“It’s Wednesday,” Henry said. “Perhaps I could tell you over a beer?”
“Ah! You’ve always been one for traditions. What will it be when you grow old and bitter?” He began sliding the noodles into a tote bag. “Whatever your old man did, it’d better be good because you sure gave your other family some sleepless nights. That’ll be two-forty-eight.”
Henry bit his lower lip and handed him the money. He’d disappeared into the night without a note of reassurance and hadn’t spared a thought for Kinsi and Tia. Had he learned nothing from a decade of worrying about his father? Lenz had inflicted this treatment upon him and he’d hated it, but in the end he’d done the exact same thing.
“I’m sorry, Kinsi. Really am.”
The grocer gave a non-committal shrug and handed him his change. “There’s a good pub a block down the road. Be there at the usual time.”
“I will,” he promised.
He grabbed his bag and hurried out of the grocery, red-faced and unable to look back. Kinsi was angry at him, rightly so, but Henry needed someone to talk with now who wasn’t a rebel. Andeal’s dangerous universe had closed upon him and created a bubble he had to pop. Soon they’d fly out again, radio in tow, and he wouldn’t speak to anyone innocent for months. Henry used to love solitude but his new responsibility weighed on him. Kinsi had always been there when he needed to vent. He would be again.
In fact, he was already inside the pub by the time Henry walked in that night.
The small establishment had none of Paul’s ambiance. Garish red bench seats lined the walls in half-circles around black metal tables and took up most of the space. Courtball posters covered the walls and a blue-and-white shirt—probably Reverence’s sport team’s colors—hung behind the counter. A few men had clustered around a dartboard on the far end of the room. Two radios, one at each end of the room, played the national broadcast, but the announcer’s drab voice was buried by cheering and the buzz of conversations.
Kinsi had selected an isolated table, far from the dart game. As Henry pushed through the packed crowd he noticed another familiar face. The pockmarked customer he’d bumped into earlier sat stretched on a bench seat, at his ease, with a huge tome propped against his knees. He smiled as their gazes met, then returned to his reading. Despite the city’s ridiculous size, Reverence’s neighborhoods acted much like a small village: if you hung around, you ran into the same folks over and over again.
As long as he didn’t run into any of the Radio Tower’s guards from that night, he should be fine. Henry kept his eyes to the ground as he hurried across the room and plopped down in front of Kinsi.
“Didn’t know you were a courtball fan,” he said.
“I’m not, but their ale is something to behold, the service is quick, and I don’t mind the noise.” The grocer hailed a waitress and ordered two more pints. Then he put a small bag on the table. “Cucumbers.”
Henry didn’t need to ask whose gift this was. He brought the bag close with a smile. “She had room for a garden?”
“She wouldn’t buy a house that didn’t. The tiny yard at my daughter’s almost drove her mad. That’s not something I ever want to see again.” He stopped as the waitress came back with their drinks. Henry’s eyebrows shot up—that’d been quicker than Paul, and they had dozens of others to see to. Kinsi grabbed the handle and drank deep, cleaning half of it in a single shot. “We aren’t here for Tia’s garden love, though.”
“I guess not. It’s a bit of a long story.”
“I’ve got all night.”
In truth, Henry would rather talk of Tia’s garden craze. News from Kinsi’s headstrong wife warmed his heart and made him forget the mess he’d stepped into, if only for a second. Everyday banter was what he’d come for but until he explained himself, he’d have none. He tried to drown the disappointment with fresh ale.
“Did you hear about the radio hijack? The Noodle Show?” he asked.
“Who didn’t? It’s on everyone’s lips, any time there’s no soldier around to hear.” Something seemed to cross Kinsi’s mind. He squinted at Henry. “Did you name it?”
Henry hesitated. Just how much could he entrust Kinsi with? The old grocer was no revolutionary and it wasn’t fair to get him involved.
“These rebels…the guy who knew my father is one of them. He named the show. After me. Lenz had given him something for me before he died, a message they didn’t understand. I left to help them decipher it. I needed to know.”
