The Severed Tower

by J. Barton Mitchell

  They made camp in the carnival, the roller coasters twisting and towering over them as strange shadows. As Mira walked through the camp, she saw the Menagerie guards tying Holt to an old merry-go-round. When they were done, they left him there, laughing, moving off to get their share of the camp food that was cooking at various fires.

  Mira moved toward him. No one stopped her.

  Up close, she could see the nasty gash on Holt’s head where the Menagerie had knocked him out. It made her mad, the injury. It hadn’t been necessary. He’d been through enough.

  Both his legs and arms were tied, bound between two colorfully painted merry-go-round horses that immortally kicked and ran, even though the ride would never spin again. Instinctively, Mira’s gaze moved to his right hand. The fingerless glove he always wore was gone. Mira remembered what Ravan said about Menagerie members taking the same tattoo. A Troth, she’d called it.

  She couldn’t see what was there; it was too dark. If she moved closer …

  But did she really want to? Right now it was an unknown. And things had changed between them. But she did want to know. She wanted to know the truth, and if it was bad, she could learn now while he was asleep, and process it all. She wouldn’t have to face him.

  Mira moved forward and took Holt’s hand, twisted it so she could see the wrist. Her heart sank.

  A tattoo was revealed in the dim light, only half-finished, the top half had yet to be inked, but it did look like it would have been a bird, a black one. Just like Ravan’s.

  Mira jumped as Holt’s hand closed around hers.

  His eyes blinked and opened, staring around him groggily. When then they found her he smiled. Mira stared down at him a moment—and then slipped her hand out and pulled away.

  His smile vanished as he remembered everything. “Oh. Right…”

  Mira moved a few steps away, rubbing her shoulders. It felt cold suddenly.

  “Where are we?” Holt asked.

  Mira told him everything quickly. The loss of the Crossroads, finding the Menagerie, convincing them to help, Ravan, rescuing him in Kenmore, the missile silo. When she finished, Holt studied her, impressed, and a little guilty, maybe, that she had done so much on his behalf.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Mira shrugged. “Ravan has been very talkative.” It took a moment for what she said to sink in, but when it did, Holt looked away. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

  “It’s … not something I talk about, Mira.”

  “I think I deserved to know,” she said. “Do you have any idea how many friends of mine have been killed by the Menagerie?”

  “No. But I think, after everything I’ve done, I should have earned your trust.”

  Mira just stared at him. He was right, she knew, but that didn’t make it feel any better.

  “I was different back then,” he said. “It was after Emily. Which meant it was a time in my life where I didn’t want to feel anything. So I didn’t. I only thought about survival, and the Menagerie was a really good fit for that.”

  “Is that all it was?” Mira asked. “Your tattoo looks a lot like Ravan’s.”

  “You really think that’s fair? Given what I had to watch at the Crossroads?”

  Mira was the one to look away now. The silence that hung between them was almost tangible. “Ravan told me I could go when we get to Polestar, that I could take Zoey with me.”

  Holt considered her words, then nodded. “Good. You should. There’s nothing you can do for me, there’s too many of them. They’d kill you if you tried.”

  Mira felt a knot forming in her throat. In spite of what may have transpired between them, the idea of leaving him like this, with these people …

  “Zoey needs you,” he told her.

  She wiped a tear away before it could fall, and looked back at Holt. Mira felt a sudden, intense desire to tell him everything, her fears of this place, her doubts about herself. But she could just make out the shape of the tattoo on his wrist. In her mind, she saw him standing over her on the plane again.

  She shook her head sadly. “How did we get here?”

  Holt stared back at her. “Nothing stays the same. It’s just how it is.”

  The words were an acknowledgement of sorts. An admission that they were lost to each other, and it only made Mira feel more alone.

  She headed back toward the campfires. “I … need to think.”

  “Mira.” Holt’s voice stopped her, but she didn’t turn around. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

  Mira could hear the sorrow in his tone. She nodded. “I know.”

  And then she left him.

