by Renée Jaggér
Those two should put their rage elsewhere. Maybe fight for their country instead of each other. The barman returned, and although Mary wasn’t fond of barmen in general, this one knew her as a regular. He gave her a long, tired look and sighed. “If I have to throw out one more man who doesn’t have the stones to go to war, I’m going to burn my own pub down,” he muttered.
Months ago, Mary had asked him why he hadn’t enlisted. A withered foot hidden in his boot was shown to her as an answer. “Can’t walk proper,” he had explained.
Mary gave the barman a smile. “Now, Rodger, if you burned down your pub, where would I go to drown my sorrows?”
Rodger did not seem amused tonight. Since Mary had been coming to his pub for some time now, the Way of Kings looked more like trust and loyalty than infatuation. “Ah, lass, we’re all drowning our sorrows the best way we can.”’
Mary nodded, knowing that Roger would soon step outside for a smoke. It was late, which these days meant the opposite of what it used to. Before the war, some pubs, like this one, were frequented into the deep hours of the night, but now they were as quiet as a church by nine o’clock.
Mary checked the clock behind Rodger. It was almost 8:45. She looked at the man, who was leaning toward her as he dragged a towel across the counter. His expression was filled with sorrow. “I got a letter.”
Mary’s eyes widened, and her heart dropped. “Getting a letter” these days only meant one thing. She gulped. “Your son?”
Rodger shook his head. “I ain’t never had a son. My daughter, my only one. She was a nurse. They didn’t say how.” He spoke in clipped sentences to mask the heavy emotion behind his voice.
Mary reached a hand across the counter and squeezed his. “I’m so sorry.”
Rodger turned away. “I want to have a burial for her, but they didn’t say nothing ‘bout a body.”
Mary stiffened. If I shift, I can go find out. She was not, however, keen on revealing her other forms to her friend Rodger. He busied himself with wiping a tankard. At last, he turned back to her and plunked the drinking cup on the wooden counter. “I’m closing up soon.”
Mary nodded and rose. She could hear the rain pattering on the windows and knew she would be making a dash for her next refuge. “I’ll be back. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” She gave him a tired and sad smile. “I know about loss.” What she kept to herself were her memories of seeing her comrades dying firsthand and of killing others to avenge them. “I feel as though it is coming to an end,” she told Rodger. “The war, that is.”
Rodger shook his head. “If only we knew.”
Mary did not know the exact day it would end, but she felt it was coming to fullness. My power gives me that sense, she thought, even if it had dwindled.
Mary paid and left. As she opened the pub’s door and stepped onto the street, she was nearly side-swiped by a staggering man. “Aw, sorry, Miss.” With those slurred words, he stumbled against the side of the building. Rain dripped from the sky, and the man was soaked.
A drunk idiot, Mary realized. Just my luck. She made to push past him, but a wicked smile appeared on his lips, and he stepped in front of her. “Where yuh going, Missy? I was just comin’ here to see ya.”
“I doubt that,” Mary returned in a cool tone. “Go home to your mum. Pub’s closing. It’s raining, too. Go get dry.”
The drunk man didn’t like her command. Before she could step around him, he grasped her arms in his grimy hands. Mary sighed. Great. Hope the Way of Kings works. I really don’t want to turn into an animal right now.
The man was just beginning to say something when she looked him hard in the eyes and commanded, “Let me go.”
His grip loosened, but he did not let go.
Mary gave him a smile. “If you don’t let go, I’ll give you something to cry to your mum about.” Insulting the people she managed control over wasn’t her normal practice, but at this point in the night and in the war, she was out of shits to give.
The man released her and grumbled under his breath. “Soddy lass, I’ll turn you black and blue.” He muttered a string of curses. His threat, however, proved empty as he sauntered his way down the street.
