***
Sticking to the shadows, I make my way quickly to Isaiah Bones' little shack, a few blocks from the Outpost gate. I move with purpose, check behind myself often. I take a longer route to avoid the worst of May Deth's territory. In the end, I arrive at Bones' residence untroubled.
I hammer my fist on the door, hoping to startle him with the force of it and set him off balance. A curse answers my insistent knock. Something inside crashes to the floor, and in a moment, Isaiah Bones is jerking the door open. It shrieks as its bottom scrapes the uneven cement floor.
The odor hits me first— alcohol and bad breath, sweat and old food. I turn my face away, reflexively holding my breath. Out of the corner of my eye I see the glint of the gun in the moonlight. My heart jerks to a run. His hand wavers from side to side as he staggers. He's drunk. Good or bad? On the one hand, his reflexes are considerably slowed. On the other, he could accidentally pull the trigger, wobbling around like that.
I say, as calmly as I can, "I came to buy some of your medicine."
The way he squints at me sideways, one eye narrowing more than the other, makes me think he's seeing at least two of me. I remain very still, and finally he mutters, "It'll cost you."
"How much?" I reply, my voice dead calm. I eye the gun, moving only my eyes. "V2. Two vials."
He makes a face and stumbles. For an instant I think the gun is going to go off, right into my stomach, but somehow he catches himself against the doorframe and avoids firing. "Thirty silver," he says as he rights himself. He eyes me, and it's clear he thinks I don't have the money.
I have thirty-two and a few coppers in my pocket. Slowly, I draw it out, where he can see it. The coins fill up my hand and threaten to spill over. He eyes them greedily, reaches for them. I draw back. "The meds," I say firmly.
He stands up straighter, though he's still wavering. His dark eyes are cloudy in a face lax with drunkenness, lower lip hanging. He waves the gun, motioning me inside. As he moves out of my way, I step through the door, but not far enough for him to close it behind me.
Inside, one shelf is lined with small plastic tubes set in wooden racks. The liquids inside them could make life in the Outpost a lot easier for a lot of people, but few can afford Isaiah Bones' price. I scan the shelf until I see the telltale pink serum. So he does actually have V2. I count out the coins, placing them on his table. When I reach thirty, I nod toward the vials. But Bones is just standing there, eyeing me. The look on his face is greedy, despicable, and makes my stomach turn over. I glance at the gun that still wavers in my direction.
"Why don't you stay a while there, girlie," he drawls, stumbling toward me. He's too drunk, I think, to do what he intends, but I'm not sticking around to find out. As he teeters, I sweep my arm sideways, knocking the gun from his hand. I balance on one foot and plant the other in his midsection. He crashes backward, arms flailing.
I grab two vials, hold them up so he can see as I head for the door. "As agreed," I say. And I'm out. I'm running.
I secure the vials in my inside pocket as I go. A rush of excitement floods through me. I've almost done it. I've almost saved my friends. In a few moments, I'll be home, and Neveah will administer the medicine. Everything will be OK. I'm zipping my jacket, crossing a street, when I notice the movement ahead. There's five of them— dark shadows stalking purposely together. We see each other at the same time, and one of them says something. They rush toward me.
I run down a side alley. Even as I am scrambling through the alley, dodging piles of trash, splashing through puddles, I realize that I have little chance of escape. I emerge from the other end and make a sharp right, but before I can get to the next turn, two of them have circled around, anticipating where I would go. I backpedal and skid to a halt. I don't need to look behind me to know I'm trapped. My fingers close around the hilt of my knife and yank it from its sheath.
They approach me slowly now, cautious as a pack of wolves. I position my back against the wall as they close the remaining distance. The moonlight reveals their faces. Three of them I don't know, but two of them I have seen with Donegan. So he sent his men after his money. Well, they'll be disappointed to find I don't have it.
For a moment, I consider screaming, hoping that a Sentry might be near. But I will certainly draw blood before a Sentry could get here, and that makes me an offender, too. If I scream, and a Sentry comes, it will kill me. So I grit my teeth and prepare to do as much damage as I can.