  * * *

  AS HOLT WATCHED MIRA disappear, he felt a mix of things—anger, sadness, frustration. It was his fault, this whole mess. He should have left when he had the chance. But how many times had he had that option, both before and after Midnight City? He always did the same damn thing. He always stayed. Now it had finally caught up with him.

  “That girl can handle herself, I’ll give her that.” A figure stepped from the dark. “I see why you like her.”

  She was tall, lean, and athletic, as always, with a presence that was at once intimidating and magnetic. The long hair that flowed down behind her was so black it absorbed the flickering light of the campfires. She was barely anything but a shadow before him, but even so, Holt could see her blue eyes peering into his.

  Ravan smiled. Like everything about her, it was an action of duality, a subtle indication of a complex, fragmented personality. The smile was warm and inviting—and at the same time predatory. At one time Holt had been closer to her than to anyone since Emily, and even he could never tell which side of the mirror was really Ravan.

  Holt said nothing, just stared back. She was holding what looked like a plate of food in one hand. In the other, there was something else, and she threw it to him. His glove landed on his chest.

  At the sight of it, he realized the truth. She had taken it off him, so Mira would see.

  “Mira’s not the kind to go and pry and find things out for herself, she wouldn’t have done it on her own,” Ravan told him. “So I helped her out. She wanted to know the truth, and you sure as hell weren’t gonna tell her.”

  Holt felt anger building in him, but still he said nothing.

  Ravan set the plate in front of him, maybe less than a foot away. It looked like rabbit, stewed and salted with carrots and potatoes, in some kind of thick sauce. The aroma alone almost made him pass out, it had been so long since he’d eaten a cooked meal instead of just foodstuff or MREs. But his hands and feet were still tied to the merry-go-round, and he couldn’t get to it. He tried not to let his hunger show.

  “I’m sorry about your head,” Ravan said. “I didn’t mean for them to do that. They have explicit instructions not to hurt you anymore, you have my word.”

  A lot of good that did him now, he thought. The pain in his head was sharp, it felt like a watermelon where the rifle butt had connected.

  He watched Ravan sit on the ground in front of him and slowly pull her knees up under her chin, never taking her eyes off him. “You know you’re gonna have to talk to me eventually, Holt.”

  Holt stared back. She was probably right. “From what I remember, you never were much for talking.”

  Ravan shrugged around her knees. “I talk, I just don’t waste words. People never say what they really mean. It’s one thing I miss about you. Always said what you felt, and you said it with as little fuss as possible.”

  Ravan pulled something from a pocket. “Your little friend—Zoey is her name? She had this on her.” Holt saw it was his father’s Swiss Army Knife. “I recognized it. I know how much it means to you. The others would have traded it away for comic books or something just as stupid.”

  Ravan pried open one of the knife’s tools. Unlike Zoey, she found the right one immediately; its main blade, a long, gleaming knife, and Ravan gently ran her finger along its edge. “Goodness. You certainly keep it shar
p, don’t you?” Holt froze as he watched the knife in her hands.

  “You know, you’re going to have to do more than just ‘talk’ to me, Holt,” she said slowly, twisting the knife, watching it reflect the campfires. “There are things I need to hear from you, things I need to know. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you what these things are, and I’m sure you know you’ll tell them to someone eventually. It would be better—in a lot of ways, much better—if that someone were me.”

  Ravan casually shifted her gaze from the knife back to him. Holt said nothing, just watched her warily. She moved toward him, holding the blade delicately. Holt watched it come toward him. There was a time when Holt was sure he was the one person Ravan would never hurt—but that was a long time ago.

  She turned the knife so it pointed toward his neck, resting inches from his throat. Holt swallowed. He was helpless, unable to move, and they both knew it. Ravan stared at him a moment more—then raised the knife and cut the bonds that tied his hands to the plaster horse.

  When it was done, she put the blade away and sat back down on the ground, hugging her knees again.

