Connor’s face tensed even more. “I have nothing to gain by killing Joel.”
“Sure. You’ll just marry your daughter off instead because you have absolutely nothing to gain. Less messy that way. Convenient.” Fillion looked away as if bored with the conversation. “For those without daughters to pawn off, what’s the gain?”
“I advise you to hold back on such accusations with others.” Connor’s face darkened. “I am forgiving, as I know you are intentionally prodding my pride, but others are not. Son of Eden, you walk a dangerous line.”
Fillion glared back. “I don’t give a damn! I’m too much of a coward to take my own life, so murder me now and put me out of my misery.” Connor’s face drained of color, and Fillion looked away. He hadn’t meant to confess so much. He thunked the back of his head against the wall. Stupid. So very, very stupid.
They remained silent for a couple of minutes. Then Connor softly spoke up. “You know what Joel’s life is worth as you are part of the same value system.”
Fillion formed an arrogant smile to cover up his feelings. “There’s still the problem of heirs. Joel has three.”
“Indeed.” The Fire Element’s eyes remained steady, but Fillion noted the muscles in the man’s face tensed. Connor either didn’t know about the fake deaths, or he wouldn’t tell, or he was still trying to figure out Fillion’s unchecked response. Fillion didn’t know the man well enough to judge his reaction, either, so he decided to poke around in other ways. Mack had made no headway so far, so he’d question the Insider.
“How many people have Scrolls or personal forms of technology inside the dome?”
A ghost of a reaction formed on Connor’s face. “And how does this question connect to Joel’s murder?”
“Probably doesn’t. Just curious.”
“Did Hanley tell you there were personal forms of technology inside New Eden?”
“No. Why?”
“Same reason as you, curiosity.” When Fillion didn’t offer a reply, Connor placed his hands on his hips. “Now, entertain my questions. What is Hanley’s agenda?”
Fillion continued his bored expression. “Project success at all costs, even it means his friends die to achieve that goal. He knows Joel was murdered, and he refuses to do anything about it.”
“Pardon?” Connor drew his brows together. “How did he conclude Joel was murdered?”
“How did you?” Fillion flung the words back with a faint, cocky smile and a raised eyebrow. “For all I know you’re playing me and everyone else.”
The shop doors burst open and Willow stood in the door frame, golden sunlight spilling around her form. She wore her hair like a crown. Fillion stilled, noting that Willow’s complexion had changed to a sickly shade of white. As she wobbled toward Connor, she sucked in deep breaths. Connor ran over and cupped her face as he silently questioned her with his eyes. The image of fatherly tenderness and protection mystified Fillion, and he wondered if perhaps he had Connor figured all wrong.
“Norah does not fare well and has requested the presence of our families posthaste,” she said, a tear slowly trailing down her cheek. Willow gulped again and skittishly shifted on her feet, and Fillion realized she wanted to freak out and was holding it all in. Her eyes twitched as they snapped from one object to another. Like the very corners of the shop might manifest into something dark and dangerous. What was she afraid of? His heart sank, hoping it wasn’t him.
The blacksmith slowly dropped his hands. He steadied himself, then slumped, as his chin nearly touched his chest. Fillion was baffled by the displays of grief.
He had never been around a dying person, or a corpse. A memorial wasn’t held for Grandpa Corlan. Only his mom and dad went to the funeral home to pick up the ashes. Funerals were rare events anymore. People had online friends all over the globe and few in reality. So, death had become a tidy business in his world, an unseen event that piqued morbid curiosity but, in the end, was treated with the same detached insensitivity as everything else. People aren’t real—they’re bits of code, programmed commands, streaming snapshots of entertainment.
The older man sniffed, and rubbed his hands across his face. “Is Brianna aware?”
“No, My Lord. I came directly to The Forge.”
“Thank you, Willow Oak. I shall gather my family for Norah’s last words.”
