For the Clan

by Archer Kay Leah

  Why did she always have to be right?

  "Fine." Jace kicked stones towards the fire pit. "I'll do it later. I've got a meeting with the guys first."

  "Jace—"

  "No, really. I'll do it. It's not an excuse." He kissed Cayra's cheek. "Promise."

  "You'd better," she said as he turned away, "'cause I know where you sleep and how much you snore. Beware the pillows."

  Raising his hand, Jace continued walking to the dining area in the east corner of the camp. The rickety trestle tables were still wet, the grain of their dark wood faded in places, and several were positioned haphazardly, moved during the rainstorm.

  Once more, he was the last one to arrive.

  Hart stopped pacing. "Finally. Thought maybe the missus kidnapped you or something." He winked and clapped Alim's muscular arm. "Because who wouldn't want to be kidnapped by someone so—"

  Baret whistled, the shrill tones eliciting more than one wince. "Seriously, Hart? Zip it. No wonder you don't have a girlfriend. You're an idiot."

  "And screw you, too," Hart sneered.

  "Can we just get on with this?" Alim asked, gesturing to Seth. "We've got to be somewhere, remember? Otherwise who you think's protecting anyone once Dali and Emma are off shift?"

  "I digress." Hart faced Jace. "Fearless leader, what's going?"

  Jace leaned over the table in front of him, fingers grazing the scratched wood. "Hopefully the governtary. They're comfortable enough to come around these parts again, so let's not wait until they get settled to talk about what we're going to do."

  "You don't think they're moving in, becoming neighbours, do you?" Hart's eyebrows drew together. "In that case, we oughta get out now while the getting's good."

  Alim punched Hart's shoulder. "Of course that's what you'd say."

  "What?" Hart asked. "I like being alive. Is that a crime?"

  "No, but leaving isn't necessary… necessarily." Baret shook his head. "One jet and some soldiers doesn't mean they're setting up a facility."

  Jace crossed his arms. "Right. Just thinking we should revise some plans. Consider our options."

  "Consider our options? They're the same as they've always been," Hart argued, counting on his fingers while he spoke. "One: we run the hell out of here. Two: try some sad attempt to kick their ass with shit we don't have. Three: let them pick us off, one by one." He nodded, his expression pinched. "Have to say I'm a big fan of one. Packing sucks, but dying's worse."

  "Yeah, I know, but what if there was more?" Jace asked.

  "Like what? Someone we could hook up with? Trade secrets and get a better tactical plan?" Alim shrugged. "I don't know. We know there's rogues around. They're willing to take the governtary out. They're also not interested in making friends. Maybe we should form some group, even if just to stave them off if they get too ambitious."

  Baret locked his hands behind his neck and rocked on his heels. "So I guess the proposal is that we get ourselves together, form a proper militia like the rogues, and fight back."

  "Do you hear yourselves?" Hart shouted. "You don't know who's involved in any of it. We'd probably turn out like the losers that died when your buddy showed up. Because I tell you, Jace, those guys didn't have a chance. They were fried, and I don't mean in the grenade sense. I mean in the blood fai—Ven sense."

  I can't believe I'm going to say this…

  "Maybe we should talk to Roan about it," Jace suggested. "Ask him what he knows."

  The other men exchanged worried glances.

  "Jace…" Seth started.

  "Yeah, I don't think so, boss." Hart scowled. "Even if he didn't scare the bejesus out of everyone, he's not the sharing type. Creepy, though, just watching us and not saying hello or asking our names. He freaks me out. He's the silent type. Silent but deadly."

  Baret patted Jace's shoulder. "I'd love to kick governtary ass, but while it's all good in theory, it's really not that easy. At least not yet. We'd have to see someone succeed first, and the groups around here… I don't know if they're good enough yet. Nice idea, though."

  Alim glanced behind him. "And as much as I love discussing kicking ass, we done? Time for us to head out."

  "Yeah, we're done." Jace sighed. And I've got something worse to do.

