Black Recluse

by Anna Bowman

  “Sol owes me a rifle,” she said.

  Jank snickered.

  “You’ll be around a long time tryin’ to collect on that debt.” He plucked two of the cups Rayn had just washed, shook the water out, and filled them both with coffee. “That’ll be about the time Will learns not to poison food.”

  He handed a cup to Rayn. She took it, wiping her damp hand on a towel.

  “Where is Will anyway?”

  She breathed in the aroma before taking a sip of the steaming hot coffee.

  “He’s looking after Tris, in Sol’s quarters.” Jank leaned over the counter, blowing short breaths into his cup to cool it off. “It took a lot out of him.” His freckles looked darker as his face turned pale. “Patchin’ up Sol like that.” He took a worried sip of the cooled coffee.

  Tristan.

  Rayn swallowed with difficulty. She set her cup down.

  “Is he a doctor? Tristan, I mean.”

  “Tristan could be whatever the hell he wanted to be. His old man is the best surgeon in Corcyra.” Jank’s voice raised, and he said ‘old man’ with venom. “Tristan learned alongside him.”

  Jank took another sip, looking like the thought of Tristan’s father made him sick.

  Zee’s yells for Sol echoed down the hall, and Jank spewed coffee all over the counter.

  “Shit!” He dropped the cup in the sink, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Tristan said to keep her out of there.”

  He darted from the kitchen. Rayn tossed the towel aside, set down her coffee and followed him.

  Ivan stood outside Tristan’s room, holding Zee in a bear-like grip. Struggling, she screamed at him.

  “Let me go! I want to see Sol!”

  She beat her small fists on his chest. It did not look like Ivan felt her blows at all. He started to carry her down the hall.

  “Ivan…” Sol’s voice lifted over the commotion, and Zee fell silent. “Let her in.”

  Ivan stopped in his tracks. Jank’s eyes widened, and he shook his head at the Slav, making slashing movements across his neck.

  “Ivan.” Sol’s voice cracked. “Please.”

  Ivan’s face hardened, and Jank’s hands moved more wildly. More gently than it looked like he was capable of being, Ivan set the girl down. She dashed around him and into Tristan’s room.

  “Damnit, Ivan!” Jank dragged a hand over his face and ran past the Slav after Zee. But he was too late to grab her. She ran up to Sol and threw her arms around him.

  Sol’s face twisted in pain and Rayn cringed for him. Zee sobbed into his neck as he managed to stroke her silky black hair.

  “Hey…I’m alright.”

  He sounded better than he looked. She could see he was fighting to hide the pain he was in.

  “Didn’t I tell you? Huh?” He took her face in his left hand, wiping away her tears with his thumb. “I’ll always come back…and I’ll always get back up.” He took a long breath. “So, you don’t need to worry about me, okay?

  Zee’s lip trembled. She bit it, nodding and wiped her eyes with a sleeve that half-covered her hand. Sol winked in a forced way.

  “Now run along with Jank before you incur the wrath of Tristan.”

  Zee nodded again, giving him one more hug before sulking away with Jank.

  As soon as she left the room, he gasped, gritting his teeth. The sheet slid off his chest as he arched his back. His right arm was bandaged to his chest, presumably, so he couldn’t move it. The fingers of his left hand were white as he clenched them together.

  Ivan went to the table and got a syringe of blue-tinged liquid. He went to inject it in Sol’s left arm.

  “I don’t need it!” Sol drew his arm away from Ivan. “It’s only for if…” he stopped to catch his breath, “If someone gets properly…hurt.”

  His eyes fell on Rayn, and the twisted look of pain gave way to one of shock.

  “Rayn?” He jerked his wrist free of Ivan’s grip, then stopped struggling.

  She took a few steps closer. He looked like someone who, on the verge of winning a race, had the assured victory snatched from their grasp.

  “You should have stayed!”

  Rayn felt guilty now. Maybe she shouldn’t have left in the first place. If she hadn’t, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  There was an ache in the back of her throat.

