Broken Compass

by Jo Raven

  “He hasn’t been sleeping here since his family died.”

  “I know. Poor boy. What a tragedy. Such nice people.”

  “Yeah…” Not gonna touch that one. “Is he inside?”

  “I don’t know, dear. I suppose so. He didn’t arrive all that long ago.”

  Thanking her, I cross the small landing and knock on his door. No answer, so I ring and knock again. I think I hear a crash inside, and it sets my teeth on edge, but if he ignores me, if he needs his space, well… I’ll have to accept it.

  Right.

  I slide down the wall, prepared to wait for him until he’s good and ready to come out. Or until it’s time to go to work.

  But then another crash comes from inside, and I find myself back on my feet, banging on the door. “West! Are you all right in there? Goddammit, open up right the fuck now.”

  I sure hope the old lady is hard of hearing.

  Still nothing happens, and I’m about to shout some more, when the door opens and West blinks at me.

  “Kash?”

  “You okay? Let me in.”

  He steps aside, a questioning look on his face, but I’m too busy giving him a once-over, making sure he’s not hurt.

  “I was just going through my stuff. I wanted to grab a few things before whoever gets Grandpa’s… Jonathan’s belongings comes and takes it all away.”

  I glance inside. Nothing seems different from the last time I was here, which makes it all the weirder that nobody lives here anymore. “I heard a crash.”

  “Yeah, some things fell when I opened the closet…” He shoves a hand through his hair. “Old boxes and papers and stuff.”

  “Have you talked to anyone about an inheritance? Has Jonathan left you anything?”

  “Why would he? And who the hell would I talk to?”

  “I dunno. The police? Social services?” But he shakes his head. “What about Della?”

  “What about her? They hated me, man. Both of them. Never missed a chance to tell me.”

  “That’s… look, words are one thing, but you are family. Wouldn’t your mom leave you something?”

  “I don’t know.” He throws his hands up in the air and stalks away, and into one of the bedrooms. “She never even told me she’s my… that she was my mom. Fuck. Look, nobody contacted me so I assume that no, they didn’t leave me anything. End of story.”

  “But by law you should get what your mom owned.”

  “She owned nothing, Kash. Don’t hold your breath.”

  I follow him, wired and wary and annoyed at myself for not being more diplomatic. Guy just lost everyone, he’s right where he witnessed it all, and I’m just blurting out whatever comes to my mind.

  Awesome.

  The bedroom is tidy, adding to the illusion that someone’s still living here. The single bed is covered in a patchwork quilt, and there’s a stack of old newspapers on the nightstand, with a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

  “Is this Jonathan’s room?”

  He casts me a blank look, then nods. “Yeah.”

  I guess he’ll forever think of the guy as his grandfather, and beat himself up over it every time.

  West crouches down by the open closet, where papers spill on the carpet, pouring out of old shoeboxes.

  “What are all those?”

  “Old documents. Newspaper clippings. Some… some have to do with Della. The prizes she won.” He pushes a box away. “He stalked her, or something. Fucking hell, I’m not sure I even wanna know the whole truth.”

  “I get it.” Dropping down to the carpet, I shove papers back into the old shoeboxes. “You’ve had a fucking overdose of truth lately, buddy. Too much truth can fuck you over.”

  “A bit too late for that,” he says bitterly, letting scraps of clippings fall through his fingers. “Fuck all this. Let whoever inherits it deal with it. I’m gonna grab my things from my room and go.”

  “West, wait a sec.” I take the scraps of paper and place them into one of the boxes. “Talking about truth… There’s something else, right? Something else that happened you’re not telling us? I just—”

  “Don’t, Kash, okay, it’s none of your goddamn business—”

  “Christ, you know that’s not true anymore!” I suck in a deep breath, try to control myself. Curl my hands into fists, tell my heart to calm the fuck down, and lower my voice. “Come on, West. I can’t stand seeing you like this. I only wanna help.”

  “You can’t, dude.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You can’t solve everything, save everyone. Deal with it.”

