Black Recluse

by Anna Bowman

  “No.”

  “Such cruelty.” Tristan shook his head, then added. “Sol?”

  “What?”

  “I shall count the moments until you return, as well.”

  Solomand rolled his eyes and shoved the foot of the bed with his boot, so it moved diagonally under the skylight. He and Rayn left with the sound of Tristan’s laughter in their ears.

  “You should rest too,” Solomand said as they made their way down the creaking staircase. “Tomorrow, I’ll show you the gun.”

  Rayn was halfway aware that he was talking about the job she was hired for, and he said something about showing her to a room. She kept thinking about Tristan’s morbid way of toying with Solomand and his harrowing cough.

  “What’s wrong with him?” she blurted out.

  Solomand stopped walking. His back stiffened and he lit a cigarette. In the hall the flame of his lighter flickered, showing a veiled terror in his eyes. He allowed the smoke to curl over his lips and looked away.

  “Nothing,” he said in a gravelly tone. “I’ll come for you later,” he murmured and strode away, pulling at his collar. Smoke trailed through the air after him.

  Chapter 9

  Solomand

  Solomand burst through the door, closed and locked it all in a matter of seconds. Tristan bent over his desk, scrawling on a sheet of paper with his fountain pen. The words were in perfect, even rows, artistic and flawless.

  “Civilized people have been known to knock before entering a room not their own,” Tristan said without looking up. “I may have been in the company of a beautiful woman.”

  “Civilized people. Like you, swank. Not me.” Solomand grunted as he crossed the room in three strides. “Well?”

  His fingers drummed on his hips.

  Tristan’s left hand paused in his writing, leaving a thick spot of ink which interrupted the meticulous flow of words. He glanced up at Solomand.

  “Her condition appears to be consistent with the E.X. solution. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  Solomand placed the palms of his hands on the desk and bent over. Tristan tapped the end of his pen on his lips.

  “I’m not sure. It rather seemed like there was something more she wanted to say.” His head tilted to the side as he looked at Solomand and asked carefully, “Didn’t you notice?”

  Solomand’s hands were damp with sweat. He wiped them on the sides of his pants and crossed his arms. His throat felt dry as he forced the words out.

  “Will they ever return, you think? Her memories?”

  Tristan leaned back in his chair.

  “I’m afraid I cannot tell you anything you didn’t already know, Sol.”

  There was a sadness in his voice, and Solomand felt his chest start to tighten. He hated that apologetic tone more than anything. Tristan coughed into his fist.

  “Although, that all ties in rather neatly with your perfect plans of martyrdom, now, doesn’t it?”

  The tightening worsened, and Solomand felt like it would squeeze the breath out of his lungs. The pressing urge to run into the valley, and keep running until the strangling feeling left him, was hard to fight. He gulped, loosening his collar as he broke out in a cold sweat. He crossed the room so Tristan would not notice. Shoving one hand in his pocket, his fingers tracing the edge of his cigarette case.

  “She asked about you,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  Tristan’s face brightened. He tilted the chair back, raising the front legs from the ground.

  “What did you tell her? That I am a walking corpse whose days are numbered.”

  He lowered his voice in a dramatic way.

  Solomand scowled.

  “Would it be too much trouble, My Lord Highcourt, to cease the morbid death jokes?” he said, mimicking Tristan’s highborn manner of speech.

  Tristan chuckled.

  “Sorry, they sort of come out without my even thinking about it anymore.”

  Solomand glared at Tristan and spoke through his teeth.

  “Practice. Ivan won’t take them as well as I do. He might kill you himself.”

  Solomand was convinced any sense of humor Ivan may have had was frozen out of him in his icy homeland.

  “Ha!” Tristan leaned his head back. “No. He might take it out on you, though.”

  “More likely,” Solomand sniffed in agreement.

  “While we are on the subject.”

  Tristan eased the front legs of his chair back on the floor and opened the top desk drawer. He reached inside, pulled out a small vile of clear liquid and tossed it to Solomand.