She dipped into a curtsy as Connor trundled past her, closing the large double wooden doors to The Forge with heavy, awkward movements, seeming to forget about Willow and Fillion in the process. Fillion remained in the dark corner, unsure if he should reveal his presence.
The Daughter of Earth carefully studied the entrance for several seconds before facing the furnace. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and began to cry. Shaky fingers reached up and swiped at the tears in furious motions as she straightened her shoulders and stiffened her body. Then, she let out a low, guttural scream, arms straight at her sides with fists clenched. She whipped around to grab an iron poker and slammed it across the wooden workbench. Unsatisfied, she whacked the workbench again and again. The iron rod slipped from her hand and landed with a thud. It seemed to catch her off guard and she stumbled back a few steps, staring with disbelief at the object of her wrath. Willow gulped, as if desperate for air once again, and then draped across the table with a mournful groan.
God, she was killing him. Fillion couldn’t stay hidden a second longer.
“Willow,” he whispered, and took hesitant steps into the amber light. She jumped back with a shriek, knocking his great-grandpa’s chest onto the dirt floor. As he bent down to pick up the chest, Willow claimed the iron poker from the ground and aimed the point at his chest. Terror replaced all color in her face.
He placed the chest on the table and slowly raised his hands. He maintained an even gaze, willing her to focus on his face. When recognition hit her, Willow closed her eyes with a look of relief and placed a hand flat against her heart. The poker hit the dirt. Then anger flared.
“How dare you!” She pounded him with her fists, grunting with each hit. Fillion angled away and, as gently as possible, grabbed her arms, pinning them to her side. “Unhand me this instant!” she shouted, shaking her head wildly.
“No.”
She screamed in response, so he held her arms tighter against her side. Fillion tensed when she tried to yank herself free, clenching his jaw as he held his ground. “You want me to let you go? Stop freaking out.” He bent to become eye level and whispered, “Willow, look at me.” She shook her head again in a frenzied temper. So he took in a deep breath and shouted, “Damn it! Look at me!”
Her body stilled and she found his eyes. A moan escaped her lips as her face contorted in anguish. Tears streamed down her face. What the hell was going on? This was beyond grief. He was pretty sure of it. Panic began to rise in Fillion as every worst-case scenario flashed in his mind, especially when she began to mumble.
“It is gone. Destroyed. Everyone and everything I love is taken from me. The card is right, I am indeed cursed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My spinning wheel—” She sputtered as she tried to hold back another forming sob. “Someone violently destroyed my spinning wheel this morning.”
Fillion’s muscles tensed, but he eased his grip on her arms. She rubbed at the tender spots where his fingers had been, her eyes sweeping around the shop. “Did they hurt you ... in any way?” He was embarrassed, asking her this question in light of how he treated her last night, but he had to know.
Willow gently shook her head and then hugged her arms over her chest as the tears started up again. Anger he would understand, but she was in full blown fight-or-flight mode.
“Did you say a card was right? What card?”
With fidgety movements, she pulled a playing card from her pocket and held it up for him to see. There was a picture of a raven, but he focused on the words. He read the inscription again as rage hit his bloodstream. Remaining calm was necessary for Willow’s
sake, though. So, he focused on each word as he computed the info at rapid speed. If Connor used Hanley’s Death Card, whose card was this? His mind swore with yet another mystery, hoping it was tied to the others.
“This isn’t real. You know that, right? It’s just a ploy from whoever is leading this invisible faction to bully you.”
“My father’s death is real. Norah dying is real. The destruction of my spinning wheel is real.”
“No, I mean that you’re not cursed. It’s a terror tactic.”
She lowered her eyes and nervously wove a strand of hair on her finger. “Did my father die to redeem me? Or is Norah fulfilling this position? Or shall another?”
“Listen to me. No one has or will die to redeem you. It. Is. A. Lie. Any act of murder is on the murderer. You didn’t bring this on your dad, Norah, or anyone else.”
In a small voice, she asked, “How are you so certain?”
Firelight danced across her skin, flickered in her eyes, and turned her tears to liquid gold as they trailed down her face. He felt so powerless. As usual.