  “Fuck you.” I shove at him. “Doesn’t mean I should stop trying. Because if I stop…” Ah fuck. My heart is racing a million miles an hour. Bile rises in my throat. “I just can’t…”

  Climbing to my feet, I stagger out, through the living room and throw the balcony door open. I fumble with my pouch, but I have a joint ready, half-smoked from before, and I stick it in my mouth.

  By the time I light up, West has come out and is leaning against the rail, gazing down at the side street below. “You okay?”

  One hand clutching the rail, I suck in smoke and give a small nod. “Yeah.”

  He waits until my breathing slows down and my grip on the rail relaxes. “What were you going to say back there? If you stop trying… what then?”

  I look down at a cat crossing the street and consider serving him his own medicine. Tell him it’s none of his business, but those were desperate words, and besides… unless I give something, I can’t expect something back, can I?

  “If I stop trying, I might as well lie down in a grave and die.”

  He sighs. “What am I missing? What’s that ink on your arms about, the phoenix and dragon? Are you in a cult or something?”

  “…A cult?” I glance down at my tattoos. That wasn’t the question I expected, though what exactly I’d expected… “No. A friend of a friend did these for me, back home.” I wince. “Back where I come from. Zane Madden is the artist’s name.”

  “Never heard of him. Where was that?”

  “North.” I watch the smoke rise. “Wisconsin.”

  He comes to stand beside me. “And why the phoenix?”

  “Dunno. Rebirth through flame? It sounded good at the time.”

  “And the dragon?”

  “That means my family fucked me over.”

  He exhales. “I can relate to that.”

  Yeah, I’ll bet. “Look, West, I can’t give up. And you can’t, either.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, West, that’s exactly right.” I bring the joint back to my mouth. “And you know why?”

  “Because you won’t let me?”

  I study the wry, faint smile on his face, and find one of my own. “That’s right, fuckhead. I won’t.”

  He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Don’t know why you bother with me, man. Seriously, I’m half-crazy. I’m an OCD freak, apparently. Kinda useless. Can’t function unless I go through my rituals.”

  I stare at him. “You’re not crazy, West. You’re as normal as any one of us.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m not joking.” I put out the joint on the rail, leave it there so I can grab his hand. “We’re in this together. I’m not letting go, man. I’m dead serious.” I squeeze his fingers. “And if you’re half-crazy, which for the record, you’re not—what can I say? You’ve grown on me.”

  He shakes his head, grins a little. “Fair enough.” He doesn’t pull his hand away. After a second, he says, “You’ve grown on me, too.”

  I hide a smile. “Good. About time, Weston.”

  “Screw you, Kash.” He’s still grinning. “Wait, is that your full name?”

  Ah, what the hell. “Kasimir. That’s my name.”

  “Kasimir. Is that Russian?”

  “That’s right.”

  I expect him to ask more questions, and I brace for them, prepare to stop him there, refuse to say more.

  But a loud cra
sh from upstairs shatters the quiet, followed by yelling.

  And then a howl of pain.

  “Shit,” West breathes. “That’s… that’s Nate.”

  What’s Nate doing here? Why the hell is he here? What’s happening?

  The questions spin in my mind as I pound up the stairs, West at my heels, another crash setting my teeth on edge.

  Hell.

  West grabs my arm, bringing me up short. He frowns and points up. They’re right above us, on the next landing. Four of them, white shirts, black pants, surrounding Nate. One is holding him in place, arms around Nate’s chest. I can’t see Nate’s face.

  I start again, only to be brought up short by West’s hand clamping on my arm. What the fuck?

  “Missed you around here, Nathaniel,” the guy is saying, his voice like a spreading oil stain. “Didn’t your dad tell you? Evenings aren’t much fun without you around.”

  My blood runs cold. Nate’s dad’s buddies. Holy fucking hell. I stare back at West. His eyes have gone dark with fury.

  “But you thought you could waltz in and not be noticed, didn’t you? Thought you were clever. Thing is, boy, we had an arrangement with your dad. We paid him money for this. So you cheated us out of our hard-earned money. Time for payback.”