Kinsi settled back in his seat and studied him with questioning eyes. Under the table, Henry tapped his foot. He tried to remain calm, but a doubtful expression surfaced on the grocer’s face and he knew his story wasn’t enough. Kinsi crossed his arms and spoke in a slow, deliberate manner.
“That does not explain the kicked-in door or the inquisitive Union soldiers that followed, looking for one of their own.”
Henry’s heart sped. The Union did not know a worse liar than him. How could he justify Vermen’s disappearance? He cast a furtive glance about. No one seemed to pay them any heed. He wiped his sweaty forehead, though his arms were just as sticky from the heat. Before he tried to explain, however, Kinsi raised a hand and stopped him.
“Did they force you? Hurt you? Do you need help?”
“No.”
“Is the captain alive?”
“I think so. We never hurt him but the bombs—”
“We…” Kinsi repeated. He leaned forward, more concerned than ever. “Boy, I can tell you stepped into a big fat mess. There’s something healthier about you though, a drive that had died with the Races, so if you tell me you’re in there willingly, I won’t slip a word about it.”
Henry didn’t bother to hide his immense relief. His shoulders relaxed, he downed his ale in one hearty chug, then he bent forward and let his voice fall into a calm whisper. Now that they were talking about it, spilling the rest became easier.
“Father left because he had proof that mom’s death wasn’t natural.”
“She died of the thresties.”
“Exactly.” He paused to let the information sink in. Kinsi rubbed his face but didn’t comment yet. “He’s right, Kinsi, and the rebels have tons of evidence pointing to the same conclusion. That’s what the radio is for.”
“So you’re saying someone created the Threstle Plague.”
“Clarin.”
“He discovered the cure.”
“Yes. Discovered.”
Henry wasn’t good with sarcasm, but Kinsi grunted as he caught the implied meaning. He kept his eyes half-closed, pondering.
“Will you listen to our radio?” Henry asked.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell others to do the same?”
The grocer’s mouth quirked at the question. “I might.”
“You have to. We think Clarin could have another virus ready. He was testing—”
“Stop, please.” Kinsi slid out of the bench and left a large bill on the table. Henry’s stomach twisted as he understood what it meant. “Be careful out there.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Henry, I’m out of my depth here. I’ll keep your secrets and follow your radio, but the soldiers have got your name and it seems to me that every minute in your company puts the rest of my family in danger. If you’re ever out of options you can come and I’ll help, but otherwise this business ain’t mine, and I’d rather be kept out of it.”
Words flitted through Henry’s head as he searched for a way to convince Kinsi to stay and chat, but everything he came up with sounded false and self-serving to him and, in truth, it was. He’d sought only to fulfill his needs by coming here and hadn’t even thought of the danger he put Kinsi in.
“I’m sorry,” he said as his foster father turned to leave.
“Don’t. At least we know you’re alive…for now.”
The grocer slipped into the crowd and disappeared from view. Henry slumped against his seat and tried to ignore the growing lump at the bottom of
his stomach. He’d needed to escape the entrapping knowledge and fake, just this once, that he knew nothing of the Clarin brothers’ evils. He couldn’t. There would be no release—not until everyone knew.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Elmsfield. An emerald glow flanked by a thick forest and smooth farmlands. The first civilization he’d encountered since departing Ferrea, Seraphin’s gun pointed at his back. As he sat in the tall grass and studied the tiny houses crowded together, their rooftops a cluster of green lights, Vermen contemplated how much his life had changed since he’d last walked into a village. He was once a proud captain, confident in his ability, full of unshakable certitudes. The rebels were naught but lowly criminals to be crushed, President Kurtmann was a man of honor, and nothing mattered more than his service in the Union army—except perhaps catching the White Renegade. He remembered driving down the slope to Schmitt’s isolated shack, positive he’d at last accomplish his long-deserved revenge.