He stepped close, “Willow Oak Watson, I would never lie to you about something as serious as this. I’ll figure out who is doing this to your family and take care of it. Promise.” Her face softened and her lips parted as she held his eyes. “If I could go back in time and change how we met, how I treated you last night, I would. But I can’t. I don’t ever expect you to trust me. Or like me.” Breathless, he stammered, “Just know I’d ... I’d do anything for you.”
Time suspended as his confession breathed warmly between them. Wood crackled in the heat of the fire. He let his thoughts drift into the unknown. He was gone. Fallen off the edge of reason. Lost. Never to recover. And then he resisted the urge to roll his eyes, realizing how pathetically lovesick he appeared. God, how pathetic. He’d never hear the end of it from Mack.
Sunlight slivered into the shop as the door to The Forge creaked open and Laurel’s approaching voice piped through. Fillion and Willow jerked farther apart and faced the door.
“Please do not share with Leaf,” Willow whispered hurriedly. “I shall do so after Norah’s vigil.”
Fillion nodded. “Your secrets are always safe with me, Maiden.”
“Thank you, My Lord,” she replied quietly, watching the door as it opened further. “For everything. Even last night.” She turned her head toward her shoulder and lowered her eyes, and he knew she was blushing. “Your secrets are always safe with me as well.”
Diffidence hit him, and he needed to move. Fillion casually picked up his great-grandpa’s chest and sauntered toward the door as Leaf propped it open. “Running to my apartment for a sec,” Fillion said. “I’ll be outside if you need me for anything.”
Leaf nodded, squinting his eyes as he took in Willow’s shrunken posture and blotchy, tear-stained face. Laurel ran over and wrapped her arms around Willow’s waist with a frightened expression. Willow looked up at her brother and, in a jittery voice, began sharing about Norah.
Love has little to do with romance and everything to do with honor.
The Herbalist’s words played on repeat in Fillion’s heart. His thumb brushed over the wooden chest as he walked to his apartment.
The bed exhaled a quiet groan when he sat down. He opened the lid to the chest. The lump of coal crowded a corner. He thought of the young man who had left, sacrificing life as he knew it to help protect another. Fillion closed the lid, placed the chest under his bed, and left.
You are an entirely different character, son.
His father’s words taunted him. But, strangely, they started to make sense. He couldn’t be Fillion Nichols—social outcast and Internet sensation—while inside New Eden Township. A new reality awakened in him. In order to help the Watsons and to prove to Willow that he wasn’t Outside trash, he needed to join the game in all seriousness. This was his kingdom, his birthright. And there’d be hell to pay if anyone burned it to the ground before he did.
***
This body is not me; I am not caught in this body,
I am life without boundaries,
I have never been born and I have never died.
Over there the wide ocean and the sky with many galaxies
All manifests from the basis of consciousness.
Since beginningless time I have always been free.
Birth and death are only a door through which we go in and out.
Birth and death are only a game of hide-and-seek.
So smile to me and take my hand and wave good-bye.
Tomorrow we shall meet again or even before.
We shall always be meeting again at the true source,
always meet again on the myriad paths of life.
— From the Sutra, “Given to the Dying” in the Buddhist scripture Anguttara Nikāya, translated 1935-36 *
***
Dark corners always suited Fillion. But not readily having a clock to mark time was making him mental. He guessed two hours of silent vigil had passed as he drew his legs up and rested his cheek on his knees. Until today, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever spent so much time in complete silence with absolutely nothing to do. “Shoot. Me. Now,” he muttered under his breath. Being left to his thoughts for so long was never a good thing. The angst was choking him, and he felt trapped in a box as the walls pressed in, inching closer every second.
A yawn escaped and he turned his face into his arms and closed his eyes. They didn’t bring chairs to the Daniels apartment like the other families. Fillion had convinced Leaf to come straight to Norah, rather than return to the apartment where the spinning wheel still sat in shattered pieces. He’d let Willow explain that one later, as he promised. So he and Leaf were doomed to sit against a wall, allowing the women to occupy the available seats.