  “I don’t owe you anything,” Nate hisses, “you fucking motherfuckers. I don’t—”

  Someone grunts, and Nate moans, low and agonized.

  “Bring him in,” someone else says, and I recognize Nate’s dad’s voice.

  Enough, goddammit. I’ve heard enough. Jerking my arm free of West’s hold, I start up the stairs again—only he’s ahead of me already, racing up.

  He bowls into them without a word, and man, hats off, Weston. I’d half-expected him to yell at them first, tip them off. But he went in like a pro, and anyway, they were too caught up in their little spiel to notice.

  They stumble back when West charges them, faces shocked. He knocks one of them into the wall and turns to pull the one who’d been speaking last away from Nate.

  Too many ways this could go. The guy still holding Nate may have a knife. Nate’s dad is at the door, scowling. He may have a gun.

  Would he risk his son’s life?

  Stupid question.

  And West did well to play the surprise attack card. Without slowing down, I grab the guy now trying to pull something from his pocket, and chop at his wrist, then shove him back, watching dispassionately as he crashes back to the floor.

  West grunts when one of the men he’s struggling to keep back kicks at him. West is strong and has studied some techniques from the looks of it, but he isn’t used to a real fight. He hasn’t been trained by a professional, seasoned underground ring fighter, trained in dirty fighting, like me.

  Still, we’re good. These guys seemed huge a year ago when I’d first seen them, but I’ve gained both height and muscle since then. Right now they seem so fucking small it makes me wanna laugh.

  I step on the guy on the ground when he tries to get up, and he cries out. Nate’s dad is definitely going for a gun, and I sprint at him, shoving Nate and the guy holding him out of the way. Nate’s dad pulls out the gun, and I kick at his hand, sending the gun flying through the air. It crashes to the floor, and he stumbles backward, face twisted in shock.

  Turning back to Nate, I quickly take stock. There’s blood on Nate’s T-shirt, on his white face, but he’s watching me. That’s good.

  What isn’t so good is that his pants are undone, hanging half-around his hips.

  My stomach turns.

  “Let him go,” I tell the guy, my teeth gritting, on the off-chance he will, but he tightens his arms around Nate who gasps, face going white.

  Rib injury.

  I hope it’s just that.

  “Kash! Shit.” West is losing control of the guys he’s been grappling with, and I kick back at one of them, then turn and grab his arm, pulling him off balance as I deliver a jab into his ribcage.

  I shove the guy to join the other on the floor, stomp on his hand for good measure, his screech echoing in the stairwell. I hope the old lady from downstairs is wise enough to stay inside her apartment and not come out to see what all the noise is.

  Or call the police.

  Shit.

  I leave the last guy to West, spare a glance at the apartment door where Nate’s dad is getting back on his feet—and where the fuck is the gun now?—before returning my attention to Nate.

  Knife. Yeah, I knew it. The guy has a knife. What is the dumbass trying to get out of this? The guy’s eyes are wide, his pupils dilated. That’s not just adrenaline. I wonder what drugs they’re all taking to get so jacked-up.

  Though men don’t need much to get all excited over a game, and the more violent and disturbing, the better…

  “Didn’t I say to let him go?” I growl. The knife is pressing into the side of Nate’s neck, drops of blood rolling down, dying Nate’s white T-shirt crimson. “Asshole.”

  Knives are tricky. Can’t fuck around, give the motherfucker time to decide ending Nate’s life is a good idea. His hand with the knife is shaking.

  Eyes. Somehow I gotta go for the eyes, then throat.

  After I move that knife away from Nate.

  Need to throw something at him, get him off-balance. I reach back into my pocket. Only thing I got is my lighter.

  What the hell, right? Gotta work with what you got.

  I chuck it at the dirty-blond head of Nate’s assailant, watch with satisfaction as it hits him, glancing off his forehead, the knife wavering.

