Pieces of Autumn

by Mara Black

  Just being around her was pure torture. A constant reminder of my sins. She wasn't Daniela, she was nothing like Daniela, but the memories flooded back all the same. That bitch who betrayed me - to save her own cowardly life, she blamed everything on me. The escape we'd planned together, suddenly, it was all my fault.

  She was stupid enough to think they'd spare her life. She didn't know Stoker like I did.

  Just like Daniela, Autumn was more than happy to use the protection of men who'd devour her alive. There was no honor in the choice she made. No dignity. She was like a trapped animal chewing off her own leg, only to bleed out in the forest.

  She wanted me to treat her with respect. How could I?

  The very first moment we met, she should have turned and run.

  Never looked back.

  Then, I would have respected her.

  "Look."

  Autumn's voice jerked me back to the present. She was pointing to the space between the mountains where the sun dipped down, the sky tinged pink and orange and purple. I'd looked at it a thousand times, but I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen it.

  "Thank you," she said, very quietly.

  For once, I didn't say anything back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Wild Horses

  When my parents died, something inside me died, too.

  If anybody asked, I'd say I hated Birdy for doing it. The pure loathing, the fury, the thirst for his blood was all-encompassing.

  But I hated them, too. For leaving me.

  And I knew it was horrible. I knew it was the worst possible thing a human being could do, hating their parents for being murdered, but that was how I felt. Bitter and resentful and hateful. And what was the point in ever letting someone else matter to me again? It could only end in tears.

  I came close, with Nikki. But when she left with Stoker, I felt that iron door deep inside me slam shut again. Tighter. More impenetrable than ever.

  And that was why I stayed. Not just because I needed protection. Not just because of the dark flames that licked in my belly whenever he touched me.

  It was because of this.

  When I looked in the mirror, I saw my own reflection. But it was Tate who stared back at me.

  Riding Chimaera became a habit. Sometimes I went out alone, other times, Tate came with me. There was a crate for me to mount on, but whenever he was there, he'd help lift me up. A few times, he tried to teach me jumping from the ground, but it always ended with my sliding ungracefully onto the hay. He tried to hide his smile, but was seldom successful.

  Watching him mount was a sight to behold. He'd leap from the ground, one hand gripping her mane, and land just slightly askew on her back, legs clutching her sides. With a slight shimmy, he'd right himself, and Chimaera would just stand there calmly. It seemed incomprehensible to me that a man like Tate would have taken the time to tame and soothe any living creature. Patience was not his strong suit.

  "Where did you get her?" I asked him, once, as we cantered around the edge of his land.

  He hesitated for a moment. "I didn't. She was here first."

  Our rides were never as long as I would have liked them to be. Just when the conversation started to get interesting, he'd cut things short, explaining that Chimaera couldn't support both of our weights for very long.

  "You mean, she was wild?" I asked him.

  "Or feral. It took a year for me to get within ten feet of her."

  So much for his supposed impatience. Why couldn't be afford a human being the same level of respect?

  "Go on." There was a smile in his words. "Say what you're thinking."

  I laughed quietly. "It's impressive, that's all."

  "I had a lot of spare time." He made a soft sound with his tongue, and Chimaera changed directions.

  "She doesn't ask about the past, or wonder about the future." I stroked her neck. "I'm not surprised she'd be a good friend to you."

  When I rode alone, I told her my secrets. Everything I felt for Tate but couldn't admit. There was a freedom in speaking the words, if only softly - if only to someone who couldn't understand.

  One morning, around the time he would have typically been in the kitchen, Tate was nowhere to be found. I searched the house absently, feeling a ball of anxiety in my chest for no particular reason. It wasn't like he hadn't disappeared before, for an hour or two. Presumably to pick up some shipment of luxury goods that only he could afford.

  I paused by the door.

  There was a faint sound coming from outside. It was difficult to hear indoors, over the hum of the generator, so I went to the front door and pressed my ear against the wood, trying to gauge it.

