The Arrivals

  “I don’t know you, or much about this world,” she hedged.

  “True.” Jack motioned toward the tavern. “If you want some of those questions answered, I’m willing to answer them. Hector hired out a few rooms.”

  Chloe glanced at Ajani’s increasingly distant figure and then at Jack. “Is that what you meant? Just talking?”

  The look Jack gave her spoke more clearly than words. “You seem a lot more clearheaded now than you were in the desert.”

  “Enough so that I’m not going into a room with just the two of us.”

  He was quiet for a moment, and she wondered if she’d offended him. She was on the verge of clarifying that it wasn’t that she thought ill of him at all when he stepped closer to her.

  “Sometimes all I want is to have a few hours when I don’t have to think about monsters, including Ajani, or wonder why we all ended up here,” Jack said in a low voice. The dangerous undertone that she’d heard in his voice earlier was nowhere to be heard now, but what was there instead—raw honesty—was even more tempting.

  “I get it,” Chloe admitted. She’d lost herself in various ways over the years. Unfortunately, bottles and bodies only delayed fears; they didn’t provide answers. At the same time she couldn’t shake that sense of instinctual protectiveness she’d felt in the street. She liked Jackson Reed, trusted him more than she could explain, and she wanted to spend time with him. Maybe it was a latent cowboy fixation or just a response to the way he looked. Regardless of the reason, she wanted to find out more about him, but she wasn’t about to let herself tumble into bed that easily, so she gave him the only answer she could just then.

  “Talking would be good.”

  Chapter 24

  Seeing Ajani always made Kitty feel like her last reserve of goodwill was going to vanish. By nature, she wasn’t a violent woman; she took no pleasure in the things she’d had to do to survive. Sometimes, she thought that was at the core of her issues with her brother: he saw their unnatural state of undying as a call to action, a greater purpose in life. She still wanted the same life she had wanted back in California, a home and family. Unfortunately, to have that here would mean turning her back on her brother—the only family she had—so she fought at Jack’s side. None of it meant she found any joy in killing.

  But she was quite certain that she would take joy in killing Ajani. The way he looked at her made her feel like something slimy was falling onto her skin; he brought back memories of the sort of men who walked into the Swinging Door Saloon back home. Then, she’d hoped that they wouldn’t turn their eye her way. Men like him were why she had kept a tiny pistol tucked into her corset and a pair of sheathed knives hidden under her skirts. Being alone with Ajani was one of her only personal terrors. Aside from her fear of losing Edgar or Jack, it was her single greatest fear—and Edgar knew it.

  He stood beside her in the darkened tavern. “I’d kill him if there was any way that he’d actually stay dead.”

  She wasn’t going to lie and say that she was okay with Ajani’s attention. As she’d stood outside, she’d thought back on Daniel’s warning, and she wondered if she should share it with Edgar. Something different hovered at the edges of Ajani’s standard flattery and taunts. It unsettled her.

  When she and Edgar reached the tiny alcove under the steps, she paused. Quickly, before she could remind herself that it was a bad idea, she pulled Edgar to her and kissed him. She meant it to be a simple kiss, a thank-you-for-understanding-the-words-I-don’t-say kiss, but he pulled her closer. One of his hands splayed across the small of her back, holding her to him, and she realized that her arms were wrapped around his neck. She melted into the kiss with a body memory of how right this was and a sliver of desperation at the realization that it had been so long since she’d been in his arms.

  When he pulled away, she wished she could retreat to the distance she’d insisted on imposing between them during the past year, but she couldn’t. She was wrapped around him, and he was staring at her like she was his universe. Even though they were in a tavern, they were sheltered from view. Half desperately, she wished they weren’t, as if a bystander could ever help her find the self-control that threatened to vanish in the next heartbeat.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she stepped out of his embrace. “I shouldn’t—”

  He kissed her softly, a quick affectionate brush of lips, and then said, “Liar.”

  She turned away so he couldn’t see her expression. “It was a mistake.”

  Instead of answering, he kissed the back of her neck. When she didn’t tell him to stop, he began tracing the bone lines of her corset with his fingers. Both blouse and corset were between his skin and hers, but she still felt like there were lines of fire where he touched.

  She leaned back, knowing that he’d close the scant gap between them. “I can’t survive you dying again,” she told him in a shaky voice.