Mary breathed a sigh of frustration. No more drunk men staggering down the street, please, she requested as if speaking to a higher power. Sometimes, she imagined the gods sent her inconveniences just to toy with her. Mary adjusted her overcoat and stepped into the drizzle. As she did so, another figure came running toward her from across the street. The man was tall and was wearing both a hat and a coat.
“You all right, Miss?” he asked.
Mary stopped as he approached her. Not another one, she thought, stiffening. She noticed that he looked young. She nodded. “Just fine, thank you.”
“I saw that drunk. I was on my way over to give him a piece of my mind, but—”
“I took care of it,” Mary interrupted, smiling in amusement. She found it funny when others tried to rescue her, given what she had been doing for most of her life. At this moment, however, she found she didn’t mind. She looked up at the man, whose kind blue eyes watched her with concern from under his hat. He had well-defined facial features, and she guessed he had light-colored hair.
“I…uh, I would like to walk you home, if you don’t mind,” he said.
Mary’s brows rose. “Why on earth would I want that?”
The man looked taken aback, and he stuttered, “W-well, I-I suppose I thought that, uh...”
“Oh! Because that man might come back?”
“Well, yes,” the man responded. “I have this.” He withdrew an umbrella and held it over her. The rain had stopped, but the mist still hung in the air.
Mary laughed. She wanted to say, “Well, I’ll just turn into a wolf then!” but she knew that would sound odd and not at all plausible. Instead, she replied, “Oh, all right. Might be nice to have a man walk me home for once.”
The man looked bewildered by her cheerful reaction. I am no damsel, Mary thought, but she considered that perhaps this man would enjoy playing “knight” on her walk home. She took his offered arm. “My name is Mary. What’s yours?”
“Pleased to meet you, Mary,” the man replied. “Name’s Wilson.”
They rounded a street corner. Few streetlights were lit these days so as to minimize visibility from above. In case we get bombed in the night, Mary thought. Aloud, she said, “Tell me, Wilson, why is it you’re walking a young lady home and not killing a German?” She felt that her question was insensitive, but since he seemed well in body and young, she thought it was valid.
Wilson halted, and with his free hand, lifted one leg of his trousers to reveal a flash of metal. “Lost my leg last year.”
Mary balked, surprised she hadn’t noticed. Rodger limped when he walked. Why had she not noticed something similar in this man? I was distracted, she thought, and she wanted to kick herself for it.
Wilson continued, “I enlisted right away. Lost my leg at Dunkirk. Battle of Arras.”
Mary’s steps slowed. She had been at Dunkirk, though not in her human form. There had been too many people for her to remember Wilson, but... We were there at the same time. “So early on,” she murmured.
Wilson nodded and stiffened. “There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t wish I had my leg back and could go fight again.”
Mary squeezed his arm. “I know what you mean.” Sometimes, she wished she had the full power of the Morrigan back. Days passed where she wished more than anything that her shifting abilities and influence over people weren’t fading. Then she would remember how tired she had been by the end, how she’d felt darkness rising within her, threatening to take over.
“Now I live here, doing whatever I can,” Wilson added. They rounded another corner. “How far away do you live?”
“Just another block.” They walked the last block in silence, and Mary felt her body relaxing. She hoped that Wilson had relaxed too. He has to feel it around me, she
thought, remembering the warmth she could pour into other people.
“Wait, this is a hotel,” Wilson said when she stopped.
Mary nodded. Most of the hotels in England had been taken over for the medical personnel’s rooms since the hospitals were overrun. There were a few smaller places of accommodation left, though.
Wilson closed his umbrella and scratched his head. “Do you live here?”
Mary pulled her arm out of his and gave him a soft smile. “I live wherever I please.” She shrugged and grinned. “To be honest, I’ve spent most of my time at the pub.”
Wilson grinned back. “You and Rodger becoming friends?”
“You know Rodger?”
Wilson gave her a relaxed smile and put his hands in his overcoat’s pockets. “I grew up here. I’ve known Rodger for a long time.”
Mary’s expression grew solemn. “His daughter died.”