  The look of disbelief still plastered on his face, Sol jumped as Ivan slipped the needled into the bulge of his vein. He gave them both a dejected look before falling back onto the bed.

  Rayn frowned, worried.

  “Sorry, Sol.”

  Ivan frowned at him.

  “Ilupai.” He grumbled, throwing the blanket back over Sol’s chest.

  Chapter 38

  Solomand

  Time to think was dangerous. Solomand had too much of it. Pain wracked through his chest whenever dark memories surfaced, intensifying the stabbing from his wound.

  “This is our fault!” Ivan’s words felt like a bullet.

  Eyes clamped shut, he clutched a hand to his heart as it throbbed against his ribs, stifling his breath. Strange that even the vaguest memory of words had such power after all these years.

  It was my fault. I was in charge.

  One wrong decision meant life or death. He’d made the wrong one in not retreating, and it had sickened him ever since.

  “Sol.” Tristan’s voice dragged him back from the pit he was sliding into.

  Solomand’s eyes snapped open, and he dropped his hand to his side. Steam wafted from the chipped mug his friend held out to him.

  “Drink this. It will help.”

  “Help what?” Solomand asked, taking the cup.

  Tristan held his gaze as he sat in the chair at Solomand’s bedside, one eyebrow raised. Solomand’s shoulders tensed.

  “How long have you known?”

  Tristan rested his chin on the handle of his cane.

  “Well, it started back then—before this happened.” He gestured to his chest. “But they’ve steadily grown worse over the years, especially as of late.”

  After all the effort he’d gone through to hide it. Solomand took a sip of the bitter tasting liquid.

  “All this time. I thought you hadn’t noticed.”

  Tristan’s mouth formed a hard line.

  “Honestly, Sol. Did you think I would not discern that my best friend was quietly having panic attacks?”

  Solomand took another swallow. The feeling of impending doom subsiding.

  “Panic attacks. That’s what that shit doctor at Port Bilboa called it.” He cast Tristan a sideways glance. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Tristan took a deep breath, looking tired.

  “You went through an awful lot of trouble to conceal it from me. So, I played along.”

  “I didn’t want you to worry.” Solomand gave a short, humorless laugh. “So much for that, eh?” The room stopped its slow spin. Solomand let his head sink deeper into the pillow, balancing the cup of tea on his knee. “How far we’ve fallen.”

  “Well, you didn’t have very far to fall from, my friend.” There was a trace of humor returning to Tristan’s voice.

  Solomand laughed.

  “True. Not like you.” He raised his head to take another drink. “What do you think we would have been if all this shit hadn’t happened?”

  Tristan sank onto the arm of the chair.

  “Well, we would both be married to beautiful women, for starters.”

  Solomand recoiled at the thought of the lady Tristan would be entangled with. “And I imagine we would both have children.”

  At those words, an invisible punch knocked the wind from Solomand. He tipped the cup back and swallowed the rest of the concoction in one scalding gulp.

  Tristan’s hand was on his shoulder, his grip anchoring him to here and now. He took the cup from Solomand.

  “And we would still be friends.”

  “Would we?” Solomand jumpe
d at the opportunity to change the subject.

  “Of course. Some souls were always bound to end up together. I think ours are like that.”

  “Like flies to spoiled milk, you mean?”

  Tristan felt his pulse, shaking his head. “If that is the analogy you wish to use.”

  “How about the stupid kid to the smart one? Suppose that’s really only when cheating’s concerned, though.”

  Tristan laughed that time. “I cannot imagine anyone would believe your grades if you cheated off of me.”

  Sol closed his eyes, feeling tired. “You’re right, Swank. But I’m the one you go looking for when you get your ass into trouble. What’s more important?”

  “You see?” Tristan replied good-naturedly. “Our friendship was inevitable.”

  The thought was comforting to Solomand as he drifted into a heavy sleep. He couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t know any of the friends who were with him right now, even if it meant taking the pain away.

  Chapter 39

  Rayn

  Rayn didn’t see Tristan for the next two days, and she avoided Solomand. Being around him only confused her. Exploring the sunny fields and forest made her feel better. The Kree tribes would be there soon, so Jank said. Then, he told her that she shouldn’t stray into the plains alone.