  The group disbanded. The men walked away in different directions, leaving Jace to stand alone, gazing at the dozen dusty vehicles parked on the northern edge of the settlement. If the clans were good at anything, it was being on the run.

  If only they could stop.

  Jace forced his gaze away to study the trees in the distance. He imagined the forest had been larger once, and the sky had been a brighter blue—not the sickening grey haze he'd known his whole life. Behind him, children shouted and women laughed, reminding him of the old stories his father used to tell him, before Jace found out how vile the world was. Even after the world losing its collective mind over little pieces of paper, numbers in machines, and the sad state of their most vital element, fairy tales prevailed. Legends survived. Reality had collapsed into despair, but hope remained locked away in the words of stories without any discernible origin. They were immortal.

  Why couldn't he remember the simplest word of even one of them?

  Jace rapped his knuckles on the table, staring at nothing. Today, more than the other days since coming to terms with his father's death, he needed the shred of hope his father's stories offered. Although the worst part was, he had more faith in himself rallying men for a fight than talking to Roan. The governtary was an enemy, and fighting them could end in freedom for the clans. But with Roan…

  It was a battle Jace wasn't ready for.

  What story could help him now? How many heroes were ripped from their loved ones, tortured by remorse, then reunited with them only to find they could never be together again? A wife. Hatred. The bitter truth. All of it separated Jace and Roan into two worlds that just happened to collide by nothing more than chance.

  And this was the world everyone fought so hard to have. The more we should've drawn together, the more we drove ourselves apart. Had Roan been anyone else, the governtary would've left him alone. Had we lived in a metropolis, they could've let us be.

  Foggy memories crept around Jace's thoughts. Amid all the things he couldn't remember, there was one day he wouldn't ever forget.

  Maybe that was the answer.

  "For now," Jace told himself. The past was all he had; the only thing they shared. It would have to do.

  The walk through the camp took him longer than usual, his feet dragging. If Cayra could see him, she'd demand he stop being melodramatic.

  Cayra.

  He still hadn't told her who Roan really was.

  And I have no idea how she's going to take it.

  By the time he reached Roan's tent, Jace wondered if he could get through a conversation consisting of more than a few words. After a ragged breath, he stepped between the canvas flaps and stopped, staring at the back of Roan's black shirt.

  Roan stood at the table against the back wall, working on something Jace couldn't see. Metal clattered as Roan tossed small hand tools onto the table then pounded a flat disc with a hammer.

  The pristinely made bed on one side of the tent stole Jace's attention. On the floor at the end of the thin mattress, a green wicker basket contained the rest of Roan's military uniform, folded neatly. The other side of the tent was bare except for the empty gun holster hanging from the corner.

  "Are you going to say something, or is this strictly a staring thing?" Roan's gloved hands stopped moving, the hammer paused in midair.

  Jace parted his lips, but no words came out.

  Roan laid the hammer on the table. "Say something, Jace," he said softly. "Anything."

  The words tumbled out before Jace could stop himself. "I need you to stop hating me," he whispered.

  Silence filled the space between them.

  Roan slumped forward. When he pulled himself up, he turned his head, his red eyes uncovered. "I can't stop
what I don't feel." He spun around slowly and leaned back against the table. "I don't hate you. I never did."

  Relief hit Jace harder than he would've expected. "But then why—"

  "I wasn't ready for you. This was the last thing I expected. Hell, not even the last, not after I gave up hoping." Roan shook his head. "I don't know what I'm doing. Floundering. Drowning. Living. It's not—I don't—I'm just…" He held out his hands, palms up, as if begging for an answer. "I don't even know who I am anymore."

  I know the feeling. Jace lowered his gaze. More than once he'd wanted to tell Cayra the same. And every time, he hadn't, convinced she wouldn't understand why without knowing the part of his past he was terrified to explain.

  "Take a walk with me," Jace said, trying to think of anything but letting Cayra down.

  "What?"

  "Like we used to. It's why I came over here: to see if we could talk without killing each other." Jace smirked. "We'll call it a perimeter check if it makes you feel better."

  Roan arched his eyebrow. "Wouldn't be the first time you've used that excuse."

