The front doors of the manor were splintered, its bricks a burnt gray. Jean kicked the way open once more, shattering the door’s hinges in the process. They hung crookedly in place. It wasn’t the first time they had been forced open.
“Do you intend to kick everything open?” Chari asked.
“You knockin’ what works?”
As Zaja followed, she heard Zella gently say, “Come along now,” and looked back to see her bringing their wagon and steed around the side of the manor. “I’ll come in as soon as I’ve made certain this guy is taken care of,” she assured Zaja. The wagon rattled off and disappeared, and so Zaja followed the others inside.
The foyer was drafty, the furniture and carpet closest to the broken windows riddled with black mold. Dirt and dust and cobwebs draped the entry, from the wooden floors to the grand staircase climbing to the upper levels. There were signs of looting, but it was hard to tell how much had actually been stolen—most likely only smaller valuables, given the distance from town. Zaja walked to a nearby bookshelf, pulling a volume down. The dust wafted off as she opened the book, and a few dry pages slipped from her hands.
“This may be more luxurious than I am comfortable with,” Poe said. “It will do, so long as we do not languish here for long. We’ve already felt once the danger in becoming complacent.”
He exited through a hall to the right, leaving Zaja with Flynn, Jean, and Chari.
“First time in a while we get our own rooms,” Jean said. She turned to Flynn, and looked him in the eyes. “That said, ‘til we’re ready to go? Leave me the fuck alone.”
Flynn’s mouth soured, but he nodded his agreement. Chari, taken aback by this, stepped in. “Jean, if this is regarding that matter on the bridge … it was an ugly, yes—”
“This ain’t about that. Sure didn’t do him any favors, though. No…” She turned to Flynn. “I’ve been cognatin’ over what you said, back in that tunnel. Yer right. Was my fault. I lost Mack. But a decent friend wouldn’t have been so fuckin’ cold in sayin’ it.”
Chari was aghast, and as Jean stormed off down the central hall, she looked at Flynn in stunned disbelief. “You blamed her?”
“She was angry,” Flynn said. “Would have buried us both. It was the only way she would snap out of it.” He offered no more explanation, and Chari followed Jean, looking back long enough to show her disappointment. Zaja lingered, unsure who to support. For all the awful things Flynn had done, he had gotten them this far and kept them together. Yet given a little space and a few walls between them, they had all come apart.
She hesitated at first, but found the courage to place her cold palm on Flynn’s arm. Though it was a gesture meant to share warmth, Zaja knew she was getting more than she gave. Even so, she said, “There, there,” in hopes of comforting him. His was a hollow smile, and she took her leave down the left hallway, in hopes of finding a room the winds hadn’t breached.
*
In one of the upstairs chambers, Poe had left his cloak strewn across a dusty table, and it fluttered as the unlatched window opened and slammed shut with the wind. It would have blown off had his father’s sword, the Searing Truth, not been atop it. Though the blade shone as if newly forged, its edge blessed to never dull, it had seen more blood by Poe’s hand than by all his ancestors combined. Guardian Norin had not intended to pass the blade to such a young child, and though it was his birthright, Poe cared little for it.
Poe sat in a chair across the room, his eyes fixed on the Dark Sword, which rested against the wall, steadily teetering back and forth, its point boring into the ground. It yearned to be held, to be used, and the want to obey haunted Poe, who always thought himself the blade’s master, even though he’d bound his very soul to it.
He rose abruptly to take his leave of it for a time, and made it down the hall and around a corner before sickness took him. Poe staggered forward, waiting for the nausea to pass as he gripped the railing of the second floor hall. Below, a forgotten ballroom stood in the heart of the manor, the skylight having shattered long ago, leaving the middle of the room strewn with broken glass and rotten leaves, its ornately patterned floor blackened by mold and decay.
Still the sickness would not pass and he shook his head, trying to imagine the galas this place had once seen, but his imagination failed him. He had grown up in isolation, and could only turn his mind back again and again to the blade’s oily surface, to the thought of caressing its asymmetrical edges and gripping the comforting hilt.
