***
Miranda, of all people, is by my side as we walk toward the Rustler. Jonas has been awake, but groggy, from time to time. Apollon insists one moment that he's fine. The next he's in agony. Neveah has managed to keep an infection away by tending him with her herbs, but the healing process will be slow. Neveah is home now, so I'm heading out to try to scrape up some money. I have one silver and a few coppers in my pocket. Once that's gone, we have nothing. Neveah might be able to make enough in a week to pay for one meal for our family. That means it's up to me to provide. If I lose this game, I'm going rat-hunting.
"Do you have to walk so fast?" Miranda hisses beside me, shuffling to keep up. She's not as tall as me, and she's still feeling the after-effects of the illness. I should feel bad for her, but I don't.
"I didn't ask you to come along." I shoulder my way past two old men. "Why don't you go back?" It's true, I don't want her with me. I was out by myself yesterday, and I was fine. I was more than fine. No one bothered me. No one even looked at me crossly. In fact, most people made a good effort to avoid my gaze entirely. Today I'm wondering if I'll notice the same effect. I'm pretty sure I will. I'm also pretty sure I know why, even though I don't want to.
Miranda looks startled at my suggestion. She's brave enough to insist on coming along in some idiotic but noble attempt at watching my back, but she's too much of a coward to make the trek back to our house alone. If I ditched her here, she would freak. I glance at her face, considering.
She flushes, but whether from anger or embarrassment, I'm not sure. "I'm trying to help," she insists. Anger, then.
"Fine," I say quietly as we reach the Rustler's door and walk inside. "Help from over there."
She glares at me as though she might strike me down with just that look. But she takes a seat on a barstool away from the door. I have the feeling that she's trying to hide herself in plain sight.
I take an empty chair at the card table. The others mumble low greetings. None of them meet my eyes. I look around the table and calculate the pitiful sum of money I might make. There's not a lot in front of any of the men who are playing. I sigh, and watch the round play out. Jacob and Taylor join us from a table at the back, bringing their whiskey with them. They nod and smile at me, polite as can be. I frown at them in return.
My one silver buys me a bad hand. I bluff my way through. I have the feeling that Jacob has a good hand, but he folds along with the others, leaving me the pot. I narrow my eyes at him as I take the money. He feigns confusion. I consider playing another round, but suddenly, I can't. I want a fair game, not a favor. Not a favor from one of Matthew's men. I stand and toss a handful of coins back at Jacob.
"Thanks," I say, "but I can win on my own." I head toward Miranda.
Her eyes are wide, looking at me like I'm a crazy person. "What's going on?"
"Nothing." I nod toward the door.
"Nothing," she repeats. "Then why did you give that money to Jacob? And why is everyone being all deferent to you?" She notices more than I give her credit for. She narrows her eyes at me. "Did you do something?"
"Oh yeah," I say, grabbing her arm and dragging her to her feet. "I slew the giant and all that. Killed the dragon. Nuked the monster. Now all the townspeople are afraid of me."
She digs her heels in. "They are," she says slowly.
I roll my eyes. "C'mon." Again, I nod toward the door.
Matthew walks in. He glances around, sees me, and heads straight for me. I peek at Miranda, only long enough to determine that she's gone phantom white. I shove her onto one of the bar stools before she can pass out on me, then watch Matt stride across the room. His footsteps are the only sound in the bar now, which adds to the archetype. He is God stepping down from the heavens to punish or destroy, to bless or to smite. We mortals await him, mouths slightly open, bodies vibrating with anticipation and horror.
He stops in front of me, holding something out. "I believe this belongs to you," he says, smiling cockily. I finally notice the object in his hands. He has carried it into the Rustler and across the room. He held it when he came in. That means he knew I was here. It means he came here expecting to find me. It probably even means he was waiting for his men to report to him that I was here and he interrupted whatever else important godlike business he had, to come and see me.
I eye my knife, then take it. It is mine, after all. It's not exactly a favor. And I can't really be without it. Nor can I refuse it. "Thanks," I say, and leave it at that.
He leans casually against the bar beside me. "Anytime," he says.
We stand and look at each other. I let my eyes fall on Miranda. "She's still a bit wobbly," I say. "I better get her home."
Miranda's jaw tightens on what could only be an acid comment. She flushes, but looks a bit unsteady. I'm not even sure if she's faking it, or if it's real.
Matt looks at her for the first time, giving me the impression of a lounging cat noticing an ant crawling by. "Of course," he says, and straightens. He brushes my elbow with his fingertips as I begin to move past him, then catches my hand. He turns it to examine the back, where my cut is no longer covered in bandages. Satisfied, he lets go and smiles at me. "Looks better."
Miranda peers at my hand now. No one at home has noticed or commented on my wound. We've had bigger things to worry about. I ignore her, and toss Matt a smile that will hopefully tide him over. "Almost as good as new," I agree, though, truthfully, it still has a way to heal. "If you ever need someone to sew you up...." I let the words trail off and saunter toward the door like the world is mine. Like I'm not carefully holding myself back. Trying not to run. I emerge outside, blinking in the midday sun. How is it still so cold with the sun shining like this?
Miranda is beside me, keeping pace as I widen my steps. "Matthew sewed your hand up?" she sputters. "Are you crazy? Do you have any idea who he is?"
"Shut up," I say, not kindly. "You can't hide in your rabbit hole all the time, expecting everyone else to look after you, and then freak out when they do."
"What?" she says. She's jogging to keep up with me now. "It's not—" She stops, midsentence, and sucks in a deep breath. There's a pause, then she says, "The meds. You went to Matthew for them."
I glance at her in annoyance. "No," I say. "Matt just happened to get thrown into the mix. It doesn't matter."
"Doesn't matter?" she gasps. "Do you—"
"Would you rather I let you die?" I snap. "I can make a note of that, for next time."
She gapes at me wordlessly. Finally, she shakes her head. Her eyes, fixed on me, are filled with concern. This, coming from Miranda, is unnerving. "Eden," she finally says, her voice soft, echoing the sentiment in her eyes, "you have to be careful. Matthew.... You can't just play hard to get with him forever. It might work for a while. Until he gets bored. But—"
I really don't want to hear the rest. I stop and turn on her. Startled, she throws on the brakes, narrowly avoiding slamming into me. "Look," I say, "I don't need or want your advice. I'm not an idiot. I don't need you to tell me what I already know. Sometimes, you do things because you have to. Because you have to survive."
She stares at me, and my words echo in my mind. I've heard them before, but I can't place it at first. Then, suddenly, I think of Jonas. I think of Jonas, and here I am looking at Miranda. I don't want to see her and think of him at the same time. My insides are trying to claw their way out of me. My face flushes red. I can't untangle my knot of emotions enough to see any of them. I turn, and walk away. She follows me. I try to block her existence out of my world. I try to pretend that there never was a Miranda. But still she follows me, haunting my steps. What have I done to deserve the feel of her always behind me? As I walk toward home, I consider the possibility that I have been, in my previous version of life, evil. What if I was evil? What if I am still? Could a machine erase that from me? Mak
e me whole? Make me something new? Or is my path set forever into darkness?
At home, Jonas is sitting up in bed, talking with Apollon, who is still on the couch. Miranda comes in the door behind me, sees Jonas, and shoves past me to throw herself at him. He shrugs her affection off— something he does a lot, not just when he's sick. I try to ignore the little feeling of satisfaction that trickles through my veins. But teasing me, in the back of my head, is the fantasy that Miranda has never recovered from the illness, and we're a little sad at losing her, but... not all that much. I slump into the chair by the table and look away. Yes, I think. I am evil.