  He didn’t bother trying to argue with her, to chastise her for what they both knew was fear and foolishness. He held her still with a hand on her hip. Then he lifted the other hand to thread his fingers into her hair and tilt her head to the side. As he kissed and nipped her throat, he slid the hand on her ribs between her breasts and to the side. “I’m alive. You’re alive with me. This”—he bit lightly on her pulse—“and this”—he pressed his hand over her heart—“are racing. That’s your heart, Kit. Do you feel it?”

  She pressed back against him. “I feel something.”

  He half laughed, half growled. “You see? We’re both alive.”

  Instead of answering, Kitty turned in his arms and kissed him again. This, the freedom of being in his arms, of his lips against her, of his body pressed to her . . . this was what made life worth living. “You don’t argue fair.”

  “Wasn’t arguing.” He put an arm around her and started walking. “I love you. You love me. You’ll come around, or . . .” He let his words fade.

  They ascended several steps without his completing his sentence. Kitty waited, but Edgar said nothing more.

  By the time they reached the second floor, she prompted, “Or what?”

  His expression as he looked at her was one of confusion, as if he had no idea what she meant.

  With a little huff of irritation, she started up the next flight of stairs. Midway up, she stopped and asked, “You said I’d ‘come around or,’ but then you stopped. So what’s the ‘or’?”

  “There isn’t one.” Edgar gave her a cocky grin, the sort he’d once used when he’d first arrived in the Wasteland and decided to seduce her. Back then, she’d been so determined to be able to bed down with a man with no complications that she’d deign to see Edgar only when she felt like it. She’d taken up with Daniel, both to prove that she could and to convince herself that she wasn’t in love with Edgar. In the process, she’d destroyed her friendship with Daniel, but it had still done nothing to discourage Edgar. He’d ignored every rule she’d imposed with a steadfast determination that she didn’t know how to resist, and after a couple of years, she’d stopped pretending they were casual. When she’d pushed him away a little over a year ago, she was surprised that he agreed.

  After a moment of trying to ignore her curiosity, she gave in and asked, “What changed?”

  “One of us has to be reasonable, Kit.”

  “Reasonable?”

  “Reasonable,” he repeated as they stepped onto the third-floor landing.

  As they started down the narrow hallway, she didn’t reply.

  Hector had dragged a woven cactus-wood chair into the hallway. He sat with the chair tipped back on two legs, one boot-clad foot propped on the railing. His arms were marked with dried blood, as were his trousers and shirt. A short-barreled shotgun rested in his lap, and one of his omnipresent knives was being tossed into the air.

  “Ajani’s gone,” Edgar told him.

  “Figured.” Hector nodded, catching the knife.

  Kitty forced herself to focus on business for a moment rather th
an shove Edgar into a room and explain that she was, in fact, perfectly reasonable. She thought about her decision in regard to him, and concluded that just because she’d given in and kissed him now and again but hadn’t gone any further didn’t mean she had stopped being reasonable. Admittedly, she sometimes looked for excuses to kiss him, and she’d been watching him more and more lately. That was inevitable: they had years of history. It was only to be expected that she’d have trouble keeping her resolve. She tapped her foot impatiently, and then caught herself when Edgar and Hector both gave her a surprised look.

  With a wide grin, Hector tossed the knife again and caught it before prompting, “So are you two—”

  “No,” Kitty snapped.

  “That explains the mood.” He shot Edgar a sympathetic look. “Sorry, man. I thought the Verrot might solve that.”

  Edgar said nothing, and his expression revealed nothing. Despite her temper, Kitty was grateful for that. Sometimes she hated how little privacy any of them had.

  “I figured I’d best stay here till you or the boss arrived.” Hector offered a wry smile. “Melly’s feeling the effects of the Verrot and just . . . you know how she gets. She’s in the other room. Maybe we’ll go out now that Ajani’s gone. She’s likely to pick off lizards or Wastelanders from her window if we stay up here all night.”

  Edgar nodded.

