by Parker Foye
"There's something of mine she wants. I hid it. She can't be having it." Quinn's gaze slid to Briar. "You neither. You can have her money instead. That weren't a lie."
The notion of Quinn in his lighthouse having anything of enough value to tempt Dupont from the city made Briar raise his eyebrows. He tried to think what might hold that kind of value and yet keep Quinn in his beautiful ruin. Something he couldn't convert to cash? Something he'd stolen, too hot to move? But Quinn couldn't leave Lastings and riches didn't visit. Briar frowned but dismissed his curiosity, albeit temporarily; the nature of the item didn't matter so much as how it would help him find Dupont. Lena had told Briar he needed Quinn. He wanted that to be true.
"Could we set a trap with the—the item?" Briar asked.
Quinn looked unconvinced, or an emotion in that general area. He'd become difficult to read over the years. "She can't be having it," he repeated.
"She won't, but we'll need to be convincing. Could you pretend she might get the—it?" Jewels? Cash? An artefact of some nature? Short notice, but perhaps they could substitute an imitation to fool Dupont.
"Can't fake it," Quinn muttered. He'd been chewing the inside of his lip and blood spotted his pout.
Before Briar could respond, Quinn shoved abruptly to his feet. Only training kept Briar from flinching. His fingers inched toward his gun as Quinn disappeared into the kitchen. Had Quinn gone for the knife? When Quinn returned, he brought a blanket that he dropped unceremoniously onto Briar.
"Stay," he said.
"But it's barely gone ten—"
"Sleep, Briar Augustin."
As much as Briar protested, Quinn refused to say anything but "Later." Then he disappeared up the spiral staircase, moving light as a secret. Briar considered continuing his thus far fruitless search for Dupont, or contacting Adrienne or the Sheriff or Lena, but all roads seemed to lead to the lighthouse and Quinn. Theirs was a conversation scarcely begun.
A nap seemed pleasant enough. His nights had been filled with uneasy dreams of late. At least he'd be well-rested, for whatever came next.
TEN
When they opened the mines, a man died. He left the dark and walked into the sea, so the story went. Briar remembered Quinn telling him, delighted by the tale. They were ten at the time, or eleven at most, curled up together by the fire one night while Quinn's daddy was out fishing. Quinn's mama hadn't cared for anything but the bottle for a long time by then.
"Did they find him after? The man?" Briar asked. He'd read books, the kind his mama didn't like. The straw dolls scared him but the small black type of library books held no fear. "Was he bloated and gross? Maybe one of the witches went looking and found him. "
"Witches can't go in the water," Quinn had said, confident. "Everyone knows that."
"Sounds like bullcrap."
Quinn rolled over and headbutted Briar gently on the chest in reprimand. "They're scared of falling into the deep dark."
"Deep dark is mining. Everyone knows that. And mines're where magic come from."
Quinn sometimes went quiet, and quieter, until finally his voice quit altogether for anything but saying he was fine, but at that time, before the happily crackling fire, quiet meant thinking. He smoothed his hand along Briar's arm and tangled their fingers together. His webbing pressed over Briar's knuckles. "Deep dark is the water. Mines are just—just power. Ain't nothing to fear from power. The water'll take us all, Briar Augustin. And the water ain't never give nothing back."
Briar had thought about the bodies and the dolls heaved over the wrecking rocks, and how Quinn ran to the shore whenever his mama turned away. He thought about how sometimes Quinn had to wear bandages on his hands because his mama had got at his webbing with the nail scissors again. The kids at school said Quinn had salt in his heart. They'd thrown rocks, until Quinn swallowed one. He'd puked, after, half from laughing at Briar's appalled face.
Even then, Briar knew he would love Quinn Lawrence until salt dried him to a husk like those fellas in the pyramids.
By the fire, he dared himself to press a secret kiss into Quinn's hair. He knew Quinn was wrong. The sea had given Quinn back, hadn't it?