  “It’s less potent than the last batch. One drop should still suffice.”

  Solomand glared at the bottle before slipping it into his pocket. He hated sneaking the drug into Ivan’s food.

  “You know what he’d do if he knew?”

  Tristan tilted his head to the side, looking sympathetic.

  “His determination is admirable, but not even he can escape the ramifications of Furi…” His voice lowered. “You know what it does to those who don’t ease off of it, Sol.”

  Of course, he knew. The gaunt corpses that littered the seedy little trading posts were only slightly less disturbing than the savageness that overtook the addicts before they finally succumbed to death. Even before the war, in the slums of Corcyra, Solomand remembered all too well the crazed spectacle of those he had seen running through the streets on all fours, smeared in their own feces. He shook his head.

  “Yeah. He’s still going to be pissed, though.”

  Fighting back a cough, Tristan grinned. “He’ll forgive me.”

  “Yeah,” Solomand agreed. “But not me.” The constrained feeling around his chest grew tighter. “I’ll be back later,” he mumbled and left.

  Tristan stared at the single blemish on his otherwise flawless work of writing. He sighed heavily as he dragged it off the desk, wadded it into a ball and tossed it into the waste-bin. He retrieved a clean sheet of paper, smoothed it, and started over.

  My Dear desert flower, I cannot express how much I long to see you…

  Chapter 10

  Rayn

  Rayn wrinkled her nose as she walked into her room. It was small and smelled of must. A gas lamp was mounted on the wall by the bed and specks of dust swirled in the soft yellow light. There were no windows. Rayn much preferred the smell of oil and metal and the swirl of sawdust. She shrugged and shoved the door shut with her elbow. Her belongings sat on the bed, including the revolver she'd been missing. Rayn unsheathed it, pushed out the cylinder and ran her thumb along each bullet primer. Solomand did not appear to have tampered with any of them.

  She sighed and returned the gun to its sheath.

  I guess Captain Black ‘s not afraid I'll shoot him.

  She ran her hand over the course green blanket, expecting her fingers to come away with a layer of dust. They did. She didn’t really care. She had her revolver back, and the room had its own bathroom with a shower in it.

  Her clothes had a grungy, sticky feel against her skin, and she peeled them off, careful to avoid doing any further damage to her injury. Leaving them in a pile on the floor, she stepped into the stone-tiled shower and pulled the chain to the drain. She jumped a little as the steaming water streamed over her hair, then sighed with relief as the warm water trailed down her body. The chain fastened on a hook, so the water ran freely, and Rayn scrubbed the sweat, blood, and dust from her body. Feeling each smooth groove of the scar around the lines of a distorted birthmark, she wondered if she would ever be anyone other than just Rayn. Now, a new worry worked itself in; what if she didn’t like what she found out?

  Soapy foam washed down her side, soaking her bandages. The stinging in her wound turned into a burning sensation.

  “Shit!”

  Rayn pealed of the bandage, biting her lower lip as the warm water washed the soap away. She sucked in her breath and slung sopping hair out of her eyes as she released the chain and hopped out
of the shower. The stinging burning subsided as she patted the wound dry. She dried the rest of herself and spotted a stack of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic near the washbasin.

  “Thought of everything but the morphine, didn’t he?” she grumbled.

  Then, because she would rather deal with pain than an infection, she gritted her teeth and splashed the clear liquid onto her wound.

  As her side caught fire, Rayn flattened against the wall, making a mix of guttural and high-pitched noises in her throat. With tears at the corners of her eyes, she told herself to stop acting like a baby and wrapped on the fresh bandages amid another round of winces and groans.

  She managed to put on some fresh clothes before easing herself onto the bed, jerking involuntarily until the burning dulled.

  “Well…” she gasped, “that was a hell of a day.”

  Her hair, still a dripping mess, soaked the pillow. Rayn raised her head and looked at the towel on the floor by the bathroom.

  Not worth it.

  She sank her head on the already damp pillow and fell asleep.