One of them lunges at me, trying to knock the knife from my hand. I sidestep and slash at him, barely catching his arm with the tip of my blade. His coat rips, but the flesh beneath it is untouched. He jerks back. I bring my knee sideways and toward his midsection. He grunts as I connect. Before I can regain my balance and strike again, the others close in on me. Two of them grab my arms and pull them behind my back while a third punches me in the stomach. I twist as I double over, managing to get one of them with my knife. It happens behind me, so I'm not even sure where the strike hits. Fingers close over my wrist and bend my arm, threatening to break the bone. I cling to my knife until another blade sinks its teeth into the back of my hand. My skin rips, hot blood pouring over it. I shriek. My weapon clatters to the ground, and I'm not far behind it. All I can do now is wrap my arms over my face and curl into a little ball as they kick me. Their feet connect with my ribs, my stomach, my back. Every blow is sharp and new. I'll black out soon, and maybe never wake up. A brief, clear moment of regret. I think of Jonas. I think of the medicine in my pocket that will never get to him.
Then suddenly, it's over. Maybe they've decided I'm beaten enough to reclaim the coins that must be in my pocket. But their footsteps chase away across the pavement. My first thought is that a Sentry has picked up on the clatter. My body is dead cold, paralyzed by fear. But the footsteps on the pavement belong to people, not a machine. Only a couple of people, I would guess. So why are Donegan's men running off scared?
My next assumption starts my heart beating again wildly. Apollon and Jonas have come to rescue me. But, of course, Apollon is somewhere outside the Outpost gates, and Jonas is sick in bed, struggling for his life. An image of blood-smeared beggars flashes through my mind, dousing me with fear. I run out of time to speculate. With little tenderness, I'm hauled to my feet. My body doesn't like this. I scramble to keep my legs underneath me. In reality, I'm mostly being held up by the two men on either side of me. I blink through the haze that tries to claim me as we start moving. We pass into the open intersection and better light. I know these men. They are Matthew's.
"Thanks, I'm fine," I mutter, trying to brush them off, but they aren't having it. Their fingers press into my arms as they bear me along through the dark streets. My head levels out a bit after being upright for a while. "You can let go now," I say, my voice stronger.
The one on my right snorts quietly. "Like hell," he says, his words dripping with some sort of self-contained amusement. "You're my ticket to a promotion."
I'm still blinking, trying to figure out if the dark spots I'm seeing are shadows or visual distortions from the beating I've taken. None of it makes sense. "How's that?" I ask, dragging my feet a little more than necessary. "Matt's never bothered with me before."
"You never made it this easy for him before," the other one answers. "Matthew doesn't like it when things are overly complicated. But tonight, he'll have you on a platter."
The words sink in. Apollon and Jonas have always been a thin veil of protection, along with crowds and daylight. It's not that Matt couldn't do whatever he wants. It's just that it would have been messy that way. Complicated. And I wasn't worth the trouble. Now, like this, Matthew's men believe I am. I dig my heels in and try to wrench my arms from their grasp. They're both a lot bigger than me, hauling me along like it's nothing. I'm still struggling uselessly when we arrive at our destination— one of the nicer buildings on
a quiet street in the southeastern quarter of the Outpost. The man on my right lets go and knocks loudly on the door while the other one holds me. The door squeaks open, and the man behind me shoves me forward. I struggle against his iron grip, which only seems to make my arms hurt. Even though my strength is fading, I try to kick his shins. He easily avoids me. The other one curses something at the girl who opened the door. She stares at me wide-eyed through a face half-covered in puckered burn scars, then suddenly turns to rush off. Her steps fall short as Matthew walks slowly into the room.
The girl stops, open mouthed. We stop, mid-scuffle. Everyone stares at Matt. His face is blank. He crosses his arms casually. The moment stretches on, hanging on what he will do or say.
Finally, he says very calmly, "Let her go."
The man holding my arms releases me, and the two of them go out the door. I suspect that they've not gone very far.
I stand there, trying to calm myself, trying to gain some composure. "Matthew," I say quietly, nodding. Red blood trails down my fingers and drops silently onto his floor. A puddle is beginning to form there.
He looks at me, his gaze considering. Considering what has taken place? Considering what to do with me, I think. I can feel each beat of my heart under that stare. I want to run, but if I do, I don't think I will make it three feet past the door.
"Get Alayna," he says, waving one hand dismissively. The scarred girl rushes from the room. Matt reaches a hand toward me, half turning back the way he came. "Come sit down," he says. "You look like hell."
I obey because I don't think I have a choice. And because I feel like hell. Because, if I don't sit down soon, I might end up on the floor with the rest of my blood. I follow him through the doorway into a small parlor. Two large armchairs, one with an ottoman, are placed diagonally near a huge fireplace. Flames are leaping and crackling within, warmth spilling out. The pig is curled up at one corner of the fireplace, asleep. There's a half glass of amber liquid on the side table of the furthest chair. Matt motions me to the other seat, which I take slowly, trying not to look as bad-off as I feel. There's an awkward silence as he walks to the fireplace and slowly turns on me, but neither of us manage to say a word before an old woman rushes in from a room beyond, bearing a basket under her arm.