  Holt rubbed his hands appreciatively, feeling the pins and needles of blood returning to his fingers. Then he looked at the food in front of him, steam still rising from it. He reached for it greedily, wolfing down huge portions with the spoon she’d brought.

  “I see your table manners haven’t improved any,” Ravan said, watching with amusement. “Has it been that long since you’ve had real food? Must have been tough for you, out here all this time on your own. Must have been lonely.”

  Holt looked up as he ate. “And you still try to hide the questions you don’t wanna ask.”

  Ravan smiled. “You know me pretty good, don’t you?”

  “If you were asking if I missed you, things are never as cut-and-dried as that.”

  “Some things are. It’s not a hard question. Did you or didn’t you?”

  Holt thought about it. In many ways they had been perfect for each other. He had his walls, she had hers. The sad, ironic thing was that the parts of him that were so comfortable with Ravan were the parts he didn’t particularly like about himself, but, in the end, the truth was the truth. “Yes.”

  Ravan hugged her knees tighter. “Do you know what it cost me when you left?”

  “Do you know what it would have cost me to stay?”

  “We were talented and ambitious, we had the eye of the right people—and we were Heedless. Once Tiberius was gone, we were in a position to run everything. We had it all exactly the way we wanted it.”

  “No, we had it exactly the way you wanted it. You just assumed we wanted the same things.”

  She studied him with a mix of frustration and confusion. “Why didn’t you talk to me? Why did you just … leave? Leave and say nothing?”

  “I tried to tell you, Ravan,” Holt said, “but I knew if I did … that you wouldn’t understand. I knew that you’d try to stop me.”

  Ravan lashed out in quick fury, kicked the plate of food away and sent it crashing into the merry-go-round. The pirates nearby all looked up from what they were doing. Ravan didn’t care, she just glared at Holt, and he could see the pain in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it.

  “Maybe I would have come with you.” Ravan’s voice was a whisper now. “Maybe you should have asked.”

  “Maybe I should have.”

  The pain slowly seeped out of Ravan’s blue eyes, leaving only anger. She looked behind her, nodded to someone out of sight. “Somebody wants to see you.”

  Holt heard thundering feet, and watched a suitcase-sized shadow come barreling toward him.

  Max slammed into him, rubbing his face into Holt’s, and he felt the first warmth of happiness he’d had since waking. He rubbed his hands along Max’s flanks, scratching him. He seemed in good shape, well taken care of.

  Holt looked up at Ravan appreciatively. “Thank you.”

  “She said he was your dog. She said he means a lot to you.”

  Holt could hear the tightness in her voice. He guessed who Ravan was referring to. “Did you hurt her?”

  Ravan smiled again and leaned forward. “Don’t worry. She gave as good as she got.”

  Holt felt her take his right hand. Her hands were rougher than Mira’s; harder, but no less feminine. The way her fingers slid easily through his brought back memories. Not unpleasant ones.

  The half-formed image stood out prominently on his wrist. Ravan ran her fingers gently over it, tracing the broken outline.

  “I would’ve liked to see this finished,” she said.

  Holt looked at Ravan’s right wrist, saw the black, stoic bird tattooed there, its lower half identical to his incomplete one. Then his eyes followed the line of her arm up from the tattoo, found the scars. There were three now, he saw. There had been only one when he left. “Is one of those me?” he asked.

  Ravan nodded, pointed to the second one. “I carry you everywhere,” she said. He looked into her eyes. It was funny how fast you could be drawn back into old patterns, dangerous though they may be.

  “It doesn’t have to be this way.” Ravan moved even closer. “You don’t have to die, Holt. I can make Tiberius see reason. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “‘Examples must be made.’ Wasn’t that always Tiberius’s philosophy?”

  “Tiberius will see you’re too valuable to kill,” Ravan replied. “It won’t be without pain, without punishment; it won’t be exactly like we planned … but you can come back. I know you have principles, I know you have a code. I think they’re weaknesses, but we can work around them.”

  “What if I can’t work around them?”

  “We’ll find a way.” She took his face in her hands, made him look up at her. Her hands were warm and firm. “I haven’t gone a day without thinking about you, Holt.”

