10. PUNISHMENT
The Ashram smells like nine parts dirty feet and one part all the other smells of Bee life—BO, bleach, rice, and canned-vegetable-of-the-week. Mushroom, at present. I inhale, then crack open my eyes.
“Ai?” Kylie leans over me, her eyes red and puffy.
“L—yuck.” My tongue tastes like blood, sludge, and something bitter.
She grimaces back. “I feel your pain. We had to pour one of the Chinese medicine vials down your gullet.”
Shit. Those are hard to come by.
I run my tongue over my front teeth, fighting the urge to spit, and try again. “Lawson?”
“Not here, sweetie. He went home. They’re waiting to punish him until you’re up. Tell me this is a good thing.”
My eyes close.
“Oh, Ai. What did you two do?”
“Loved,” I whisper. “Loved me.”
She touches my cheek. “He made love to you?”
“No.” Warmth crawls up my neck toward her fingers. “Not yet.”
Her hands slip under my shoulders, tucking the blanket up to my chin. “Did you get the chains, at least?”
I move my chin back and forth a little. “S-sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. What happened?”
Sleep wants me back. I drift, sigh. The answer floats out on a breath. “Blew them up.”
Kylie’s hands draw away. “You what? Why? How?”
“Grenade.” Exhaustion seeps up through my bedroll, wraps around my limbs, weighing me down. “At the FOLM. Too many weapons, guard at the Boundary, couldn’t let him…”
“Couldn’t let him what, Ai?” Kylie asks.
I guess I’ve been silent for a while. “Go,” I say. “Couldn’t let him go.”
The waking world releases its grip, and I spiral away.
D-town gathers at dusk. Kids stream out of The Dance, plastic cups in hand, wearing laughter for lipstick and anticipation for blush. The wide street has been cleared, and teens jostle for a spot with a good view of the square, where the “action” will take place. My stomach clenches.
It’s a witch burning. This is how the inquisition happened.
Here even the Witches gather to watch.
I stand in front of The Dance, makeshift crutch digging into my left armpit. Kylie and Sam flank me.
Across the street, Real Dealers surround Lawson. Lin has his back, while an in-between with black hair and broad features clings to his arm. There’s no family resemblance, but the way Lawson stands, like it’s the most natural thing to have that one hanging on him, reminds me of Kylie with Sam. I frown. Lawson said he had a sister, not a sibling, but there’s no question that one is an in-between.
There’s also something odd, too innocent, about Lawson’s sibling’s face. That one is nearly my height, but can’t have a Real Age of more than four or five.
Lawson takes his sibling’s hands, and their lips move as they speak to one another. The young one gives repeated headshakes, tossing shaggy black hair. It stands out in a sharp, irrelevant way that the only thing they have in common appearance-wise is hairstyle, as if the same person cuts their hair. Does Lawson do that? Do those strong hands, so comfortable with weapons, also wield scissors?
Lawson pulls his shirt over his head, rolls it up into a ball, and extends it to his sibling. That one shoves it back. They push the bundle back and forth a few times before that one wraps arms around it and runs off in the direction of the Barracks. Lawson gives a subtle hand gesture, and a beanpole of a Real Dealer guy jogs after.
Lawson dusts his hands on his pants in a gesture I’ve come to recognize as nerves before looking my way. He checks me over, then finally meets my eyes. We stare at each other, and I sense he’s trying to tell me something with his gaze.
“Thank you,” I mouth.
His brow furrows, so we must be too far apart for lip-reading. He turns to Lin, waving his hands. Muscles shift under the suntanned skin of his bare back.
“Hey.” Kylie touches my arm. “You’re staring, hon.”
“So?”
“Okay. It’s okay.” Dark circles shadow Kylie’s eyes, and her usually tidy slacks and long-sleeved shirt have dirt ground into them. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye.
I raise an eyebrow.
“You really mean to pursue that, then?” She inclines her head toward Lawson. “It’s not the Bee way.”
I pivot on my crutch and speak low and fierce. “I just want to—just once. Is that too much to ask? Then I’ll never do it again. I’ll give him up. But I can’t, without, without…if he still wants me after this.”
“If he’s still alive after this, you mean.” Sam stands to my other side, resting on two crutches, injured ankle wrapped in several layers of old fabric. Sprained, or broken? No one dares look too closely; there’s no way to make a cast.
“Shut up!” I snap.
Several Bees turned to stare in disapproval. No doubt, in their eyes, I’m the cause of this violence. I agree completely.
“Sorry,” I tell Sam. “I can’t stand this.”
“This is not your fault, Aidan,” Kylie says. “You were dissolving your karma. Lawson should not have intervened the way he did, spreading violence.”
“What’s wrong with you? They were killing me!” I pull up short, eyes widening. How much like him I sound.
Kylie stares at me until understanding dawns.
“Then it was my time,” I say.
She touches my arm in approval and turns back to face front as an A and a Real Dealer step to the center of the street. The two anarchists are remarkably similar-looking—both tall, broad shouldered guys. The Real Dealer wears black overalls and a faded red t-shirt. The A wears blue denim and an almost white shirt with a red A painted on the front. The Real Dealer has his tattoos. Both boast heavy boots, worn at the toe to show steel. The Real Dealer clears his throat.
“There is a matter to be resolved between the Real Deal and the A.” The Real Dealer’s words carry.
“The Second Consensus was broken,” the A says. “The Real Deal owes us a debt they must pay.”
“Our tribesman comes of his own free will,” continues the Real Deal speaker.
Lawson steps into the street between them, head held high.
“I will pay,” he says, in that clear strong voice.
My stomach aches, like that last beating tore something in my gut, spilling fluids into my body cavity.
More As step into the street, forming a ring around Lawson. I count them. Ten. Too many. I promised myself I wouldn’t move, but I step forward. Lawson gives me a frantic look and shakes his head.
“Hold back,” the Real Deal speaker shouts.
Kylie grabs my hand, and the rest of the Bees close around me, forming a cage of limbs, and I realize the Real Dealer meant hold me back. He lifts a battered watch, fusses with it for a moment, and raises his arm.
“Three, two…” His arm drops. “Go.”