  She didn’t know how long she was out, but no dreams interrupted her this time. When she woke up, she stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling, the hollowness inside her grow a little more.

  Empty.

  That was what she felt, her fingers curled around the edge of the blanket, dismissing the thought. What would it mean if she'd been in Corcyra during the war? For some reason, the possibility never crossed her mind before.

  Rayn kicked the blanket off and got dressed before tying her still damp hair back. Not forgetting her gun belt, she strapped it on and went to find Solomand.

  He wasn’t in the kitchen, but she did find a basket of warm rolls. The lingering smell of their baking made her stomach growl. She picked one up and in a very unladylike fashion, finished it in three bites. The soft buttery crust was filled with meat and vegetables. She grabbed another one before hurrying outside and down the debris-littered path out of the Castle.

  Looking at the valley with a clear head, she realized the walkway was built into the cliff, and it split off into two directions: one angled down toward the dock, the other snaked left, down into the grassy valley.

  The sun sank below the mountains amid layered streaks of purple and orange clouds painted across a gray sky. A warm breeze jostled the trees, and a handful of birds swooped past as she stepped onto the path, diving from the branches and chirping. There was another sound too: the gentle rushing of water. Rayn breathed in the smell of damp moss and peace settled on her.

  Why couldn’t I have been left in a place like this?

  The Lubafell valley was infinitely more appealing than Port Ashbury with its constant stream of travelers coming and going and the never-ending cycle of small talk and tedious people.

  Shouts and a girl’s laughter came from the dock, and Rayn’s thoughts snapped back to reality—and Solomand. She took another bite of the roll and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand as she strode toward the dock. Solomand was sitting on the railing, bracing himself with his hands. His untucked shirt fluttered against his chest as the wind tugged on it. He stared down toward the valley with an unfocused gaze, periodically taking a pull from the cigarette that dangled from his fingers.

  The wind masked the sound of her steps on the wooden planks until she was right behind him. He turned to look at her, a darkness in his eyes.

  “Hello there, Rayn…storm.”

  He grinned, letting the smoke curl over his lips as he blew it out. The unsettled expression was gone making Rayn question if she saw it at all.

  “It’s just Rayn.”

  She scowled and shoved the last of the roll into her mouth.

  “Right—sorry. How’re you feeling?”

  He toyed with a silver chain around his neck.

  Rayn wiped her buttery fingers on the side of her pants, finished chewing, and swallowed.

  “Better.”

  Her right hand hooked on the hilt of her revolver.

  “Good.” Solomand’s eyes flicked to the gun at her side. “I would have come for you earlier, but I thought it’d be best if you slept it off.”

  He breathed in as he glanced back to the valley, transferring his cigarette to his mouth.

  Rayn followed his gaze down the winding trail along a stream, to the fields of high grass which panned out below. The movement of the wind through the stalks looked like waves of the ocean. Patches of purple and yellow flowers sprouted across the field like splashes of paint on a canvas

  “It’s very beautiful,” she said.

  The smells of earth and trees wrapped themselves around her.

  “Mmhmm.”

  Solomand nodded.

  “How did you end up here?” Rayn asked.

  “It’s where my father and mother met,” Solomand spoke in a faraway tone. “My father was a pilot. He crashed in the valley near the Kree camp.”

  “Kree?” Rayn tilted her head to the side, leaning over the railing next to him to see.

  She brushed against his arm, and the scent of his tobacco encircled her like an invisible cloud. Solomand glanced at her arm before motioning across the expanse of mountains in the distance.

  “The nomads that travel throughout the region. My mother was one; a member of the Crow Clan.”

  “Was?” Rayn regretted the word as soon as it left her tongue.

  Small talk was awkward enough without bringing up a potentially uncomfortable topic. What if his mother was dead?

  She added hurriedly, “Are they still here? The Kree?”

  “They come and go," Solomand said. "They’ll be back in the valley before the month is over.” He finished his cigarette and flicked the glowing remains over the cliff. “Now,” he said, swinging his legs around and hopping off the railing next to Rayn. “Feel up to having a look at why you’re here?”

