or her.

  I sighed and rolled back over.

  It had to be possible to strike a balance. Just because someone was hiding something didn’t mean they were out to get me. People didn’t have to be perfect. They just had to be okay.

  Was Mizzy okay?

  I thought so. Maybe.

  I woke from another nightmare. I’d been back in my house in Dorf, looking everywhere for something I’d lost. I couldn’t remember what it was, but I knew I had to have it. I opened one drawer after another, and in every one there’d be something that distracted me. The more drawers I opened, the more I forgot I was searching for anything.

  I lay there in bed, sweaty, heart pounding.

  It didn’t happen. You’re not lost. You got yourself back.

  Yeah, but I might not have, the traumatized part of my mind whispered. Besides, how do I know I really got myself back? Maybe who I used to be is gone, and I just don’t realize it. Maybe this me is also something Cordus made.

  I started shaking.

  Jesus, I really needed to beef up my repression skills.

  I got out of bed, pulled myself together, and headed down to the common room.

  The place was full of down-at-the-heels working folk eating a simple meal of coffee and some kind of foul-smelling porridge.

  Williams came down right on my heels.

  It occurred to me that he probably had some kind of barrier on my door that told him when I left the room.

  He sat down with a wordless glower and stared at the far wall until a server brought us some food.

  One by one, Mr. Gates’s people joined us at the table. Mizzy came last of all.

  No one said anything. We just sat there and ate and tried to look at anything other than one another.

  Finally Terry swore under his breath and pushed away from the table. “I’ll get the horses ready. You people fix this.”

  Everyone looked at Mizzy.

  “Terry, wait,” she said, and he paused, hands on the back of his chair.

  She cleared her throat. “Yeah. About yesterday. Look, I’m sorry about that.” She glanced around the table, taking us all in. “The truth is, I just froze. I’ve never been attacked by a whole bunch of them, that way. I was so scared. I guess I stopped thinking.”

  Ida put her hand on Mizzy’s. “Why didn’t you just say so last night, hon? We’d have understood.”

  Mizzy shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I guess I didn’t want to admit it. It’s pretty embarrassing.”

  Kevin didn’t react one way or another. Ida put an arm around the younger woman’s shoulders and gave her a little hug. Terry straightened up and said, “Unnecessary apology accepted — we’re cool,” and headed out. Mizzy leaned into Ida and smiled gratefully around the table.

  I turned to see what Williams thought and found him looking right at me. His expression said, That was a load of crap.

  I tended to agree. Freezing up when all you have to do to win is shriek in abject terror? It just didn’t sound likely. Plus, Mizzy didn’t seem like the freeze-up type. There was a toughness to her, something that suggested a good deal of experience.

  Williams was still looking at me, as though waiting for some kind of outburst.

  I gave a little shrug. I didn’t know what the heck to do about Mizzy.

  He took a final swig of coffee and said, “Let’s go.”

  The road out of Butua took us right by the gold mine Serhan had mentioned. It was a vast open pit. Although it was only a little past dawn, a long chain of workers were already snaking down into the hole with empty baskets on their backs and climbing back up with loads of mud and rock to be processed. Another line of workers were dumping waste material on a huge mound that had grown up a few hundred feet east of the mine. I could see the tops of dead trees sticking out of it. The forest was being buried.

  It had rained overnight, and water was being pumped out of the mine using an elaborate series of terraces, each equipped with a wheel designed to lift water to the next level. Each waterwheel was powered by a man climbing steadily in place. I could see the thick leg muscles on the one closest to me. He’d had that job for a while.

  I stared as we rode past.

  This was mining as people in my world must’ve done it hundreds of years ago, in the days before trucks and loaders. Before steam power. The way it was still done by poor people in remote corners of the world, perhaps. But not in the U.S. — not for a long time. It was like seeing the past come alive.

  I didn’t realize I’d stopped to stare until Terry spoke from beside me.

  “Something wrong, Beth?”

  “No. I was just wondering if this is the way mining always happens in the S-Em.”

  His eyes swept over the mine. “Looks typical, at least for this stratum.”

  “Is there a lot of gold here?”

  “Yeah. Diamonds and titanium too. Those are our main exports to other strata. And to the F-Em. Mr. Gates has been running trade through the Free strait for a long time.”

  “Really? He doesn’t seem …”

  I stopped, afraid of offending.

  “Rich? He’s not.”

  I wanted to ask Terry where the profits went, but I saw that Williams had turned Bertha around and was riding back to get me. I swallowed my question and got Copper going.

  On the other side of the mine, the flowered forest was waiting for us in all its creepy glory.

  Our weather luck of the previous two days didn’t hold. We hadn’t been on the road more than an hour before the sky opened up. Williams made a sort of barrier umbrella for us when it got particularly heavy, but he didn’t bother when it was just drizzling. And he didn’t do anything to help with the mud. By mid-afternoon, the horses were slogging through muck up to their fetlocks in the low spots. Copper hated it and began balking at every dip in the road.

  Our already cautious pace slowed way down. By the time we reached our stopping point — another rough-hewn stockade — it was almost dark. I was soaked, exhausted, and miserably muddy.