ELEVEN
Briar smelled smoke. He rolled to his feet. In an old building with only one exit, smoke could kill as easily as flames. Moving quickly through the rooms of the lighthouse, disoriented to find light where he expected darkness in his sleepy state, Briar stopped in the kitchen. The little room barely deserved the name, in truth, but Quinn danced between the open-face stove and the beer-barrel sink like he'd grown used to moving in the space. This particular dance was with a still-smouldering piece of bread, held on the tines of a long-handled fork, as he opened the windows. Briar took a breath to steady his thumping heart. The smoke sighed out of the windows and began to clear.
"That burned more than I might've guessed," Briar said, after clearing his throat to warn Quinn of his presence. He needn't have bothered. Nothing in Quinn's stance tensed or eased to show his changed awareness of Briar. Of course, he'd known already. Quinn had always seen more than Briar knew.
"I forgot," Quinn said, eyeing the ruined toast with bewilderment. He dropped the toast and fork into the sink, then nudged Briar with his elbow toward a plate with a charred slice of bread and an open jar of cloudy honey set on the short counter. "Eat. Then I'll show you what Dupont wants."
"Show?" Before insisting Briar sleep, Quinn had been reluctant to tell Briar what Dupont wanted. The day before, Quinn had wanted him to leave Dupont alone entirely. "You've changed your mind?"
Quinn glanced away, his lips going thin. "Dreams," he said.
"The good kind?"
"Said to let you help."
Briar decided not to question which of Lastings' many shadows had visited Quinn and turned him in Briar's favour. He'd learned a very long time ago that Quinn's dreams were not his to understand. Leaning against the counter, he took a bite of his bread. They'd once had a rhythm, he and Quinn, but he kept missing steps. He half-expected Quinn to wander off again, and was surprised when Quinn circled the little kitchen, then pulled himself up to sit on the sink facing Briar.
While Briar had been napping, Quinn had changed into another shirt—pale salmon, like the fashionable boys in the city—and pressed trousers, though still with bare feet. He had a tie threaded through his belt loops, as if he knew he should wear one but wasn't certain what to do with it. There was a small nick on his jaw from shaving. He swung his legs against the sink, and Briar had to force himself to look away from the pale webbing between Quinn's toes.
"Do I have something on my face?" Briar asked, when Quinn seemed content to sit and swing and stare.
Quinn snorted, his nose wrinkling. His lip curled and showed the serrated line of his teeth. "Just your daddy's nose," he said. He snapped his teeth in a grin. "Same as always."
Briar had been stabbed once. He remembered the sensation acutely in that moment. No one in the city knew his father's face. In the city, he was a man without a history, a knife left to grow dull in the drawer. In the promise of Quinn's hands, he became a blade.
He swallowed. "Nice of you to say."
"You should follow your daddy's nose home."
This again.
"I'm getting mighty confused here, Quinn. Do you want me to stay or to go? I thought your dreams said I could help," Briar said. The offer felt like broken glass, but he had to ask. Had to know if his heart was going to go on swinging like a screen door, or if he should lock it tight.
Quinn's grin faded. He jumped from the counter and shifted his weight from side to side, unsteady as a sinking ship, before regarding Briar from the corner of his eye.
"I want you to stay. So you should go, like you did before."
"That isn't why—"
Quinn waved off Briar's half-formed protest. "Dreams didn't say nothing about talking."
As much as Briar wanted to press the issue, he didn't. One more sunset until Noah and his guns came to Lastings—Briar needed
to save his fight for that. For Dupont. He watched as Quinn wrapped a thick scarf around his neck and tied his makeshift belt tighter, then Briar followed him outside. The paper in his pocket was becoming soft for all the unspoken words Briar pressed into it with his fingertips.
"Where are we going?" Briar asked.
Quinn pointed. "That way, a little while."
Toward whatever Quinn's "it" was, then.
They took the coastal path, hugging the shore in a jagged line, heading away from the lighthouse and Lastings. Wind blew in Briar's face until his eyes watered and his cheeks stung. He strained to keep balance over the unsteady rocks. Ahead of him—always ahead of him—Quinn had his hands splayed slightly at his sides, his hair whipping about, as he loped inexorably forward on bare feet. Whatever Quinn's dreams had told him, they hadn't insisted on social niceties. Briar wondered what Lena would've made of Quinn's manners, before deciding they wouldn't care; Quinn had always walked his own way, and his way was Lastings' way. Worse or better or otherwise. Quinn could be a town emissary himself, one day, if the sea ever felt like chatting.
