by CJ Brightley
“I’ll help you to the cot.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t take long. They’ll be looking for you.” He held her eyes a moment with his cool blue gaze. “Take the lamp for the tunnels. Go on, then.”
She frowned but nodded. She slipped out, leaving him kneeling by the table in the dark.
The tunnels were more confusing than she’d realized. She paused at yet another corner and wondered whether she’d be able to find her way out at all. Finally, she found a ladder and crept up. It ended at a doorway, and she pushed it open a crack, peeked out, and then slipped through. She tested the latch and guessed it wouldn’t lock behind her. She closed it, and then tried it. It opened again almost soundlessly. Good.
She wrapped her coat around herself against the chill. It was late morning, the sun bright overhead. She didn’t know exactly where she was, but it felt familiar. She walked quickly, cautiously, trying to be aware of everything without looking like she was nervous. At the next corner, there were vendors gathered, mostly paper and cigarette carts. She recognized Olive Street, though it was not a section she frequented. She turned left, and in less than a block found a grocery store.
Bread. Cold meat. Cheese. A bag of apples. What else? A pack of five black short-sleeved shirts. A large pack of matches. Some lantern oil. Two bottles of water. She went to the front to pay.
The man raised his eyebrows. “Men’s shirts?”
She shrugged. “A friend asked me to pick them up.”
“Hm.” He gave her the change, and she felt his eyes on her as she left. She walked left out of the doorway, away from the direction she’d come.
She circled the block, trying to see if anyone was following her, and then started a larger circle, looking for the butcher shop. Finally, she saw the sign. It was small, the kind of ethnic shop favored by poor immigrants hungry for a taste of home. Not that there were many of those left these days. The man behind the counter eyed her suspiciously.
“I’d like to pick up Owen’s order.” She tried to sound confident.
“Owen?” His accent was strong, and he stared at her again, not moving. “You know him?”
“Yes.” She bit her lip. “He asked me to pick it up for him,” she added when he didn’t move.
“Hm.” He kept a suspicious eye on her as he finally moved toward the back. He opened a large refrigerator and pulled out a paper bag with a small white receipt stapled to the top.
“Four dollars.”
Good. It wasn’t too expensive. Still, if she couldn’t go back to her apartment, she’d run out of cash soon. She handed the bills over and he pulled off the receipt before he slid the bag across the glass countertop. It was heavier than she’d expected.
She took an indirect route back toward the ladder.
Down. She’d blown out the lantern at the bottom, and she felt for it in the darkness, careful not to knock it over. She lit it and then went back through the tunnels, counting the turns. Finally, she found the door, proud of herself for not having gotten lost.
She turned the knob quietly and slipped inside. He lay where she’d left him kneeling, curled on his side, facing away from the door. She set the lantern down, almost silently, and watched him a moment. Soft, shallow breaths. He was shirtless still, even in the cold, and she could see the lines of his ribs, the hard muscles of his back disappearing under the makeshift bandages, the curve of his shoulder into his neck. If his hair had been longer, it might have formed ringlets, but it was cut short on his neck and just a little longer on top. The haircut was uneven as if he’d done it himself.
She stepped forward to put the bag on the table.
Swords in hand, he spun up into a crouch so fast she didn’t even see him move. He stared at her a moment, then stood straighter, breathing heavily. He sheathed the swords. “Don’t startle me.”
She swallowed, her back pressed against the door. “I’m sorry.”
He steadied himself against the table. “Did you have any trouble?” He coughed and closed his eyes, pressing his knuckles against his mouth.
“No. I brought your package.” She set it on the table along with the other two bags, put his knife next to it, spread out the food, and looked at him. “Sit down.”
He eyed the spread and then her. “You’ll want to eat first.”
“There’s plenty for us both.”
“I’m not eating that. Go ahead.” He picked up his knife and moved away to sit on the edge of the cot. He inspected the knife blade carefully, turning it this way and that to catch the light. Satisfied, he slipped it into the sheath on his belt and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
He watched her as she ate. The bread was a little mashed, but she made a sandwich anyway. She turned the chair so she could look back at him.
“So your name is Owen,” she said finally. “That’s good to know. Seems like we should know each other’s names by now.” He stared at her wordlessly, and she ventured, “I’m Aria. Aria Forsyth. Do you have a last name?”
“Not in English.”
She blinked. “If you’re not human, what are you?”
He ran his right hand over his face again. “What do you think?”
She studied him, and he let her, watching her face as her eyes moved over him again. Lean, athletic. He looked human.
“How old are you?” she asked suddenly. It was so hard to tell. No lines at the corners of his eyes or beside his nose. Yet that light touch of gray just at his temples.
He smiled, just a faint, wry twitch of his lips. “Now that’s cheating.” She held his eyes, and he said, “Two hundred seventy-three.”
She blinked. “That’s impossible.”
He only smiled. “Eat. Or if you’re done, tell me. I’m hungry too.”
She ate the last of her sandwich in three large bites and stood, still chewing. She opened her bottle of water belatedly and took it with her as she moved to the cot.