All before him was ruin, the wind howling uninvitingly outside. He turned back the way he had come, and immediately felt better. “Damn it,” he muttered, staggering back to his chambers. It wasn’t until he saw the blade once more that the sickness truly abated, yet as he picked it up, the joy he felt in it quickly dulled. There was too much shame now in holding it, and however much he wished, he couldn’t blame an object for the horrors he’d performed.
“Were I already a god…”
As a man, Poe would never escape the crimes he had committed. His only hope for salvation was to transcend them. He didn’t belong in a place like this, shielded from the elements by four walls and a roof; he had been raised in the wilds and should have been taking shelter beneath the branches of a tree. Were he more than human, perhaps then he might finally deserve a place.
Unable to bear the loneliness of this artificial solitude, he sheathed the Dark Sword and left his chosen chambers, hoping to find company. The others had sequestered themselves away, but a door on the lower floor creaked open, and light danced through it.
Poe peered in to find Zaja asleep by the hearth, her choli loose and the flame reflecting off her blue-skinned shoulder. It was hardly warmer in here than in the cold manor halls, and Poe had little doubt that autumn was settling in, with a colder winter to follow. Zaja would be a poor choice of companion for the weather to come.
I’m staying with you. A near-forgotten voice echoed in his mind. To the end.
Her pale skin and ebony hair had faded in his memories, and she no longer possessed a face he could recall. He tried to see these features on Zaja, but seeking to remember just hurt him all the more.
Above the fireplace hung a portrait, likely depicting the family that once lived here. Its oils were dark and difficult to see, leading Poe to borrow the flashlight from Zaja’s belongings. He flicked it on and saw a large family. A clawed hand had shredded through it, but those depicted remained unwaveringly stoic.
As he studied it, Poe tried to see the story of this forgotten family, but could only mirror it to his own. Resting her hands on the shoulders of their eldest son was the mother, and he felt a twinge of envy in seeing that her role was more than that of birthing a single child whom she would never cradle in her arms; she had remained, watched her progeny grow, and helped shape them along the way.
The father beside her was an icon of stability and trust, not some lonely man who would die in the woods, leaving a meager inheritance in small, unready hands. But it was the children who pained Poe the most, to see the eldest son and know his formative years were not spent alone, gripping a sword in two rattling hands, unable to fathom what the blood drying on them truly meant.
And he was not alone. He had brothers and sisters to keep him from the brink, even without his parents. Poe envied all of it, for as a boy, his avarice had cost him. He had lost his father, and could never be one himself—he’d lost the would-be mother of his own child long ago.
Zaja snorted in her sleep, shattering Poe’s reverie. She reminded him too much just then of someone and he left quickly, remembering now that he was better off alone.
*
It had been a long time since Jean had felt so alone. Sleeping on the road had always meant having others around her, and even when she’d had a separate room, Mack always stayed close by. During their imprisonment, there was an underlying hope that she would see him again; in this lonely room, all certainties had been stripped from her.
Jean unlatched the glass
door to the Juliet balcony that overlooked the back of the estate and stepped out to rest against the rail. The wind had intensified since their arrival, and down below Zella was tending the beast that had hauled their wagon. She could see him eating through the stable window, from a bucket Zella had hooked on his horns. No one had ever given him a name and so, privately, Jean called him Mr. Prim-Prim.
“Did I do it wrong?” she asked herself. “Did I fuck it all up?”
She’d never loved Mack, not like he loved her, but she would have killed in a heartbeat to protect him. Now even that protective instinct had faded, replaced by a fear that he’d never seen her for who she really was; did he only ever idealize her? Did the Jean he loved even resemble the real deal?
“Would you like any company?” Zella asked from below, planting a hand to keep her skirt in place against the wind.
“I’m fine,” Jean lied. She hated being alone, but could no longer trust anyone’s affections for her. “Yo. Is Mr. Prim-Prim gonna be okay in there?”