  She was close enough for him to take in her scent. It was different from Mira’s, not the calming aroma of mint and spices, but something darker, sharper, more invigorating, like wildflowers in spring, and he felt it speed up his heart the same way it always did.

  Holt knew what she wanted to hear. Her offer wasn’t a bad one, and she was right, he was lucky it was her who found him. Mira and Zoey would be gone soon. He needed to start thinking about survival again, not about his heart. Besides, as before, the truth was the truth.

  “I never stopped thinking about you, either,” Holt said simply. The words came easily. Probably because they were true.

  Ravan leaned in slowly, and the scent of her overwhelmed him. It was amazing how normal it felt, how easily her lips blended with his, how natural the heat of her felt against him in spite of all the time that had passed.

  He felt Ravan’s fingers in his hand, felt her move his wrist above his head, as her mouth slowly played over his …

  Then he heard a metallic click. Sharp metal dug into his right wrist.

  Holt tried to pull away, but couldn’t. It was attached to the merry-go-round again. Holt saw the shiny metallic handcuff that connected him to the pole.

  “Ravan, what—”

  “I’ve been shot and stabbed, kicked and beaten, I’ve been burned by plasma fire, hell I even almost drowned this morning,” she said softly, just inches away. “I’ve been hurt by professionals, I’ve been hurt by my family, but when you hurt me, Holt, it was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. And it never went away, you know? It just … festered. And remained. That kind of hurt never heals—not really—it just dulls, just blends into the background until you think about it again, and then you feel it all over, same as before.” She stood up and stared down at him coldly now. “Let’s make it a game, what do you say? We’re going to Polestar, then farther after that. I figure there and back to Faust should take about a month. You have exactly that long to convince me you meant what you just said. If you do, I’ll speak to Tiberius for you.”

  “Rae…”

  “If not—well … why dwell on unpleas
ant things, yes?”

  Holt angrily shook the handcuff above him, trying to pull it loose. It wouldn’t budge. “Ravan!”

  She just smiled down at him. “Welcome home, Holt.” Then she moved off, disappearing into the mix of giant, twisting shadows and the firelight from the Menagerie camp.

  25. LIGHTNING

  THEY LEFT THE CARNIVAL at daybreak. There was no Vacuum to help them anymore. If they were going to cross into the third ring they’d have to pass through the Compactor, the Stable Anomaly that guarded the route to the other side.

  Even though it was only a second-ring Anomaly, Mira hated the Compactor. It was a cube-shaped zone that generated two massive wavelike pulses of high gravity that raced forward and slammed into each other with an insane amount of force. The impact of the two waves created a thunderous, deafening sound, on par with a sonic boom, and you had to wear ear protection when you were as close as half a mile. If you were caught in the middle of it when the waves hit, well—there wasn’t much left. The horrible booming always filled her dreams for days after.

  Her Lexicon confirmed what she remembered: The speed of the gravity waves were identical and always consistent. It was the time in between their “launch” that varied. Fortunately, it varied in a particular pattern, according to an equation. Each subsequent pulse came at an ever-decreasing interval, until that interval was zero. Then it all started over.

  You had to time the initial pulse with a stopwatch, quickly determine when the next one would fire; then, if you had enough time, race over a length of ground the size of a football field to the other side before the gravity waves fired again and slammed into each other.

  Mira felt sick when she finally gave the order to go, even though she’d figured the three previous pulse times correctly. She wished Ben had been there to do it, to be the one responsible. But he wasn’t. There was only her.

  They all made it in one pass, dashing through in a mad scramble, Holt carrying Zoey, and Max streaming easily ahead of the Menagerie like it was all a game.

  Miraculously, no one died. For the first time since the Grindhouse or the Ion Storm, no one had been killed on her watch. Again, Mira expected it to feel good or triumphant, but it still didn’t. If anything, she felt more anxious, knowing they hadn’t even faced the worst of what the Strange Lands had to throw at them.