Wilson’s face fell. “I didn’t know that.”
“He got a letter today.”
Wilson removed his hat to reveal blond hair and brushed his hand through it. “Gee, I guess I should give him my condolences.”
Mary shrugged. “He didn’t want to talk about it very much.”
Wilson nodded. “Understandable.”
Mary lingered in front of him and observed him in a quiet manner. Wilson did the same. After a moment, he broke the spell by laughing nervously. “Thanks, Miss, for letting me walk you home.”
“Thank you for offering,” Mary replied, not taking her eyes off of him. She tilted her head. “Maybe I’ll see you again. In the pub?”
Wilson nodded and a slow smile formed. “If you’d let me, I’d like to take you somewhere nicer than that old pub.”
Mary feigned shock and pressed her hand to her chest. “And leave Rodger all alone? I don’t think so!”
Wilson laughed. “He can do without you for one evening. What do you say?”
Mary’s smile froze on her face. I want to say yes, she thought, but...the Morrigan, my power. I can’t. She stepped closer to Wilson and peered up into his face. He didn’t seem alarmed that she had moved so close to him. She smiled, but there was a touch of sadness in her eyes. “I would love to.” With a swift turn, she mounted the steps to the hotel’s entrance. She waved at him and called, “Seven o’clock tomorrow!”
“I’ll be here,” Wilson called back.
The café Wilson chose was one Mary had been to dozens of times, but she did not tell him that when it came into view. He had picked her up, and they had walked there. The day was less misty, but the paucity of people in the streets left a somber feeling hanging in the air.
They stopped in front of the empty café, which was, of course, closed. “This is where I would have taken you if the war was over,” Wilson told her in a solemn voice.
Mary’s brow rose. “Where are we going, then?”
Wilson shifted. “I hope you won’t think me improper, but I was going to take you to my flat and cook for you.”
Mary grinned. “That’s quite saucy of you,” she teased, knowing there wasn’t anywhere to go other than Rodger’s pub.
Wilson shrugged, his cheeks flushing.
Mary looped her arm through his. “Show me this bachelor's dwelling!”
Laughing, he escorted her down the empty street to a tall and shabby building. Mary did not balk at its rundown nature. Everything was falling apart and gray these days. His flat was small but well-kept. Mary wondered if he had cleaned it in preparation for the date. He made her tea first, then set to work making soup. He did not have to explain why he didn’t have much food. Supplies were low almost everywhere.
Mary sat in his den on a shabby sofa that felt like it might break in half at any moment. “It’s so empty out there, with so many people hiding,” she heard herself say in a far-off voice.
Wilson appeared from the kitchen with his hands in his trouser pockets and a somber expression. He followed Mary’s stare to the window of his flat, from which the dismal street could be seen. He only nodded as if any words he might have spoken were too heavy to leave his mouth. Moments later, Mary had a steaming bowl of soup before her. She thanked Wilson and dove in.
As she ate, she snuck peeks at him. He seemed to be doing the same. She liked his light hair and blue eyes. She liked that he looked kind, and that his movements were precise but gentle. She looked around his living room and noticed canvases leaning against the walls, as well as dirty paintbrushes and uncleaned pallets. “Ah, an artist,” she said, grinning. She leaned back, her cup of tea in hand. She folded her feet under her on the sofa. “I’ve always fallen for the artists.”
Wilson flushed. “I hope not too many.”
Mary’s brows rose, and she waved a dismissive hand. “I haven’t had time for dalliances.” It was a true statement, but she did not elaborate about why. Having a goddess’ power doesn’t allow for romance, she thought, then stiffened. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. Something egged her on anyway. She hoped Wilson didn’t notice the shift in her.
He nodded at her previous statement. “I understand. I haven’t taken a girl out since…well, it’s been a long time.”
“You mean, you haven’t brought a girl home?” she teased him.
Wilson shook his head. “I’m pretending we’re out right now and not sitting in my flat.”