  Chimaera?

  It certainly sounded like a horse's whinny. But it wasn't the soft nicking sound she made when I stroked her muzzle; something was wrong.

  Heart pounding, I pulled on a pair of boots and fumbled hurriedly with the locks on the door. I was still no expert, though I'd watched Tate do it so quickly a dozen times. I ran outside and hurried towards the barn, hearing the whinnies grow more panicked as I went.

  Throwing open the barn door, I first saw the horse, shaking her head and stamping nervously in the corner. She was staring at something on the ground, and my eyes followed hers.

  Oh God, Tate.

  He was convulsing on the ground, eyes black and glassy, staring at nothing. I fell to my knees and grabbed onto him, trying to gently guide him onto his side.

  I felt deathly calm. I knew exactly what to do. I stayed close, loosening his collar and his belt, careful not to hold onto him too tightly lest he injure himself. Growing up with a mother who suffered from epilepsy her whole life, I had to know these things.

  I took a deep breath, and only let it out when his body started to calm.

  He spasmed a few more times before going limp, shuddering and soaked with sweat. I made soothing noises in Chimaera's direction, and she snorted nervously, still pawing at the ground.

  Tate made a soft noise, trying to talk, but I shushed him. He wasn't ready to move yet. His eyes were still unfocused, his fingers still twitching slightly.

  Finally, he groaned, making an effort to heave himself upright. I slid an arm around his back and helped him sit up.

  "Is everything all right?" I asked him, softly. "What happened?"

  He half-shrugged. "S...seizure," he said, almost smiling.

  "No shit." I gave him a look. "Something tells me you're not surprised."

  Shaking his head, he exhaled heavily. "No," he said. "It's not new."

  "Do you take something for it?" I peered into his eyes, trying to see if his pupils were responsive. It was difficult without a light.

  "Used to." He swallowed heavily, averting his eyes from mine. He didn't want to talk about it, which made me all the more curious.

  "What happened?" I asked, praying he wouldn't shut down.

  Tate sighed. "Can't get it anymore. Limited suppliers." He stopped, catching his breath. "Going back inside."

  "No, you're not," I said, sternly. "Don't try to stand up. We don't have to talk about this, if you don't want to. I was just curious. If there's anything I can get you..."

  He shook his head. "Ran out. Don't worry. They don't happen very..." He paused, frowning. "Very often anymore."

  I sat there in silence for a while, my hand resting on Tate's back, just feeling him breathe. I had a suspicion. I hated it, and I hated how much sense it made. There was simply no ignoring the fact that Birdy had a hand in much of the drug-running that went on, these days. Particularly specialty stuff. Now that Tate had pissed him off, his options were limited.

  No matter what Tate did, I'd never feel good about the idea of him suffering. Especially the idea that I'd somehow caused it.

  "You'll find more," I said, quietly. Chimaera was starting to calm down, though she still eyed us cautiously.

  He let out a little wheezing laugh. "Where?"

  "I don't know," I said. "But you will. It can't be that hard, c
an it?"

  Tate stared at the ground. "Almost killed my last supplier." His right hand curled up into a fist, or the best approximation he could manage. "Still plan on it, next chance I get."

  So I was right.

  Guilt pooled in my belly, tempered only slightly by his stated intention. He still wanted Birdy dead. I knew it had to be mostly for his benefit, but I still felt a warm sense of satisfaction in my chest. That fucking bastard would pay a price for his crimes.

  "That's only if I don't get to him first," I said.

  He glanced at me. "No," he said. "I won't let him get close enough to you. Can't take that risk."

  "It's my risk to take." I tightened my hand on his shoulder. "You understand that, don't you?"

  Tate swallowed heavily. "I understand," he said. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm going to kill him first."

  "You'd never allow this yourself," I pointed out. "I need this, Tate."

  And until I spoke it out loud, I hadn't realized how much.

  I needed to see Birdy die. And I needed to be the one who caused it.