He stood at the table and opened the sack to pull out a large paper bundle. He unwrapped it with an unreadable glance at her, leaving the paper sticking up so she couldn’t see what was inside. She heard the crinkle of the thin butcher shop plastic inside the paper. He drew his knife.
A few quick slices, and then he sat, half-turned so she couldn’t see past his shoulder.
“Are you eating it raw?” Aria said in disgust.
A pause. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”
She took a drink. “What is it?”
He swallowed. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.” Another bite. He licked his fingers.
She stood indecisively for a moment, and finally moved closer. He didn’t move, though he shot a glance over his shoulder at her. Closer.
A bloody mass cut into cubes lay on the plastic from Bryson’s butcher shop. His knife lay beside it, still red.
“By the emperor,” she breathed. “What is that?”
He picked up two cubes and swallowed them, one after the other. “Pig’s heart.”
“That is revolting.” She stared at him in horror and then back at the heart.
“Says the human.” Another cube. “What do you think I am?”
She backed away to stand at the door. Her mind whirled. “I’d say you were a vampire, but that’s absurd. They don’t exist.”
“I am not a vampire.” He didn’t look at her.
“But what else is cold to the touch? And eats blood?”
“I’m not eating blood. I’m eating a pig’s heart.” He enunciated clearly, then stopped to cough again.
“I don’t know.”
“Have you heard of elves? Fairies?”
“They’re small. And they live in the forest or something. And they have wings.”
He ate another bite. “Incorrect. You humans have long since forgotten the truth of the Fae. We are not miniature. We do not have wings. We do not fly. Vampires, elves, fairies… they’re partial shadows of the old memories. We’re both closer to human a
nd more alien than you imagine.”
She felt dizzy, watching him eat the bloody cubes. “Do you kill humans? Do you eat humans?”
He choked, coughed, and steadied himself on the edge of the table. She waited, her hand on the doorknob. But no. He’d had plenty of opportunities to hurt her that he hadn’t taken.
“No,” he said finally. He gazed at her with weary amusement. She was starting to read his subtle expressions; they weren’t obvious, but this one was as clear as any. “Like humans, we are capable of choosing cruelty. But we are not monsters.”
He studied her. “If you’re afraid, you can leave. But it’s not safer out there.” The amusement had faded, leaving only weariness in the set of his shoulders. He finished eating without looking at her. He folded the bloody plastic into the paper, then carefully folded the whole bag into a neat packet, which he slipped into his pocket. He leaned forward, still not looking at her, his head drooping. Then he straightened as if he’d remembered something. He opened the other water bottle and rinsed his right hand, the water falling to the floor. He shook the water off with a quick flick of the wrist and then drank deeply.
She watched him warily.
“How did you escape them last night? They searched the riverbank.”
“I swam.”
She frowned. That didn’t really answer her question. “Upstream?”
He nodded once.
“I saw the lights upstream too.”
He nodded again.
“What did you want the maps for? From Dandra?”
He reached over to the pack of shirts and held it up to her. “Thank you.” A quick cut of the knife slit the plastic wrapper and he pulled one out and over his head. Then he stared at the table for a long moment before looking at her again. “We need to move. It isn’t safe to stay in one place for so long.”
“What did you want the maps for?”
He stood without answering. He tugged the shirt hem down farther; it had gotten caught on the knot of the bandage around his waist. He leaned his right hand on the table and stood still, resting. Then, slowly, one-handed, he packed everything into his battered rucksack.
“I’ll carry it,” Aria offered. She picked up the blanket from the floor and folded it, then put it on top and zipped the pack closed. She slung it over her shoulder. He didn’t protest.
“Blow out the lantern.” His voice was a little hoarse.
He led her through the door, his hand cold in hers. Silently they walked. She heard the faint brush of fabric on the left wall at long intervals and realized he was touching it with his bandaged hand. Right, left, down a long gentle slope, left again, and up some stairs and around a corner. More walking. Downward again. She was thoroughly lost. She couldn’t even guess how far under the city they were. Twenty feet? A hundred feet? The tunnels were cool and dank, but not wet.
“Where are we going?” she ventured.
His shhh was barely audible.
She followed him in silence for several more minutes. Down again.
“Where are we going?”
“Quiet.”
“No. I want to know where we’re going!” she jerked her hand away from his. “I’ve followed you without question and I’m done. I want to know where you’re taking me.” Her voice echoed.
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her along, nearly running now. “I’ll tell you when we’re out of the tunnels.” His own voice was much quieter.
She yanked her wrist, but she couldn’t escape his iron grasp. There was a sudden sound from behind her. Growling.
Owen jerked her forward and shoved her to the floor. Then it was upon them with a roar that filled the tunnel.
Aria covered her head, scrambling backwards. I’m dead! It would kill them both. He was in no shape to fight and she had no weapons, not that she knew what to do with them if she’d had them anyway.