  On her way back from the kitchen one evening, she heard raised voices coming from Tristan’s room. Rayn crept upstairs, being careful not to make any noise on the creaky staircase. She pressed her ear to the door. The voices became clearer.

  “Too many ways for everything to go wrong!” Tristan’s frustration was evident.

  “Be reasonable, Tris.” The other voice was Sol’s. Inching closer to the door, Rayn felt the coolness of the wood seep into her shirt.

  “Do you have any concept of how maddeningly fortunate you are?” Tristan’s voice raised. “Your scheming—this is what it ends with! If Rayn hadn’t come back with Will—if you had been any later in arriving, Sol…if Ivan hadn’t given you his blood. My efforts in saving you would have been futile.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed.

  “I know.” The words came in a harrowed tone. Sol sounded beaten.

  “If you wonder about it at all, after the trouble we’ve gone through,” Tristan’s tone turned threatening, which startled Rayn. She never imagined he could pull it off. “If you move that arm, Sol…I shall call this whole Corcyra thing off.”

  His warning was followed by a bout of raspy coughs.

  “Alright, Tris. I give you my word.” Solomand sounded strained.

  Rayn pressed her ear further to the door as Tristan’s voice dropped.

  “It will complicate things, Sol. Without your right arm, Corcyra will require another man. Even if the Falcon agrees to help us.”

  Tristan was trying to talk Sol out of the whole thing. Rayn’s heart pounded. Corcyra was where the war had been. If it was likely she had been there at all, maybe going back would jar her memories. If she couldn’t go to Grishtanburg for answers, maybe Corcyra was the next best thing. She braced her shoulders and pushed open the door, interrupting Sol’s protest.

  They both stared at her in surprise.

  “Lucky I came back then, isn’t it?”

  Tristan was bent over his cane, his face brightened on seeing her. Sol, however, looked ill.

  “No. No, Rayn, don’t even think about it!” He raised a finger.

  “Sol.” Tristan silenced him with a gravelly tone. “Let me speak to Rayn…alone.”

  Sol’s mouth hung open. He looked from Tristan to Rayn, a betrayed glint in his eye.

  “Fine.” His teeth were gritted. “But you’re the one who just told me you wanted me to lay around and do nothing.”

  He limped out, fumbling with the door in his attempt to slam it shut.

  Tristan lay back on his bed, struggling as he fought to breathe in. He motioned her over, and Rayn sat next to him. His lips were dry and cracked. She tried to swallow but found it was difficult. Was this what it felt like to watch someone you love die? She understood at least one thing about Solomand: that underlying dread in his eyes when he spoke of Tristan.

  “Rayn.” Tristan reached for her hand. Ice cold fingers closed around hers. “You think the answers you seek might be there, don’t you?”

  “Maybe.” Rayn’s stomach churned. She didn’t want to admit she hadn’t really thought about it.

  Tristan’s head moved back and forth on his pillow.

  “Corcyra is dangerous, Rayn. For all of us.”

  “That’s not stopping anyone else from going,” she said.

  “I’m tired.” Her hand inadvertently tightened around Tristan’s as he took a ragged breath. “Solomand.” His eyes opened, slits of pure blue sky looking at her. In spite of his harrowed look, his smile was still charming. “Death is not the end of everything, Rayn. I would have let go a long time ago, only…” He turned away, his voice turning flat. “I worry about him…what darkness he would let into his soul.”

  “Solomand?” Rayn inched closer to Tristan as his eyes drifted shut.

  “He’s afraid for you to go there.” His voice was a whisper now.

  “Afraid of what?” Rayn’s chest hitched. She wanted him to keep talking, afraid if he went to sleep, he might not wake up.

  “He made a promise to someone.” Tristan’s fingers loosened in her grasp. “A promise he knows he cannot keep.”

  Rayn allowed his hand to slip entirely from hers now.

  A promise to who?