Now they approached a town similar to Ferrea, only livelier, and Vermen had no idea where his steps led him. He walked among rebels instead of chasing them, wrestled with the idea Kurtmann and the Clarins had killed thousands to gain power, and had kissed his sworn enemy. He had more doubts than certainties and would rather stay behind to clear the mess in his mind.
The long grass rustled behind him as someone approached. Vermen kept his gaze on the bundle of homes in which honest folks slept. They’d sent somebody to fetch him. The time had come to sneak down there and wake the one person in this nowhere village who led a double life.
“Will you come with me?”
Vermen took a sharp breath when he recognized Seraphin’s nasal voice. They had found him in the very tunnel Vermen had left him, crouched over canned meat with a heavy pointed rock, trying to smash it open with what little strength he had left. Still in a famished daze, Hans had moved to his side faster than anyone else. Too fast, judging from the curious look Maniel gave him as she followed. He stepped back to let her give Seraphin a quick examination and then, with Joshua’s help, they carried him away, until they could find the caverns’ exit.
Everyone had eaten since then and though the meager meals brought little satisfaction, they kept them on their feet. The Regarian strode up to him and sat in one graceful movement. The grass was so tall his hair mingled with its tip, both pale in the moonlight.
“I shouldn’t,” Vermen said. “I don’t want to be identified as a rebel.”
Seraphin turned to him with a frown. He seemed hurt. “You are one.”
Vermen tore a blade of grass from the ground and played with it. “I feel like life misplaced me and forgot I belonged on the other side.”
When he had saved Andeal, he’d buried the Union soldier inside him in favor of a friend. How had this morphed into preserving all rebels? Worse, how had it become kissing the White Renegade? His throat tightened and his palms turned sweaty whenever he thought about it. Even though he couldn’t deny his attraction, he shouldn’t have.
Seraphin wrapped his fingers around his pistol’s cross. He traced the red string in a mindless, distracted manner. Vermen wondered if the Regarian even noticed when he touched his skeptar.
“Sometimes I think you were right and I deserve to die,” he said. Vermen stopped folding and unfolding his bit of grass, stared at Seraphin as the rebel leader continued in a wistful tone. “What you did for us—the warning, despite your allegiance and your vows—I could’ve done for my family. I could have snuck from camp the night before they were killed and told them your brother had found their resistance cell’s meeting place, that our platoon had orders to crash the next reunion. Instead I stood by and watched the tavern burn. What kind of man lets his family die without even trying?”
The same man that can meet another’s gaze and blow his brains out. The words burned his lips, but Vermen held them inside. He cleared his throat but his voice remained hoarse.
“You avenged them. What kind of man helps his brother’s killer and listens to his sob story instead of putting a bullet in his head?”
A tense silence followed his question. That hurt frown returned to Seraphin’s expression. They both knew what had gone unsaid there, what Vermen had left out. He never wanted to talk about it again.
Seraphin, however, had a different plan.
“The kind of man who kisses him, too.”
Vermen’s temper flared and he grabbed a handful of grass to keep his hands from curling into fists. “Don’t ever mention that again.”
“No?”
Holt’s lips curved into a mocking smile and he jumped to his feet, took a deep breath. He was getting ready to shout it! Vermen scrambled after Seraphin, grabbed his arm, and slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Don’t.”
Only then did he realize how close they were again, their faces only inches apart. He could feel Seraphin’s hot breath in his palm, his warmth in the night. Vermen’s head spun, his breath deepened. He gritted his teeth and tried to wrestle control over himself. Yet when Seraphin locked his gaze, he removed his hand but did not step back. A spark of amusement danced in his companion’s eyes as he put a hand on Vermen’s hip. The captain froze, blood rushing against his temple, torn between running away and the strong desire to just not move.
“Please,” he whispered.
He didn’t even know what he meant by that. Seraphin did, apparently.
He leaned forward and kissed him, the hand on his hip tightening its grip to keep him from backing away too fast, but Vermen didn’t even try, too stunned. Too amazed. His lips parted and he let Seraphin in, shutting out his thoughts and the world. Reality would catch up soon enough. Just once, he wanted to believe he could kiss a man—any man—without consequences. When Seraphin pulled back, Hans almost held onto him. The Regarian smiled.