The battle was over in a moment, though. She heard him breathing heavily. A cough. The soft sound of his sword being sheathed. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “When I tell you to be silent, it is not only for my own sake.” Though the words were only a whisper, she could hear his anger, and she nodded. He pulled her along, jogging through the tunnels with barely a hesitation at each turn. Then up a very long flight of stairs. He had to stop and cough in the middle, doubled over and leaning against the wall. She helped him as he stumbled upward, still coughing, and then he steadied himself and pulled her on. Suddenly he stopped at a ladder on the side of the tunnel, which continued ahead of them.
“Here. Climb up first.”
She obeyed, scrambling up the ladder quickly. At the top, the hatch was like a manhole cover, a round metal plate so heavy that she strained to open it. He climbed up farther, his body pressed against hers, to shove it away with his good hand. She clambered through, and he followed her. He pushed the cover back over the hole one-handed and remained kneeling, breathing heavily. In the dim light, she could see he was splattered with blood, a dark streak across one cheek and into his hair.
“Is that your blood?”
“No.”
He coughed, bowed so his head nearly touched the ground, and wiped blood from his mouth again. He straightened painfully and wiped his bloody hand on his pants.
“It’s not much farther,” he said finally, when he caught his breath.
Her breath fogged in the cold; his did not. The concrete floor beneath her knees felt icy and unwelcoming. She looked around. They were in a vast, dimly lit room filled with boxes and machinery.
“What is this place?”
He didn’t answer. He struggled to his feet, and she offered him a hand belatedly. He wound through the aisles and found a set of open metal stairs, which he followed upward to the next floor, high above the first. Some sort of warehouse? But where is this? Then down a long hallway to a room at the end, with windows on two sides.
He closed the door and locked it, then went to the windows and looked out. “Here. We can rest here.” He sank to the floor, sitting with his back against the wall, a little uneven so his right side didn’t quite touch. He leaned his head back, eyes closed.
“Are you going to live? You shouldn’t be alive at all.” She came to sit by him.
He huffed softly, as if he wanted to laugh but didn’t quite have the strength. “Oh yes. Always have so far.”
The smooth skin of his neck moved as he spoke. “We’re hard to kill, we Fae. They know how, though. Getlaril bullets. A few other ways. They’re doing research. Testing.” He opened his eyes to look sideways at her. “Test. Evaluate. Refine. Test again. They experiment.” He coughed.
“That’s what I want the maps for. Government maps. The secure facilities. They have test subjects.” He grimaced when he said it, a twist of the lips. “Of course, they won’t be noted on any map I could acquire, but with a power grid, I could figure it out. Or water lines. Or security checkpoints. A clue. I’ve been trying to make my own, but it’s slow going.” He coughed again, licked the blood off his lips without seeming to notice. “You’ll be useful. They have sensors that sense Fae blood. They’re expensive and hard to make, so they don’t have many, but I’ve found a few. Found a few possible testing sites.”
“You want to use me?” Aria felt her voice squeak with fear. Then outrage. “You want to use me to go where you can’t? You’ll get me killed! You wanted to use me all along!” She rose to her feet and stared down at him.
His voice was hard. “I told you to leave me alone. You didn’t. So I gave you a choice. I did you no wrong.” The effort was too much, and he was convulsed by coughing again. He struggled to his hands and knees and retched onto the floor, spitting bright red blood.
Unable to maintain her anger in the face of her guilt, she knelt beside him. “What do you need?”
“Time.” He caught his breath and sat back on his heels. His chest heaved. If anything, he looked worse than before. He glanced out the window. “We’re safe here for a while.”
Aria stood and looked
out the window as well. The view matched her mood. Overcast and chilly, with a hint of bitterness.
“What about the vertril?” she asked suddenly.
“What about them?”
“You said they can kill you. Humans, I guess. Can a vertril kill you?”
“No. A vertril will incapacitate a Fae, but not kill. I’d lay there until they came to fetch me for their experiments.” He shifted to sit slumped back against the wall, one leg crooked up and the other stretched out.
She wanted to ask him more, but she hadn’t realized how bad he looked in the darkness and dim lamplight. Now, the clear, cold light streaming in through the windows washed over him, and she bit her lip. White as marble, streaked with blood from head to toe, blood in the corners of his mouth, bandages soaked with it. A bruised knot stood out dark at the edge of his right eyebrow. “Should I leave you alone?”
He sighed. “Please.”
She stood at the window, watching the city. It had a good view, such as it was. Near the river, with only shorter buildings between her and the shore, so she could see the wide expanse of cold gray water. The bridge was to the north, and she could see only the far end of it, blocked by the peeling metal window frame. Below, the streets were busy but not frantic, the efficient speed of the shipping district. There were few horns from the electric vehicles below, not too much noise actually. Not like the commercial district closer to her apartment, which hummed and clattered and honked and roared.
Probably, no one had even reported her missing yet. She didn’t have class today. Amara might have called, but if she didn’t, she wouldn’t notice anything amiss until Aria didn’t show up to class tomorrow. You know, that’s a sad commentary on my social life. Or my life in general. No one to notice that I’ve been missing for how long now?
But the authorities knew already. They thought her dead. She wondered when Amara would find that out. Or her professors. Would Dr. Corten question it at all?