Back home it was every person for him or herself. If a girl walked in and no seats were available, then tough shit. Vintage notions of proper behavior annoyed him. No matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t logically wrap his head around the purpose. He would bet every woman in this room wanted to be considered equal to the men. But they expected special treatment? Perhaps honor wasn’t meant to be logical.
Yielding to the maddening boredom, he raised his head and scanned the room for the hundredth time. The Daniels residence looked similar to all other apartments he’d seen so far. Whitewashed cob walls brightened the space, reflecting light from the candles in wrought iron holders that hung around the room. Butter-yellow wax hardened into a drip off one of the saucers. To maintain privacy, the family had closed the shutters over the latticed windows. Large beams spanned the ceiling, carving rectangles. Fillion enjoyed the symmetry. The linear architecture made the chaos inside of him feel more organized.
What it did not help was the odor of unwashed bodies that assailed his nose. Herbal remedies meant to hide the body odor accomplished little. When did people bathe anyway? He hadn’t seen a tub anywhere. For the last two mornings, Fillion had used a spare bucket to pump water from the well near The Rows. He dunked his head into the frigid water to wash his hair, then cleaned himself as much as possible with a rag, and wrapped up by shaving with the primitive kit he received.
Not showering was weird. There was no antiperspirant either. Instead, he was given a pouch that was essentially baking soda mixed with masculine smelling herbs. Or he could use citrus. Brushing teeth involved a similar powder, applied to twigs with frayed ends. It was awkward and he finally gave up, laughing, knowing he looked stupid. Hygiene was one of his obsessions and constantly being around dirty, sweaty bodies made his gag reflex act up.
As instructed, he left his bucket of filthy, soapy water outside his door. Assigned villagers took the buckets to various biodome buildings throughout the day to water plants, or to the wetland room, which he had yet to see. Actually, he hadn’t seen anything other than this main biodome. The bucket returned to his doorstep right before the mandatory down time prior to dinner.
Apparently, once a week, only on his scheduled day,
he was to leave his compost bucket for pick-up. Gross. He could kiss his great-grandpa for teaching him woodworking so he wasn’t stuck with that shitty job. Fillion involuntarily shuddered, grimacing with the thought of how raunchy the air would be that day. He was starting to think that perhaps the sense of smell evolved out of these people for survival.
His eyes moved from objects to people, studying the grief-stricken faces. It was truly mysterious how everyone, including small kids, was willing to stop life and patiently wait for someone to die. It was seriously creepy. An awkward energy stifled the air of the room. Was it Norah’s impending death? Or the animosity that continued to brood between The Elements and their families? Or both.
The tedium of a clockless existence, time ticking away in a slow, torturous rhythm, was turning his compassion to insensitivity. He needed a distraction.
His thoughts rested on the attorney as his first victim. Jeff darted his eyes around the room with a nervous twitch. In fact, Jeff had been a nervous wreck since the moment they first shook hands. Had he cracked?
Skylar stoically leaned on a wall across the room, only his eyes betraying that he felt anything. The Son of Wind kept stealing glances at Leaf, concern burning in his eyes. Did Skylar know something about the spinning wheel? Or the faction perhaps? On Saturday, anger radiated off of Skylar like water hitting hot pavement. This morning, the signs of distress were still there.
Connor buried his head in his hands, rubbing his face every so often. His large shoulders would rise and fall as a new wave of grief lapped against his frame. Fillion couldn’t tell if Connor was simply putting on a good show.
Timothy barely blinked. A strange vibe, almost bordering on oppressive, pulsed all around him. Was he angry or in a state of shock? Fillion started counting, waiting for Timothy to blink, until he realized what he was doing. It was an internal game he often played with his father, who had the same body language glitch. Others were charmed into thinking Hanley was attentive and, therefore, cared. Bullshit.
Elements (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2) Page 18