Matt waves her toward me.
She kneels at my feet, her eyes going instantly to the gash on my hand. Setting her basket on the floor, she takes out a cloth and bottle of clear liquid. She douses the cloth. The strong smell of alcohol wafts upward into my face. She begins to dab at my wound. A thousand fire ants bite me all at once, but I grit my teeth and try not to pull away from her.
Matt picks his drink up off the side table and sips it as he stands by the fire watching her tend to my wound. Again, that considering look is on his face, making me uneasy. I don't like the idea of anyone deciding what to do with me, but there's something particular to this expression that is worse— some easy confidence that whatever is decided will happen. If there were really gods once, I wonder, did they look down on us just like this, deciding our fates with detached amusement?
The old woman— Alayna, he called her— takes out a thin needle and some catgut. I watch her thread the needle, her old hands shaking. My jaw tightens against the urge to draw away. As she reaches for me again, I realize that I'm disturbed mostly by the gnarled old hands, not the fact that they will be shaky as they attempt to sew me up. I think of the old woman who blackmailed me. I swallow and look away from Alayna. I look at Matt.
As the needle sinks into my flesh, Matt sets his drink down, pulls the ottoman over, and sits in front of me. He looks at me again with that same unquestioned authority, but now, in his hazel eyes I can see a glimmer of hunger. His voice, when he speaks, is distant, detached. "Been fighting half the Outpost?"
I shrug, the sense of unease rippling through me. Somehow I manage not to shiver.
"Did you think that was a good idea?" he asks. Now, at least, a trickle of sardonic humor drips into his tone. But there's still a strange distance in his voice, and that bothers me.
I level my gaze at him, throw him a cocky smile, and, overriding my body's refusal to do so, kick his foot lightly with mine. "Sounds like something you would do?" I've heard some stories, seen the kids playing at being Matthew. I'm going out on a limb, but it's all I can think to do.
When my foot knocks into his, he flushes red. He stands before I can clock the rest of his reaction, arms crossing, and moves past me. I'm worrying that I've crossed the line, feigned too much familiarity with someone who is used to being so far above everyone else. I glance back and catch a glimpse of his face as he paces slowly behind me. His eyes are slightly narrowed, his jaw working. Before I can figure out what he's thinking, Alayna jerks at my arm, silently reminding me to be still. I turn back to her, and feel the weight of Matthew standing behind me. My mind scrambles for a way out as my eyes watch Alayna's gnarled hands poke the needle through another bit of my skin.
"You could be dead," Matthew finally says. "You're lucky." His voice is cold— so cold I can feel every word moving up my spine. I've angered him, and I don't know how to undo it. My head rushes with dizziness. The stress, or the loss of blood? I feel like kicking at Alayna, yanking my half-sewn arm away, and running. I barely restrain myself from doing so.
Then, softly, I feel Matt's fingers touch the right side of my neck, just above the collar of my jacket. Calm descends on me from somewhere far away. I turn slightly, move my left hand across, and cover his hand with mine. I lift my face to him, smiling softly, and say with utmost sincerity, "I am so lucky... to have a friend like you. Thank you."
Then I see it. This time, when he flushes, it's like the spring thaw. The ice melts and slides away. Underneath is something alive and warm. The corners of his mouth curve into a smile. His hand turns palm-up and squeezes mine. "Of course," is all he says, but the words are soft, almost a concession. He withdraws his hand and walks to the other chair, where he sits and quietly watches Alayna finish her work. His gaze is steady and thoughtful, but my heart rate is leveling out, my nerves dulling back to normal awareness. Some of the tension leaves my shoulders.
"Why are you running around the Outpost in the dead of night?" he asks, finally.
"I had to get some V2," I answer, patting my pocket.
His eyes scan my face.
"My friends are sick," I say. "I need to get home."
His face progresses rapidly through a series of emotions, from wonder, to disappointment that fades to compromise. His eyes go to Alayna's gnarled hands, watching her push the needle through my flesh, raise it in the air, pull the catgut tight. For a while, he's quiet. Then he says, "You could have come to me, you know."
I don't know how to answer that. So I don't. I just nod.