  Bloodlust coursed through my veins when I thought about him. That fucking toy train. His fucking putrid breath. His face, when he asked me to choose.

  "I need to see him beg me for his life," I said, softly, staring at the hay. Remember the first time I felt it scratching against my skin.

  Tate looked at me, and I finally met his eyes. There was an openness, a rawness, in his expression that I had never seen before.

  "It changes you," he said. "It changes everything."

  My resolve was only steeled. "Good."

  He sighed. "I want to want this for you, Autumn. You have no idea how much. But I know what it's like. If I really believed it was the best thing, I wouldn't hesitate to bring him to you, bound and gagged - but I know better."

  "No," I said fiercely, shaking my head. "Don't you dare bring him to me."

  Tate sighed again. "That's not my point."

  "I know." My eyes glinted with hunger. "But when the time comes, you won't be able to stop me."

  I control you. I control everything.

  You have to follow my orders, or else.

  He didn't say any of the things I expected him to say. He was completely silent, except for the sound of his breathing. His hand stirred in the hay, moving towards me. Sliding across my knee, searching - I realized - for my hand.

  Our fingers touched, and intertwined. I was staring at the corner, remembering the first time I saw his face.

  When he spoke again, his voice was low and quiet. "Just promise me one thing."

  I nodded, my head against his shoulder.

  "Wherever you end up, don't let anyone change you."

  His grip on my hand tightened.

  I laughed softly. "Never."

  In the warm silence that stretched between us, I knew it was finally time.

  Time to take what I wanted.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Scars

  Tate's bedroom was flooded with inky darkness.

  I heard him prowling through the house, one last time, like he always did. Every night, checking the locks, satisfying himself that everything was in its right place.

  And everything was, except for me.

  When he reached the doorway, I heard him pause. I wondered if he could see my reflection in the mirror, of it he simply sensed my presence.

  I was still wearing the same dress from earlier, but I'd let one of the shoulder strips slip down. A silent invitation. My heart thrummed as I waited for him to step into the room.

  In the dark, I could hardly see him. Just another shadow in the corner of the room.

  "Come here," he said, softly.

  Any other day, I wouldn't have dared to do this. Not because I was afraid of pushing him too far, of being hurt - but because I feared he would send me away.

  But after today, I knew he wouldn't. A silent understanding had passed between us. Something like respect.

  I was afraid to put any other name to it, no matter how much emotion reflected in his eyes when he looked at me.

  Tate's eyes glittered in the darkness. I felt bold. Coming close, laying my hands on his chest, I went up on tiptoe to kiss him.

  He was like a statue. His lips hardly moved under mine, and I started to wonder if I'd made a terrible mistake. Had I really misjudged things so badly?

  "Autumn," he sighed.

  I took a deep breath, trying to stop my head from spinning.

  "Yes?" I whispered.

  "Turn on the light."

  I did as he asked, leaving him only momentarily to find the switch. Blinking as his eyes adjusted, he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on one of the hooks by the door.

  Why was the light so important? Of course, he wanted to see me. But he'd seen me plenty of times.

  Then I remembered: I'd never seen him.

  Every encounter, every time, he stayed clothed. Only parts of his body were familiar to me, and while they were lovely parts, I had wondered. What was he hiding?

  I couldn't imagine there was anything to be ashamed of.

  The first thing I noticed was the holster around his shoulder, keeping a very small revolver close to his chest. It was similar to the one he'd given me, but not quite the same. Well-worn, and obviously special to him.

  He set it aside, carefully, before he removed the holster.

  Then, he unbuckled his belt. I locked eyes with him, quivering inside at the smooth slithering sound of the leather being pulled free from the loops. A slow smile travelled across his face.

  He tossed the belt aside, letting it land on the bed with a quiet thump. I hoped he had a plan for it later, but in the meantime, I wasn't going to miss the show.