  I had a feeling I’d better get used to it.

  Chapter 11

  “Mizzy, would you tell us a story?”

  It was evening, and we were holed up in yet another stockade. This time our party was the only one there. Williams was standing guard up on one of the corner lookout posts. Ida was making dinner. The rest of us were sprawled on the sleeping platform, trying to dry out.

  We’d spent the day slogging through the mud, and the rain, and the creepy, flowery forest, just as we had the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that.

  In the early afternoon, a herd of immense, giraffelike birds had crossed the road in front of us, and Copper had spooked so violently that I’d ended up on the ground, covered in sticky mud. When I got to the stockade, I changed my clothes, but the stuff had soaked right through to my skin, and there was no getting it off.

  Plus, I had saddle sores on the insides of my knees, and my feet were starting to crack and bleed from the constant wetness. Ida could heal me once she was done making dinner, but in the meantime, I was miserably uncomfortable and needed a distraction.

  Mizzy smiled. “I’d be happy to. What are you in the mood for?”

  “Something funny.”

  Terry grinned. “Something sexy.”

  “How about we all just shut up, for once?” Kevin said.

  Terry’s grin faded. “What’s up with you, man?”

  “Nothing.”

/>   Kevin rolled to his feet and stalked off to one of the lookout platforms. We watched as he climbed the ladder and sat down with his back to the stockade wall.

  Terry looked perplexed.

  Over by the fire pit, Ida put her hands on her hips. “Been a while since I saw a grown man have a snit-fit like that.”

  She’d spoken loudly enough for Kevin to hear. He crossed his arms and ignored her.

  I glanced over at Williams on the far platform and found him staring at me. He lifted his eyebrows. I guess I was supposed to deal with this.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s hard …”

  Everyone looked at me.

  “Um. You know. When you’re in danger, and your friends are in danger, and you can’t do anything about it.”

  “Why can’t you do anything about it?” Terry said. “You’re armed. I saw you waste that turkey — no problem.”

  “Yeah, I know. But …”

  I ground to a halt again, remembering I wasn’t supposed to reveal anything about my abilities.

  Plus, Terry didn’t have any offensive gifts, either. He clearly didn’t find things hard. The look he was giving me said as much.

  I started over. “It’s hard to be scared all the time. Some people deal with it better than others.”

  Terry shrugged. “He shouldn’t have come, then.”

  “You want to be the guy who admits he’s too scared to do what all his friends are doing?” Mizzy said.

  That earned another shrug. “Better that than fucking things up.”

  Mizzy smiled and shook her head. “Things aren’t that clear for most of us.”

  She and I were on the same page. Maybe she could help.

  “You want to go talk to him, Mizzy?”

  “No way. He’d never forgive me if I messed with his feelings, and that’s what he’d think I was there to do. Times like this, I’m the last person you want.”

  “I wish I could put him over my knee, like I did when he was a child,” Ida said. “Man that pretty’s liable to forget the world doesn’t revolve around him. A little reminder would do him good.”

  Terry laughed. “That threat’ll put the fear of god into him. I still remember some of the paddlings you gave me.”

  “Every one of them deserved.” Ida faked a glower, then laughed. “You just about drove us to distraction. Still do.”

  “You know what else can drive you to distraction?” Mizzy said. “A beautiful, frisky young wife — assuming you happen to be a jealous geezer.”

  Terry chuckled.

  Relieved at the change of focus, I smiled and settled back on the boards to listen.

  “Long ago, in olden times,” Mizzy said, “there was an elderly carpenter named John. He was quite satisfied with his life. The only thing he lacked was a wife.”

  Terry snorted.

  Mizzy and I shared an amused glance.

  “So John considered all the girls of the village and chose the prettiest and liveliest one to be his succor in old age. Her name was Alison. But John didn’t realize that Alison had a bit of a reputation.”

  “My kind of girl,” Terry said.

  Ida rolled her eyes. “Ain’t that the truth. You need to find yourself a good woman and settle down.”

  Terry clapped his hands to his face, Macaulay Culkin–style, and produced a high-pitched shriek.

  Mizzy snorted. “Fortunately for our story, John wasn’t afraid of commitment, like certain nearby persons who shall remain nameless. He went right ahead and married Alison. But he ran into a problem. He just couldn’t satisfy her.

  “Not too long into their marriage, John and Alison took on a boarder — a clever young man named Nick. He was majoring in religious studies at the local university, but you couldn’t exactly call him pious.

  “Nick took a shine to Alison, and one day, when John was out of the house, Nick cornered Alison in the kitchen. He … how shall I put it?”

  “Met with her approval?” I said.

  “And got to know her in the biblical sense?” Terry said.

  “Exactly. He was a big, strapping fellow, just what she liked. So they squeezed in a quickie right there on the kitchen table, but they barely had time to finish before John got home.

  “From that point on, they met whenever possible, but they never had time for a really satisfying encounter. John was suspicious of his wife and kept a close eye on her.