He sighs and places his empty glass on the side table. The fire crackles. A log pops. We watch the little shower of vermillion sparks and say nothing. Alayna pulls the catgut tight for the final time, and snips it off with a small pair of silver scissors. She places a strip of cloth around my hand, gathers her things, and retreats from the room.
I shove myself to my feet, and stand still for a moment as the dizziness swirls through my head. My whole body aches, especially my ribs, but I don't think they're cracked. Matt takes me by the elbow and walks with me into the front room. The girl with the burn-scarred face is there on her hands and knees, scrubbing at the blood on the floorboards. She glances back briefly, without pause, and I see for the first time that the non-scarred side of her face is quite beautiful. Matt's eyes, however, are on his bloodied floor. My blood has seeped into the cracks between the wood, and must be removed. If a Sentry walked in now, it is possible that someone would be taken away. The Sentries could read the edge of the cut on my arm, determine it was not made accidentally, match the blood to the cut— and someone might end up boxed. Maybe Matt, maybe Alayna, or more likely, this
girl, who now has my blood on her hands. There are ways around the Sentries' logic, but when blood is involved, it's not as easy to deter them. So here we are, with Matt ready to let me leave, and now he's looking at the blood I have unkindly loosed upon his floor. Thinking of the massive inconvenience, to say the least, it could cause him. This can't be good.
I feel myself go a little pale. Maybe it's the blood loss. Maybe.
Matthew's fingers twitch against my elbow. His eyes are slightly rounded, wider with awareness, but not alarm. He doesn't look angry, though, as he turns and faces me, his free hand coming up to my other elbow. His eyes move over my face, his expression softening. "It's OK," he says. "You can bleed on my floor anytime you like."
My mouth tugs into a smile despite the weariness that the rest of my body feels. He smiles down at me. I have the impression, for a moment, that he's going to say something. Then I think he's going to kiss me, instead. I brace myself, which is all I can do. But he squeezes my arms and draws away, opens the front door.
Outside, the two thugs that dragged me here turn toward us. Not surprising. They go visibly pale as Matt's gaze falls on them. One of them is shaking.
"Did I ask you to bring her here?" Matt says in a voice that is very, very quiet.
They stutter and stumble over their replies. The briefest sideways glance of one of them is filled with suppressed rage. If I let them be in trouble for this, then I might always be a target.
I set my hand on Matthew's arm, gently, and say to him, "They saved me from Donegan's men. And if they hadn't brought me to you, I'd probably be bleeding to death in an alley right now."
From the way his body tenses, I can tell it annoys him that I do this. He shrugs me off of his arm, but nods, still holding the gaze of his men. They look away and down first. Then Matt turns to me. His voice, though, is for his men. "See that she gets home safely."
They nod quickly, eager to obey. I step away from Matt, off the walk and into the street between the two of them. Matt nods at them. I throw him a quick smile, and start away. We walk down the dark street listening to the ground crunching beneath our boots. Neither of Matt's men speaks, nor do I feel inclined to do so. I lead the way, a pace or so ahead of them. Again, my thoughts turn to Jonas. I'm almost home, and I still have the medicine.
Suddenly, I remember the beating I have taken, and the small plastic vials. I've not had a chance to check them. A sheet of ice cuts my body in half. I'm tearing at my jacket, fumbling with the zipper so I can reach the inside pocket. I can feel my companions' eyes on my back. "Just checking something," I mumble, reassuring them I'm not drawing a weapon. I hardly notice their response. My fingers sink into my inner pocket and touch the smooth plastic. The vials are both, miraculously, intact. My shoulders slump with relief. I tilt my face to the sky, feeling the cool night air against my skin. Everything will be OK.
We turn the final corner and begin down the last stretch before home. The Outpost is quiet here most nights, as if the darkness sucks the noise from the streets into its black abyss. But as we walk, voices float on the night air, penetrating just above the sound of our footsteps. Voices. Shouts. The noise of something crashing. They're coming from ahead. From the direction of home. I start running.
My bruised body protests against the exertion, but I sprint down the street, ignoring the sharp pain in my knee, the burning of my ribcage. The heavy boot steps of Matt's men thunder just behind me. As the small shack I call home comes into view in front of me, three figures run from the yard into the street, rushing away in the opposite direction. I skid to a stop at the opening in the junk wall and peer toward the building. Framed against the light of the open door is Neveah's figure, a metal bar in her hand. She sees me now, and drops into a crouch, placing the bar aside. She bends over a figure sprawled on the front steps. They are black shadows against the light inside, so details elude me. But from the sheer size of the still body, I know at once that it could only be Apollon.