  When he stepped out of his perfectly tailored trousers, I expected to be captivated by the taut muscles of his legs. Marveling at their strength. He'd carried me bridal-style like I weighed nothing at all.

  And I did - I saw all of that, but I couldn't ignore the little criss-cross of scars that ran across them. They were long-healed, but the memory of the welts still remained.

  I said nothing, staring at the proof of his suffering. Of course, I had known that Stoker did untold psychological damage to him. That was obvious. And when Joshua showed the marks on his arm, I assumed they had done something similar to Tate. Similar, but much worse. Still, I hadn't imagined this.

  He was still undressing. One by one, he unbuttoned his shirt. I held my breath.

  When it finally slipped from his shoulders, I saw what else he'd been hiding. His chest and his arms, too, were marked with countless little white scars, methodical, laid out almost artistically on the canvas of his skin. So many more than on his legs, and so much more vicious.

  "Did Stoker do this?" I half-whispered. As if I didn't know.

  He nodded, once.

  "If I wouldn't do what they asked," he said. "One mark for every mark I wouldn't leave on the girl."

  A moment of silence, while his face darkened with the memory.

  "At least, that's how it started."

  I stared at them, awed, letting my fingers run over the welts, the straight lines and jagged edges. Every single one, a mark of defiance. A memory. A time when he refused to hurt one of his broken things.

  Slowly, I followed the path of one long scar around his side, just above the jut of his hipbone. My fingers went first, and then my gaze and my body had to follow. The last thing I wanted was to leave his line of sight, to risk breaking this moment, but I had to know.

  My hand flew to my mouth, jerking away like I'd touched a flame.

  The front of his body told a story of pain. But the back...

  Not one inch of his skin was untouched. A jagged pattern of criss-crossing whip marks, cane marks, God only knew what else, like a tapestry across his back. From his waist to his shoulders, nothing was unmarked. Nothing had been allowed to heal. The same wounds opened and reopened, until his skin had forgotten how to come back to life. But it h
ad healed, eventually - how long, how much agony, only Tate could say. But he didn't need to.

  All I could imagine was the torment that had led to this. How many lashes? How many? How many pieces of broken glass embedded in a cat o' nine tails for his defiance? His flesh hanging in ribbons. Rivers of blood.

  Bile was rising in my throat.

  It took a moment of staring at his shoulders, hypnotized by the rise and fall, before I remembered what it signified. Tate was standing there, a living defiance of everything I saw scrawled on his back. Still breathing. Waiting for my reaction.

  He didn't need my sympathy or my outrage.

  He needed my acceptance.

  Slowly, like walking underwater, I pushed my body forward, against his. He tensed, but I just wound my arms around his waist. Pressing my skin against his. My cheek against the largest, angriest mark in the center of his back. It still flamed, reddish-pink against the pale faded color of the rest. Lifting my head, I turned and kissed him there.

  Tate let out a soft, shaky breath.

  His body was still bowstring-taut, but something in his mind had relaxed. I just held onto him for a while, breathing, hearing the heartbeat echo through his ribcage.

  It was the heartbeat he'd tried to hide from me, for so long.

  Every human impulse, punished. Every sign of compassion, met with sharp and unending pain. A lesson hard-learned, and well-taught.

  But they'd left the job unfinished. He saved me, again and again, every time with the sound of the whip singing in his ears. They twisted him, filled him with rage and dark lust, but they couldn't destroy what made him human.

  My head swam with the realization, finally beginning to understand the way his conflicting impulses coiled and twisted inside, like a nest of snakes. The slave-breaker in him wanted to fuck me until I cried, enflamed by the memories of so many formative encounters with women who couldn't say no. But the man who survived Stoker wanted nothing to do with me. Another captive soul, another memory lodged like a broken shard in his consciousness. He closed himself off to me and pretended I wasn't human. But the man left behind when all of that was stripped away - the man, the boy, the one Holland snatched off the street with the promise of a mouthful of bread - ached to help me. To save me.