  The gun.

  Rayn had almost forgotten.

  “Sure.”

  “Alright, let’s go.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled back toward the dock.

  Jank was standing by the Osprey’s side, drawing in a battered, leather sketchbook. Every now and then his eyes flicked up to the airship, then back to his drawing. Zee sat on Will’s shoulders, slathering navy-blue paint on the flint-colored hull. Will was covered with varying sizes of blue droplets.

  “Time for a change,” Solomand winked at Rayn as they stepped up the ramp and into the open bay doors.

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the 201st, would it?”

  “Of course not. I’m simply tired of gray, and manufactured rust.”

  Manufactured rust?

  “What?”

  Rayn raised an eye and squeezed past a pile of wooden crates behind Solomand.

  “Nothing.”

  “So, how often do you get tired of your ship’s appearance, Captain?”

  They were starting up a winding staircase of black, riveted metal.

  “Alright,” Solomand relented. “You've got me.

  It’s just that once the Hounds have seen the bang-up makeover Jank’s done, they’re bound to copy it.”

  “Uh-huh. How often have they forced you into repainting the Osprey?”

  Their voices mixed with echoes of their footsteps on the stairs.

  Solomand grinned over his shoulder.

  “Once. She wasn’t the Osprey last time.”

  Even better. Rayn rolled her eyes.

  As they climbed, Rayn surveyed the inside of the airship. There was a catwalk on each of the three decks they passed, lined with closed doors. It was smaller than she expected it to be. There was a rounded door at the top of the staircase, peppered with dents and tinged with rust. Solomand grunted as he turned the wheel lock, hanging on it with his full body weight to make it budge. It rolled with a groan, and he heaved it open on its hinges. He held his arm out for her to go ahead of him.

  Rayn stepped into a small room overlooking the topside of the airship through a porthole.
Black cases of ammunition lined the walls. Rayn put a hand on her hip.

  “Nice armory you have for a passenger vessel.”

  Solomand leaned against the doorframe.

  “I prefer to call it an emergency projectile storage compartment. Sounds nicer. More legal.” He nodded to the metal pieces that lay in a black, bulky, heap on the floor. “That’d be the gun. Needs a bit of work, but I don’t need to tell you that.”

  Rayn eased to one knee and examined the three barrels protruding from the firearm. Her mouth hung open as her eyes fell on the open case of six and a half inch shells.

  “Defense?” she burst out. “This is a damned anti-aircraft cannon, Captain Black.”

  Solomand crossed his arms.

  “No more than that pistol of yours is.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  Rayn unscrewed one of the barrels from the mount. She had to rest it on her shoulder as she held it up to the light.

  “Not a pirate, huh?”

  One eye squeezed shut, she stared down the end of the cylinder. Flecks of gunpowder and gunk lined the barrel. Pits had already formed, little pockets of corrosion slowly eating away at the metal.

  “Of course not.” Solomand picked at his fingernails. “I told you, it’s all a massive misunderstanding.”

  “Yes, you said that.”

  Rayn sat the barrel down. Her hands came away black and greasy.

  “You might not know this, but a twenty-millimeter triple cannon is highly illegal.”

  No wonder he didn’t want to bring it into the shop.

  “So is a certain black rifle in your possession—err, well.” Solomand cleared his throat and peered out the porthole, avoiding Rayn’s gaze. “Does it make a difference if it’s illegal?”

  Rayn rocked back on her heels, giving Solomand a dangerous look on mention of her rifle. She considered the question, remembering the guns she’d fixed for veterans back in Ashbury without much thought.

  “No,” she said, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. She stood back up. “But I don’t have what I need to fix it. She dusted her hands off on her pants, leaving black streaks across the carob-colored material. For one thing, it would take massive amounts of rags and ammonia to stave off the corrosion. She couldn’t tell straight off what was wrong with it, but she didn’t have any tools or raw material to make springs.