  "Some habits die hard. So?"

  "Yeah. Just let me—" Roan grabbed his glasses from the table and slipped them on. "You lead."

  It took everything for Jace not to rip the glasses off and throw them into a pile of wet ash as they walked through the camp. Of it all, Roan hiding behind the plastic rims annoyed Jace the most. What Roan was didn't matter. The stares of the men and women of the clan didn't help. The way they glared at Roan embarrassed Jace, tempting him to tell them to shut their eyes or fetch a blindfold if it was too difficult to show respect.

  "Don't worry about it," Roan muttered as they entered the field on the other side of the camp. "I'm used to it."

  "Used to what? Don't know what—"

  "The staring. The whispers. They put you on edge. You can't stand it."

  "And why should I? You shouldn't, either."

  Roan jammed his hands into the back pockets of his pants. The thin chain hanging from his belt rattled. "Is what it is. Won't ever change. People are the same everywhere."

  Jace trod carefully through the field, scanning the edge of the forest for moving bodies. "You're talking about the governtary, aren't you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Roan." Jace clasped Roan's elbow, stopping both of them. "Seriously. What did they do to you?"

  "You don't…" Roan looked away. "Just things. Think of the most ludicrous things, and they probably did it. I don't see why you have to know anything else."

  "Because I give a damn, that's why. You were family. You would've stayed family if I could've just…" Jace sighed. "Just tell me. You remember what it was like doing this when we were kids? We'd tell the truth. That was the whole point of sneaking off. We didn't lie to each other. We didn't have to keep secrets. We didn't have to hide anything. That doesn't have to change."

  "You can be damn annoying. You know that, right?"

  "Says the obstinate one."

  Roan took slow steps towards the trees. In the silence, Jace believed he intended to say nothing.

  "They made me their slave," Roan said, hanging his head as they entered the forest. "Made me do things, some of them for bad people. They think Vens are brilliant. If they can control us, we're better than any gun, bomb, or even standard issue biowarfare. They've placed us with scientists who are paid to ignore the code of ethics." He snorted and tossed a stick at an oak tree. "Even their doctors are in on it. Hippocratic oath, my ass. They burn it as soon as they get on payroll. They're paid to kill us slowly. Funny they're still called doctors. I'd have pegged them for terrorists."

  Roan held out his hands, his wrists touching above his gloves. "I spent a lot of time like this. Cuffed any time I was out of my cell or around other people. The bastards weren't even humane enough to provide gloves most of the time, so all that sensitivity would screw with me. For not really understanding how magic works, they certainly know how to protect themselves." He dropped his arms. His quiet voice sounded weary as he continued. "Injections, chemical cocktails, surgery, electroshock, thermal experimentation. Then they'd send me out to do their business, taking lives. Capturing people like me. Ruining the world, one poor sucker at a time."

  "And here I am worried about the stares." Jace glanced at the syrup taps in the tree trunks. To think of Roan strapped in a chair, writhing in agony at the hands of someone who was supposed to save lives… His brain went numb, language reduced to nothing but a small collection of words, most of them no longer than four letters.

  "You know what the worst thing was?" Roan slowed to a stop under a twisted willow tree.

  Jace stopped, leaving two feet of space between them. "What?"

  Roan smiled sadly. "Being without you and living with the guilt. Knowing I was the reason we were ambushed—all because I was born a freak to a freak mother."

  When Jace opened his mouth to protest, Roan held up his hand.

  "I've had a long time to think about what I could've done," Roan said. "You never should've been put into that position, and I'm sorry. I could've done more. I should've done more. I didn't fight hard enough." He neared Jace. "And you can apologize to me all you want, but you need to stop. It wasn't your fault."

  A chill danced over Jace's skin. While they didn't squash his guilt, Roan's words smothered the argument he would've made, vying for his role in ripping their lives apart. Just as Jace caught his breath, Roan removed his sunglasses. In the silence, the only sound was the sweeping of the willow fronds across the grass and fallen leaves.

  For a moment, they were sixteen all over again, innocent and in love.