“See? It’s just a kiss.” His voice was soft and serious, devoid of the usual mocking undertone. “I’ve kissed men and women and people who are neither. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. We leave for Elmsfield in ten minutes.”
Seraphin turned around without another look and headed back toward the camp. Vermen watched his every step, hot, confused, half-certain he would wake up and discover this was a strange hunger-induced dream. He ran his thumb over his lower lip, took a deep breath when he felt it shake. Not a dream. No need to think too much of it, either.
With a smile of his own, Vermen followed Seraphin down the rise to their small camp.
They joined Maniel and Joshua, who flung an empty backpack his way. “Hurry up, Captain! They won’t wait for us all night.”
“Calm down, Joshua. They don’t even know we’re coming,” Maniel remarked.
They started toward the small town anyway, Joshua skipping ahead and clearing a path in the tall grass, his hand drifting over the large blades as he hummed to himself. Someone else would be getting a kiss tonight.
“Will we be staying the night?” Joshua asked.
Seraphin snickered. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? But no, I don’t want to risk prolonging our presence there. We go in and out under the cover of darkness.”
Joshua fell silent after a quick disappointed grunt. They trekked through the field, the greenery rustling at their passage. The ground squished under Vermen’s soles, wet from the morning rain, and a strong pungent odor filled his nostrils. He inhaled, glad to smell something other than dust and rocks. As they described a large arc around the village, Vermen allowed his eyes to stray toward the sky. The stars shone, the moon was full, the crickets chirped. A perfect summer night. Spring had come and gone while he was trapped underground.
They passed through the forest and he smiled as his boots crushed leaves and twigs. Every reminder of nature’s presence gladdened his heart. They soon reached a large estate, isolated from Elmsfield by rows of old trees and a wooden fence. Joshua jumped it without hesitation. Vermen followed with more care and helped Maniel over. Seraphin tripped into it, however, as though he’d underestimated the height he nee
ded to jump. He landed with a grunt and hurried to his feet. Since he had lost his glasses in Mount Kairn’s bombing, the Regarian stumbled on a lot of small obstacles. Vermen had never realised how blind he was without them.
Hans waited for Seraphin to catch up, then they ran across the mown lawn and crouched under a long window. Joshua sprang up and knocked on the glass in a specific sequence. Minutes passed in silence. He glanced inside then repeated it. A knock, a pause, two knocks. Vermen’s heart beat in sync as he mentally repeated the code. A light turned on inside, revealing a kitchen behind lace curtains. Seraphin’s lips curled into a smile and he strode forward.
A man in his early sixties opened the window and leaned forward. He wore an old pink bathrobe with matching slippers and carried a thick tome. With a shaking hand, he set tiny glasses on his nose’s end and squinted at the group. His wrinkled face split in a warm grin.
“Seraphin Holt, you young bugger! We’d begun thinking you were dead!”
“Dead, me? Stop this nonsense and open up.”
The old man mumbled a curse, set his heavy book on the windowsill, and moved away. The nearby door’s lock clicked and it opened with a plaintive creak. A white head peeked out.
“Come on in,” he said. “And Joshua, Martin will need help with the tea.”
“Yes sir. Right away, sir!”
He rushed inside under the amused gazes of his friends. Seraphin, Maniel, and Vermen followed at a calmer pace and the elder closed the door behind them, locking it fast. He led them to the living room where a selection of old sofas crowded around a low center table. A radio rested on it but it only gave background noise, ill-adjusted to the National Broadcast wave. A fire burned high, recently lit, and added a comforting warmth to the already enveloping atmosphere. Their dirty boots left clear mud marks on the floor. Now that he had a better light, the old man studied the group and his thin eyebrows shot up.
“You brought unusual friends,” he said, then extended his hand to Maniel. “Maniel, I presume? It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
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