Briar thought about the ghost that had been afraid of the water. He walked in that ghost's shadow, and saw glimpses in the way Quinn faltered from the waves when they stretched toward him. He staggered despite never missing a step, and each time Briar's soul lurched at the wrongness.
They went on that way for an hour, Briar watching Quinn, with not another soul seen and wind whipping all the while, until Briar couldn't anymore. He stopped at a patch of sand much like any other, scattered with driftwood and blustery with fret, and stuck his hands in his pockets. He called out.
"My feet hurt from watching you, Quinn, do you not want to stop?"
Quinn's shoulders slumped, and he stumbled to a halt, as if someone had suddenly dropped a great weight on him. He cracked his neck from side to side and muttered something the wind stole, then turned around.
"Are you sure? Here?"
Briar must have had salt in his ears. He frowned. "Pardon me?"
"Here." Quinn jabbed a finger toward the surf as it dragged back out to the horizon, seeming to slow a little under Quinn's attention. As the water flowed back, it revealed sand dappled with shells. Almost pretty. Briar would have appreciated it more if he could've felt his face. "You're certain?"
"I don't understand," Briar said.
Resuming muttering under his breath, Quinn leaned over and rolled his trousers up around his calves. He'd sewn small strips of fabric on the inside, and used them to secure the rolls of his trousers in place, fastening the strips to buttons along the outer seams. Quinn flexed his toes, stretching out the webbing between them. His feet were bony and delicate, one marred with a raised red scar Briar didn't recall. Quinn curled his toes into the sand. He picked at the webbing between his finger and thumb and looked out to sea, his eyes hooded.
Briar had the unsettling sensation of missing the last step on a staircase. He inched toward Quinn.
"Can you explain what we're doing here?" he asked, trying to be reasonable about it. "I thought we came for Dupont."
"We did," Quinn said, proving nothing would be reasonable in Lastings. "Got to check something first."
"In the— Out there?" But you're scared, Briar didn't say.
A nod. Then movement, all at once, as Quinn yanked his scarf and shirt over his head with enough strength that the collar button popped off and pinged Briar in the cheek. Quinn tossed the shirt at Briar and took off running for the water, like his mama had emptied her bottle and was looking to throw it. Briar wrestled the shirt out of his eyes, and turned in time to see Quinn dive into an oncoming wave, and go under. Briar felt the cold waves break over his own skin and grip his lungs as sure as if he'd dived himself. Fear sweat prickled his hairline, only to be whisked away by the wind.
Quinn stayed under.
The wind didn't relent. If anything, it grew angry at Quinn's absence, and Briar wrapped his hands in Quinn's scarf, still warm from his skin, to ward against the sudden chill. He licked salt from his lips. His heart beat in his ears. Three hearts, they'd said in the story.
Quinn stayed under.
They hadn't said anything of the strength it must have taken. The conviction in one's own righteousness, burning like a solitary candle in the night. And to then go on walking about like a man as he did, without winnowing back into the creature his mother would have made of him? What strength must that have taken? In muscle and bone and mind.
Quinn stayed under. Briar drowned with him.
The first hand to breach the waves had black claws. Two heads followed, pressed together in a kiss of sharp teeth and sharper grins. Briar dropped Quinn's clothes and dashed into the waves, soaking himself to the shins, already reaching out when a webbed hand reached for him in turn. He clasped Quinn's wrist like warriors used to do and heaved him from the surf, wrapping his other arm beneath Quinn's armpits and across his torso, cradling him, Quinn's back to Briar's chest. Briar tugged him farther onto the beach, then wrapped Quinn's scarf back around his neck and spread the ends over Quinn's chest, rubbing with his free hand. Freezing water seeped through Briar's shirt but he welcomed the shivers. They meant he stood on Lastings shore with Quinn in his arms.