Mary straightened and leaned forward. “Do you play cards?”
Wilson’s gaze met hers. “I do. Can’t say I’m very good. Do you?”
Mary clapped her hands. “Do you have some? I do love to play cards.”
Wilson laughed softly and produced a deck of playing cards. “What will it be, my lady?”
Mary took the cards from him and spread them out on the floor since there was no table. “Tell me, Mr. Wilson, why haven't you found a nice girl to spend your time with now that you’re home from the war?”
Wilson did not match her teasing tone. He draped his arms over his knees. “I suppose I feel it’s too casual a thing to be doing during a war, and besides, most girls don’t want to tumble with a man with a metal leg.”
Mary looked up from her cards and locked her eyes on his. “Girls can be stupid.”
Wilson laughed at first, but then his expression became grim again. “My brother died three months ago.”
Mary’s hands froze; she had been dividing up the cards. “I’m sorry.”
Wilson shrugged. “You kind of expect it now, you know? Still hurts.” He sighed. “Hurts like hell.”
An ache formed in Mary’s chest. “Do your parents live close by?”
Wilson nodded. “They have a small farm. I moved here just before the war, thinking it would give me a taste of freedom.” He offered her a weak smile. “I suppose I figured living closer to young people and pubs and such would satisfy my rebellious youth. The war did that instead.”
Mary stopped touching the cards. “Do you see them often?”
Wilson nodded again. “Once a week at least. They want me to come back, but...I can’t. Not yet, anyway. My brother haunts that place. We grew up there. It’s too painful.”
Mary understood what he meant.
Wilson tilted his head. “So, tell me about yourself, Mary. Where are you from?”
“England,” she replied.
Wilson chuckled. “Okay, England. Where in England?”
Mary swallowed. “Chester.”
“Ah, the North.”
Mary nodded stiffly. Next, he might ask her about her family or why she was closer to London or any number of other things she didn’t want to answer. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but she cut him off, “Did you ever get your brother’s body?”
Wilson’s face grew solemn once more. He shook his head. “He was too,” he swallowed a lump in his throat, “too battered. Too broken. There was almost nothing left. We were sent his uniform. Say, can I take you somewhere? It’s a bit strange, but it might make me feel better.”
Without asking where, Mary nodded.
>
It began to drizzle when they reached the graveyard.
Patrick Wilfred Thompson, the gravestone read. Beloved son and brother. 1921-1943.
Mary gulped.
“We didn’t have a body, but we had a gravestone made anyway. We wanted to at least feel like there was some respect paid to him.” Wilson made the sign of the cross over his chest. In a choked voice, he added, “May he rest in peace.”
Mary shifted, her feet dragging in the cold mud of the graveyard. The trees were dripping water on the gravestones. She glanced at the overcast sky; she would not see stars tonight. She pressed close to Wilson, feeling the cold seeping in. Before she knew he had moved, his arm was around her.
“He was so young,” she murmured. She glanced up at Wilson. “Younger than you?”
Wilson nodded, and Mary was glad it was rude to ask a lady how old she was since she did not want to tell him she had looked this same age during the First Great War. As she thought this, a black figure fluttered out of a tree above and landed on Patrick Thompson's gravestone. Not now, she thought at the crow. She glanced up into the tree. There were dozens more. No, she thought with alarm. Not now. Don't follow me.
What danger was lurking that they had gathered here? At first, Mary hoped they had gathered simply because of the number of dead, but as she turned to look at the gate they had come through, her heart lurched.
The large black wolf stood in the gateway, watching her.
Before Wilson’s eyes could follow to where her attention was fixed, she turned around. The crow on the gravestone had vanished. Wilson didn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t need to see the wolf, she thought. We have to get out of here. She pulled at his arm. “Say, we’ve been to your place. Let’s go to mine. It’s awfully cold.”
Wilson snapped out of his somber recollections. He looked surprised, but then he gave Mary a weak smile. “I’d like that.”