“Mr.…?” Zella started in confusion, before glancing back and realizing who she meant. “He’s fine. Same dull, listless creature, really. Hasn’t even noticed all the bones.”
“Bones?”
“Others like him,” Zella replied. “All throughout the pens. When this estate was abandoned, they were left to starve. Someone was supposed to take care of them and, one way or another, let them all down.”
As Jean stood up from the railing, the wind beat her warm cheeks. In the sky, she could see the stars, vibrant and numerous. Some among them hosted worlds like Earth and Breth, and the other places they’d been and might one day go. Any thrill of traveling the cosmos had left her, and a forlorn question escaped her lips.
“Why are we still here?”
Down below, Zella hesitated to answer. “When I understand, I’ll tell you.”
She returned to the house, leaving Jean gazing into the shadowy forest. The wind froze and Jean hated it, but feared if she found the strength to move, she might leave now and never return.
*
The cracked bottle was more than half empty when Flynn found it, rolled behind a wrecked cabinet in the master bedroom. It tasted like brandy, though he only had one swig before corking it back up. As he cradled it in his hands, its contents shifted back and forth. Someone’s clothes and personal effects were strewn around his feet and throughout the chamber. The bed on the far side was shattered in the middle, its curtains half torn. They must have come in the night, while the family was still sleeping, he concluded.
But for a crack of moonlight through the drapes, all was dark. It was enough for Flynn, and he sat staring vacantly, unable to act or rest. The journey had been long and there were too many possible avenues, and no means to know which way would be the right one. He felt trapped with indecision, and would have remained so until dawn, had someone not rapped on his door. The bottle rolled from his lap and under the chair as he rose wearily. He opened his chamber door to find Zella waiting in the hall, her brilliant eyes gleaming in the darkness.
“I wish to speak with you,” she stated. He stood aside, and she let herself in, crossing the room as he retook his seat. Zella pulled the curtains open and moonlight crashed through, causing Flynn to wince as his eyes adjusted to the shock. Behind the curtains was a bench lined with sun-bleached cushions, and she settled in for a lengthy discussion.
“We have space here,” she explained, “and the privacy to speak without risking attention. This is to remain between us, that I don’t become the one responsible for injuring the group as a whole.”
“Then speak.”
Flynn searched under the chair, found the bottle he’d dropped, and set it upright. He’d already predicted what Zella had come to say, almost verbatim, and it was only out of courtesy that he let her speak uninterrupted. I am considering taking my leave from your company. You’ve placed me in danger, Flynn—not those anticipated, from Arronel or the Reahv’li or other hostile forces. It was you. You threatened to cut my throat to keep my self-proclaimed rescuers at bay.
When she finished, Flynn lowered his head and forced his eyes shut. That she was considering staying was as much to say that she wanted to; that she knew him and what he could do only made her a challenge. But he didn’t want to win her through manipulation or deceit, and while his mind raced to find the right words, he said nothing.
“Why do you do it?” she pled. “Why do you do such reprehensible things to the people who love you?” She didn’t count herself, having warned him once that she had no love for him, and he knew nothing in her had changed. She sat patiently, her hands on her lap as she waited for an answer.
“I never would have let Jean come to harm,” he told her. “Back on the bridge, I almost picked you. Owing to the incident on the train, I faltered momentarily. But it was more than that, with Jean … I trust her to take care of herself. I trust her.”
“Even so…”
Flynn did not want to confess. Zella watched him with eyes unclouded by judgment, wanting only to understand. He had to admit to one of the many terrible things he’d done if they were to come to terms.
“I was in the same situation before: a depraved gatekeeper and an innocent victim, and back then, I gave him what he wanted. She was voiceless, and no one cared enough to help someone who couldn’t help herself. Afterward, I cleaned her up and delivered her to loving parents, who remained oblivious of what had befallen her. Even if she could speak, it wasn’t in her character to.”