  She never had the chance to ask. Tristan was asleep. She watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest for a long time as if leaving him would somehow cause his pulse to stop. At that moment everything else seemed of little importance. She only wanted Tristan to go on living.

  Chapter 40

  Rayn

  It was late. Rain fell on the roof, gently pattering interspersed with heavier showers. Solomand lay on the sofa, watching the spattering on the windows. The stabbing had started in his shoulder: first a dull ache, now an insistent searing that refused to be ignored. The painkiller—less potent than the one Ivan had injected into him—had worn off.

  I don’t need it.

  Sol gritted his teeth, slid off the sofa, and crawled clumsily to the cabinet on the other side of the room. With every movement, he was hit with a new barrage of twinges throughout his upper body.

  “Chi gizehya!”

  He muttered the Kree curse with a groan and fumbled open the cabinet door with his left hand. Half-empty liquor bottles clinked together as he rummaged through them. In the very back, he found what he was looking for—a foggy glass bottle of clear liquid which looked like it had been buried in a field for ten years. Hugging it under his arm, Sol crawled back to the sofa.

  He slumped on the gritty cushioning and shivered as cold streams of sweat trickled down his back. It was no use trying to open the damn thing with his left hand. He bit off the cork and spit it aside. The stench of distilled Slavik gin rose off the mouth of the bottle, causing him to turn away with a cough before gulping a swallow down. The grating feeling spread like fire down his throat, and he fought the urge to gag.

  Damn Slav brew.

  He braced himself mentally before taking another biting swallow. That was enough, thank God! With great effort, he set the bottle on the coffee table and collapsed back onto the sofa. The pain was still there, but the buzzy spinning settling on his mind made it easier to overlook.

  Why did she have to come back?

  She was almost out of harm’s reach. He cringed, watching the angry grey clouds roll by in the domed ceiling. The moon peeked out from time to time, giving him an unpleasant dizzy sensation. What time was it anyway? Sol started to reach with his subdued right hand before using his left to dig his watch from his pocket. The first thing he saw was the date: August 16th.

  Six years ago.

  The Slavik gin suddenly lost its effect, and he felt unpleasantly sober.

  Has it reall
y been that long?

  He tossed the watch aside, dug in his pocket once more and extracted a battered bill-fold. He pulled out a brown-tinged photograph and unfolded it. There they all were, or nearly: young, naive, and hopeful. They all believed they could win. Ben inspired that kind of belief. But in the end, it hadn’t been enough to save them.

  It all came crashing back, like a hammer in his chest: the burning city, the smell of blood, and death on the wind. Screams that could never be unheard and sights that could never be unseen burned in his memory forever. His eyes misted over, and his fingers trembled on the photograph and, just for a moment, he wished more than anything he could forget as she had.

  “Oh! Sorry. I didn’t know you were still here.” Rayn’s voice startled him.

  He looked up, hoping the darkness in the room hid the sorrow in his eyes. Rayn started to leave.

  “Rayn, wait. Stay.” He wanted to grab her, imagining the warmth of her hand in his. “Please.” There was a desperateness in his voice he didn’t want to be there.

  Without a word, Rayn sat next to him, keeping a safe distance. He could sense the questions in her eyes without seeing them and wanted to tell her everything.

  No!

  He fought back the urge, blaming the fog of Slavik gin for lowering his defenses.

  “God!” Rayn held a hand over her nose and mouth and squinted, leaning forward to look at the aged bottle. “Are you drinking bootleg gin? You trying to kill yourself or something?”

  “Or something,” Sol mumbled, scooting backward. He cringed as a spasm of pain shot through his shoulder and back. He gasped out, “It’s medicinal.”

  Rayn raised an eyebrow. “Don’t make a habit of it, then?”

  “God, no!” Sol made a face at the thought of drinking the liquid. “Normally, I hold the open bottle by the airship and let the fumes peel the paint off. What I’d really prefer is a smoke.”

  “Don’t.” Rayn fanned a hand in front of her face. “You’ll set us on fire.”

  Sol chuckled, his face twisting in pain at the same time.