  “Things might’ve continued this way for quite some time, but another young man, Abner, saw Alison in church and fell passionately in love with her. He began to court her, singing outside her window and sending her terrible poetry. He wasn’t at all her type, and he made quite a nuisance of himself. Worst of all, John couldn’t help but notice Abner following his wife around like a puppy, and once he did, he kept an even closer eye on her. The extra attention put a crimp in Alison and Nick’s affair.

  “Nick was getting more and more frustrated, so he hatched a plan to get Alison all to himself for a full night in a real bed.

  “He sat John down and told him his studies had uncovered a divine prophecy: god was going to send another great flood, and only a carpenter and his family were destined to survive. The carpenter would escape the waters, Nick explained, by building three large tubs and raising them into the rafters. When the waters came, the carpenter would cut the tubs loose and float to safety.

  “John immediately decided he must be the carpenter in question and set about making the tubs. Once they were ready and suspended in the rafters, John, Alison, and Nick each climbed into one. The two young lovers waited until the old man fell asleep. Then they climbed down and got into John’s own bed for a long night of passion.

  “But as luck would have it, Abner chose that night to serenade Alison through her bedroom window. It irritated the two lovers to no end.

  “Alison threw the window open and told Abner to leave, but he swore to stay until she gave him a kiss.

  “‘Abner, dear, your love has convinced me at last,’ Alison said, trying to hold back a giggle. ‘Come and get your kiss.’ Then she stuck her ass out the window.”

  “Now we’re talking!” Terry said.

  Mizzy grinned. “Abner, overjoyed, grabbed her and kissed her deeply.”

  I said, “Gross!”

  Terry said, “I hope ‘deeply’ means plenty of tongue.”

  Ida made a sound that attempted disapproval but ended up being mostly laughter.

  Mizzy grinned. “Alison closed the window, and Abner drew back, confused. ‘Something isn’t right, here,’ he said to himself. ‘Women don’t have beards.’

  “Nick heard him. ‘A beard!’ he said, barely able to speak, he was laughing so hard. ‘Good one, Alison!’

  “Abner heard them and realized he’d been tricked. He gagged and spat. He grabbed handfuls of grass from the side of the road and rubbed his face until it was raw. But nothing could erase the shame.

  “‘I’ll get them back,’ he said to himself.

  “He went straight to the blacksmith’s shop down the road and took a red-hot iron out of the forge. Then he returned to Alison’s window. ‘My dear,’ he said, tapping on it, ‘your last kiss was so sweet I must have another!’

  “Nick couldn’t let Alison have all the fun, so he opened the window and stuck his ass out.

  “‘Where are you, sweetheart?’ Abner said. ‘I can’t see you in the darkness. Speak, so I might find your lips.’

  “In response, Nick farted thunderously. Poor Abner was almost struck blind by the force of it. But he gathered his wits and, quick as you please, jabbed Nick with the red-hot poker, right between the cheeks.

  “‘Ahhh!’ shouted Nick at the top of his lungs. ‘Help! Water! Water!’

  “Up in the rafters, John woke to cries of ‘Water!’ and thought the flood had come.

  “‘Alison, my love,’ he cried, ‘now we must save ourselves to repeople the Earth!’

  “He cut the ropes holding up his tub, and down it fell, all the way to the floor.

/>   “The neighbors heard the commotion and ran over to see what had happened. They found John lying in the wreckage of his tub with a broken arm. Nick and Alison claimed he was insane and obsessed with Noah’s flood, and all the people of the town ridiculed him.

  “And so the carpenter was thought a madman, Nick was burned on the pooper, and Abner kissed an ass.”

  “And Alison got away scot-free?” I could feel the big grin on my face. That story had been exactly what we needed.

  “Indeed she did,” Mizzy said. “The smart ones often do.”

  “Told you she was my kind of girl,” Terry said.

  “You’re gonna end up like Abner,” Ida said.

  “Come off it! I’m Nick, all the way.” He paused. “Well, not including the burned-ass part. Just up to the fart.”

  Ida shook her head, smiling.

  “That was a great story,” I said to Mizzy. “Did you make it up?”

  “Oh, no. Chaucer came up with that one.”

  My mind skipped back through high school English and came up blank. “Who’s Chaucer?”

  “An English poet from the late 1300s.”

  “That story is six hundred years old?”

  She nodded.

  “Wow. They had more fun back then than I realized.”

  Mizzy chuckled. It was a rich, naughty sound. “People have always had fun.” She shot a glance at Williams, up on the guard platform. “Well, most people, anyway.”

  My humor drained away as I studied her expression.

  Since the turkey attack, Mizzy’s approach to Williams had changed. She didn’t try to flirt with him anymore. Instead, she took little digs at him.

  It had taken me a few days to notice. After all, I took digs at him in my own mind all the time. Hearing more of the same echoed back seemed normal. I actually noticed the absence of flirting before I noticed what had replaced it.

  It shouldn’t have been weird. After all, he’d accused her of … something. I’m not sure exactly what. Shirking her responsibility, at the very least. Maybe some kind of subterfuge. And he’d done it in front of her friends. Of course she’d be angry about that, and picking at someone you’re mad at is pretty normal.