The mer had sunk partially back beneath the steady waves after kissing Quinn, stopping with everything below their eyes underwater. Their stringy, dark green hair covered their face like seaweed tangled over a corpse, but when they blinked Briar saw their second set of eyelids, luminescence flaring briefly before they blinked it away again. Quinn had said only merfolk were built for the deep dark of Lastings' sea, being born in it as they were. Briar had never seen one before.
Quinn twisted in Briar's embrace and leaned sideways, spitting a spray of water as he cleared his lungs. He coughed, a barking noise, then wiped his mouth and face with the end of his scarf, glancing at Briar as he did. He winked. Quinn only had one set of eyelids. There was blood on his lips, smeared where he'd failed to wipe it away. Briar wanted to lick it off.
"Are—are you well?" Briar managed to ask. He felt lightheaded. The image of the mer's kiss replayed behind his eyes. "Let me— I should get your shirt." He'd dropped it somewhere.
"It's fine," Quinn said, waving him off as he straightened up and faced the mer again. He made an eerie noise, like one whale calling to another, and gestured, rolling his wrist and flicking his fingers in a series of flowing movements. Like they might look underwater.
The mer responded by waving their black claws in a similar series of movements, and finishing with a shrill whistle. They seemed startled by the noise as it bounced back to them, and ducked their head completely beneath the water. Their tailfin was an almost searing blue that lingered in Briar's vision like sunspots, long after another wave erased even the ripples to say they'd been there at all. He tightened his arms around Quinn, which made Quinn look over his shoulder.
"They know where it is," he said, seeing as Quinn had never started a conversation he couldn't muddy.
Briar might've asked who, or what, or where, but he could smell brine and pennies, and he didn't see as to how questions had got him much of anywhere in Lastings worth boasting about. He nodded, instead.
"Shall we go there, then?" he asked, rubbing his hands up and down Quinn's chilled arms. Wind blew cold air around his legs, from where he'd strode into the sea for Quinn, but his own needs seemed less important.
"We could."
"We don't have to, if you don't want—"
"We should go," Quinn insisted. He'd become stiff as coffin wood beneath Briar's hands. Dried out by the salt in him.
Briar clenched his jaw. When the waves next brushed the toes of his boots, he asked the water for patience.
"Quinn Lawrence, you don't never have to do nothing you don't want," Briar said at last. He rested his chin on Quinn's bony shoulder and moved his jaw from side to side, hoping to bruise. "I know you know that. But, just in case, this is me remembering for you."
"You been remembe
ring for me in the city this whole time?"
Briar didn't lie. "No. Spent a long time working on forgetting, so much you couldn't have paid me to remember what I was trying to forget. Then I came back." Two sunsets and Briar had nearly forgot he was a visitor to Lastings. An incomer. When Quinn mentioned the city, he might have been talking about another life.
Quinn snapped his teeth together and huffed a breath through his nose, then relaxed into Briar's arms all at once. Their hold became an awkward but wonderful embrace. Quinn jostled his shoulder beneath Briar's chin and slid their gazes together from the corner of his eye.
"It's at where the witches came from."
Briar bit back a hiss. He couldn't help himself. He moved his hands to grip the slopes of Quinn's hips, clammy under his soaked trousers, then broke away to gather Quinn's shirt from where he'd dropped it. Shaking off the fabric gave him an excuse for the tremors in his hands.
The dry dark of witches was something different to the deep dark beneath the water. Not better or worse, only another avenue of retreat from the future that had once circled Lastings like a noose. It had been the cities that twisted it into something more suited to midnight stories and trepidation. Magic lived in the veins of the earth, witches said, but companies had come to Lastings to bleed it dry; they'd burrowed mines into the land like ticks, as people picked and plucked until the earth had nothing more to give up.
They'd started looking to mine people, after that.
Witches had left spells on the mines, people said. Curses, according to some. Briar hadn't been curious or foolish enough to check—or, in truth, Quinn hadn't wanted to check, and Briar had better ways to spend his days than go nosing in the dark alone. Briar wondered if Lena would tell them the truth as the witches knew it.
Deciding the shirt would do, Briar held it open for Quinn. "Come on, then."