  Feinting to the side, I pull the hand with the knife away from Nate, and punch the guy in the side, then, before he has a chance to recover, send an upper hand chop at his throat. Once is not enough, so I punch him again, then twist and strike with my hard, bony elbow, choking him.

  His hold on Nate falls away, and I spare Nate a worried glance as he stumbles away and falls to the floor.

  Time to blow this joint.

  “West! Get Nate, take him out of here.” The knife clatters to the floor, and my guy is now grabbing his throat and making choking noises.

  I shove him hard, right against Nate’s dad, sending them both crashing into the apartment.

  West has the guy he’s been fighting in a chokehold. “Kash—”

  “I’ve got this. Go, now.” I draw my fist back, and let it fly at the guy he’s holding. A flurry of punches to the solar plexus, and the guy slumps over.

  West grunts, releasing him, stepping over him. “See you at home. Be careful.”

  I’m already moving toward Nate’s dad and the other asshole, keeping a lookout for that goddamn gun. “Yeah.”

  Nate groans when West hauls him to his feet, then his knees give out again.

  He’s hurt, goddammit.

  Goddamn them all. I bulldoze into the duo at the door, send them crashing back. My thoughts are blazing bullets tearing through my brain. What they did…. What they did to Nate. My brain doesn’t want to wrap itself around the truth.

  Much easier to kick the shit out of these fucking cunts.

  I locate the gun the moment the others see it. We lunge for it, and I do my best to ignore the echoes of gunshots in my head, memories that could send me into a spin of panic.

  Not now. I push the other guy away as I kick the gun, praying the safety is on, and send it crashing against the far wall. Nate’s dad comes at me, and oh man, all my hatred for him flares up, fury heating my skin and sending my heart pumping.

  “You fucking asshole.” I’m so fucking pissed, I plow into him, throw him against a chair, and follow as they both go crashing down. “You piece of shit.” I kick at him, grab him, lift him and punch him in the jaw. “You sick fuck.”

  The other guy grabs me from behind, but I twist and elbow him in the gut, turning and chopping at the side of his neck with the edge of my hand, and he stumbles back.

  I turn back to Nate’s dad. He’s still on the floor, looking dazed, a cut over his eye leaking blood. I
wanna wrap my hands around his neck and wring it. I wanna burn this place down the ground.

  Deep breaths, a tiny voice in my mind whispers. Not gonna happen, Kash, and just so you know… maybe killing this guy isn’t a good idea. Trauma or not, he’s still Nate’s dad.

  Plus, you’ll be caught, and then it’s all over.

  Somewhere, beyond the roaring in my ears, I think I hear sirens.

  Fuck. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

  Turning, stepping over the jerks lying moaning on the floor, I make my way out.

  Buildings streak by as I run down the street, not sure if the police sirens I’m hearing are real or inside my head. Getting out of the building was a blur. The whole afternoon is a blur.

  After turning into side streets, pounding down sidewalk after sidewalk, I finally slow down. The adrenaline that kept me going is fading, leaving me shaking.

  I bend over, bracing my hands on my knees, struggling to get my breath back.

  The words I heard earlier rush back, and now everything makes sense—Nate’s aversion to being touched, the panic attacks when things get hot and heavy, when he’s not in control.

  Nate’s vehement insistence that his dad didn’t hurt him makes sense. Because it wasn’t his dad, not directly. He passed his son on to his buddies for money, and what did they do with him, what did they—?”

  Oh fuck, I think I’m gonna be sick.

  After a while I straighten and pull out my phone, miraculously still intact after the fight, to call West.

  At least it wasn’t Nate’s dad, or his stepmom who got it on with him, that same little voice in my mind quips. Because, fuck.

  It’s a small consolation, though, to know he’d been passed around like a plaything among these guys—and for how long was that going on?

  The bile returns in my throat, and I spit in the dirt. The phone rings, once, twice, and again. What if something else happened, what if there were more guys arriving and caught them, what if Nate is seriously injured, what if—

  “Hey,” West’s voice says in my ear, and I close my eyes in relief. “You okay? Did you get out?”

  “I’m out, yeah.”