  On impulse, Jace took Roan's hand. "I never stopped thinking about you."

  "You've clearly gotten over me," Roan said softly. "Can't ignore that you're roped up in a marriage. A pretty good one, by the looks of it."

  Jace stepped closer until they stood toe-to-toe. "Just because I got married doesn't mean I stopped feeling. I didn't. I just buried it. I couldn't deal with my father when I was stuck on you. I couldn't deal with the guilt. I was a mess, wanting to run after you even if it meant getting myself killed." He shook his head, remembering all the things he wished he didn't; truths he would give almost anything to bury or buy back in order to do them over. All those times he'd blamed Kai and Vera, attacking them with spiteful words… "And Cayra. Oh god, Cayra. I couldn't let it go. I had to keep it in, to swallow back every bit of you still haunting me. I needed to give her a good life—a fair one where she wasn't competing with a ghost. She's had enough to deal with."

  Jace caressed the tender skin under Roan's eye with his thumb. "And yes, I love her. It kills me just how much. But I loved you first."

  "What does it matter? Where do we go from here? Where can we go?" Roan asked, his lips nearing Jace's. "We're not kids anymore. This isn't the time or place. We can't be naïve. There's no ignorance to be blissful in. It's over."

  "I know," Jace admitted, hating the truth and how difficult it was to say it out loud. Their innocence and untainted love were dead, robbing them of every day they could've had. All they had left was time. "Maybe that's what we need to do now. You said you didn't know who you are anymore. Maybe we need to spend time together and figure out who we are. We did that before. We can do it again."

  Roan leaned his forehead against Jace's. "Without me kissing you this time. Of course, even if I did, you wouldn't be surprised and fall over, taking me with you."

  "Autumn leaves have never been the same since," Jace murmured, smirking.

  A high-pitched whistle cut through the air.

  Jace pulled back, pushing Roan towards the willow tree.

  "Hey, Jace, what you doing out here?" Alim hollered, running towards them from the other side of the tree. Behind him, Seth ambled over the gnarled aboveground roots and fallen branches. "Checking up on us?"

  Alim's smile disappeared upon seeing Roan. "Oh. You."

  Roan put his sunglasses back on. "Yeah. Me."

  "Don't tell
me I have to put you two in separate corners," Jace said.

  Alim shrugged. "As long as he isn't causing trouble, I can't be bothered. Just wanted to make sure everything's okay."

  "Good, because it is. Figured I'd show him around." Jace crossed his arms. "Now is the interrogation finished? I'd like to get back."

  "Yeah, fine." Alim waved the words away. "We're just passing through anyway. This side's quiet as it's ever been. Time for the rest of it. We'll catch you up at supper."

  "Great," Jace muttered, almost laughing at the irony of the situation. If there was any time he needed his sentries to have seen nothing, it was then.

  04

  She'd been right, again, her satisfaction feeding the sweet taste of vindication to her soul. Jace making peace with Roan was the best thing he could have done, allowing Roan to participate in the clan without everyone going out of their way to avoid him—though a few still insisted on having nothing to do with him.

  Even then, Cayra was more grateful to see things return to normal. After three weeks, they needed to find equilibrium again. Change was inevitable, but she'd never expected it to saunter around camp with spiky blond hair, a muscular body, and magic most of the clan wanted to stave off like a flesh-eating plague.

  Most except for her and Jace, who acted as though Roan were no different from the rest of them.

  Sometimes she loved her husband more than she could put into words, even in her inside voice.

  Cayra huffed and leaned back on her legs, her knees spreading further apart, pulling on the disturbed soil beneath her. With the back of her wrist, she rubbed the irritated skin on her cheek, cursing black flies for their existence. When her dirty gardening glove grazed her skin, she figured she looked ridiculous. It wasn't bad enough to hide under the wide brim of the floppy white hat she'd borrowed, but now she wore her work, too. As it was, she was still lamenting the loss of her favourite bucket hat, now burnt scraps after one of the clan's dogs had destroyed it. It wasn't one of her better days.