While Zella closed her eyes and took his story in with muted horror, Flynn uncorked the bottle and took another swig. In another chair across the room, veiled in shadow, he saw his father, drunk on moonshine and his own delusions of grandeur. Flynn inwardly winced at the subconscious manifestation. This is why I don’t drink. Still, even with the baggage it brought to the surface, it helped numb some of the pain.
He must have lingered on that spot for a while, because when Zella said his name, he startled. Sitting beside her now was the mute girl from his story—Shendra. She looked confused, and he tried to remember if it was the expression she’d worn as she was being taken away or when she was brought back.
Zella, oblivious to the apparition Flynn’s mind had conjured, asked again, “Why do you do it?”
“You’ve seen Earth,” he replied distantly. He took another swig, staring at Shendra, who looked guardedly back at him. “You’ve seen the children who die in the streets of sickness and hunger; who live at the hands of slavers and pedophiles. Not to condescend, Zella, but it must be easy to come from better worlds and judge us for what we were all made to be. Few of us were born monsters, and the things we do, what we become … it’s common,” he concluded, looking away.
“Then it’s just one of many terrible things you’ve done to survive.” He couldn’t tell if her voice held contempt or pity, and didn’t want to read her and find out. Making eye contact would mean looking at Shendra again, and he squirmed at the thought of it.
“I didn’t start out hoping to be terrible,” Flynn replied. “I learned young that I excelled as a liar. I hadn’t been a runaway for three days when someone took a shot at me for stealing food. It was easier to convince them I was collecting on behalf of a forgotten debt.” He felt another pair of eyes judging him from the shadows. “Eating for more than a day meant doing far worse, and I learned early on not to feel anything at all.”
“Until you became as you are,” Zella concluded. “An inconvenient change of heart, too late to mean a thing.”
Flynn was exhausted and gave no response. She had no solace to give him, no sympathy for his sins. She didn’t condemn him either, but simply nodded, thanked him for his time, and left. Restless, drifting in and out of thinnest sleep, Flynn sat alone with the phantom eyes watching from the shadows.
CHAPTER SIX: A Broken Home
After a night of unsteady sleep, dawn finally crept in. Flynn had drifted in and out, met with memories of people he once knew and, at time
s, it was difficult to tell if he was dreaming or awake. When he climbed from the chair, his limbs stiff and sore from the previous day, the morning sun had only begun to color the sky with brilliant streaks of orange. He walked to the window overlooking the courtyard and surveyed the grounds in the morning light, humbled by neglect and wear.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he finally confessed. “All Airia gave us was Einré Maraius’s name, but I wouldn’t know her if she approached me in a crowd.” He hadn’t finished the brandy, but his head pulsed with a hangover anyway. “There are just too many possibilities.”
“And yet you’re talking to me about it,” a voice behind him inquired. “Why?”
Flynn turned and leaned on the window, rubbing his tired eyes. Death reposed in the chair he’d been using, her legs crossed over the armrest. Her black catsuit sheened as Flynn moved from the window and the morning sun passed across it. When they first met, she’d introduced herself as Scytha.
“All I know is what you know, Flynn,” she continued. “The name ‘Einré’ means no more to me than to you or anyone else.”
“I know, I know,” he replied. “I just need a sounding board. I … I have so many questions. Maybe I’m just not asking the right ones.”
Scytha sighed, and crossed to the windowsill to sit on the sun-bleached cushions; were she real, she’d have brushed Flynn along the way. “Consider this, then: Airia meant for you to be able to find this Einré, this needle in a haystack. She would have logically set you on the right path, at least.”
“Without knowing her intent, it’s more likely we came this far randomly. By chance. That all she could do was get us to safety, and all we’ve done is seek the path of least resistance.” He fought to concentrate, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Airia’s been captured. We lost Mack and Leria … but it happened right near a conduit to another world. Maybe she fed Renivar’s people information, forced us down the rabbit hole?”
Killers, Traitors, & Runaways: Outcasts of the Worlds, Book II Page 14