  Hector motioned at the next three doors, the only ones past him in the hallway. “She’s in the next room. There’s one for Jack, and another one beside it. Then”—he pointed at the door beside him—“someone can bunk with Francis. He can see out of the bloody eye a little, but it’s not healed enough that he should be alone. I can stay with Melly or with him depending on—”

  “We’ll let you know,” Edgar interrupted before Hector could ask whether Kitty would room with Edgar or Chloe. Renting all four rooms seemed more extravagant than Jack usually allowed himself to be, but Chloe was still a wild card. Mary had been content to bunk with Jack, Kitty, or Francis. Edgar used to room with Kitty, but he mostly went wherever Jack told him—unless it was with Melody. They’d all accepted her into their group, but no one but Hector was ever willing to stay with her. Her particular brand of crazy didn’t bother the knife-juggling carny overmuch.

  Kitty felt a wash of worry at the thought of Francis’ injury. They got hurt often enough in their line of work, but frequency didn’t negate pain. Francis was the most sensitive of the group, the one who helped her tend the others when they were hurt; it seemed unfair that he was the one most often injured. Guilt and anger tangled into her worry: guilt that she was only now able to check on him, and anger at Ajani for coming around when she had more important matters to tend.

  Edgar tapped lightly on the door to Francis’ room. Kitty followed, calling out, “It’s us,” as they entered the room. Like every room she’d seen at the inns in Gallows, this was a small, worn-looking space. It was illuminated by bright light from a small, uncovered window across from the door. On a narrow cot barely long enough for him was Francis. His arms were folded under his head; his legs were extended and crossed at the ankles. At first glance it looked like he was staring at the ceiling, but his eyes were closed.

  “I’m not healing right.”

  “What?” Kitty went over to the bed and sat down beside him. She peered down at his face. Blood and tears seeped out from one of his closed eyes and trailed down his cheek onto a rag that had been folded and tucked against his face. “Maybe it feels a little slower than usual, but—”

  “I can’t see much more than I did when it first happened,” Francis interrupted. He winced a little as he opened both eyes. “You’re a hazy shape, Kitty. Eyes heal faster than this.”

  “But Hector said . . .” Kitty started to object, but her words dwindled as the blood started to flow faster.

  Francis closed his eyes again and then lifted the rag to swipe away the blood, smearing it across his face in the process.

  Edgar went to the doorway, opened it, and told Hector, “We need a washbasin.”

  After Edgar closed the door, Kitty said quietly, “You lied to Hector?”

  At that, Francis smiled. “This from the woman who lied to me to get out of camp just yesterday?” He reached out a hand, which Kitty caught and squeezed, and then he said, “If things don’t make sense, I tell you or Jack first. Those are the rules, Kitty.”

  Mutely, she nodded, and then realized that Francis’ eyes were closed. “You’re right,” she said quietly.

  She looked up at Edgar. “Maybe we can get more Verrot. Francis didn’t take much.” She tried to reach out for Garuda in her mind, like searching for a thought or memory that was at the edge of clarity. When she felt him, as if he were opening his eyes and looking back at her, she said to both Garuda and Francis, “If Verrot doesn’t work, we can see if there’s a native remedy or something. This should be healing. We need to find out why it isn’t.”

  “It has to be some sort of poison,” Garuda said. “Further proof that the monks are working with Ajani.”

  Now that she was concentrating on reaching out to the bloedzuiger, she wondered whether the doorway he seemed to have into her mind, which he seemed to be able to enter or exit at will, worked both ways, and she could enter into or exit his mind just as easily. Today was one of the few times that the existence of this mental doorway wasn’t completely unwelcome. She told Garuda as much, and although she couldn’t see him, she knew he was happy to hear it. Now that she wasn’t resisting him so much, their mental connection seemed even more powerful.

  “I have been experimenting with toxins of late. I will look for those that would create his symptoms, as well as those that the monks are known to have used in the past,” Garuda offered.

  Kitty didn’t want to refuse the help he offered, but she had to ask, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Because you are unusual, Katherine. When one lives for centuries, the unusual is intriguing as nothing else can be.” He paused, and she felt like she could feel him smile. “And because you want to kill Ajani almost as badly as I want him dead. It makes us allies.”

  At that, Kitty couldn’t help but smile. She still didn’t particularly like the bloedzuiger’s presence inside her mind, but this time, unlike the times they’d communicated this way in the past, she felt like Garuda’s being there was an asset.

  Once she felt Garuda slip out of her mind, she told Francis, “I have a few ideas. We’ll figure it out. Maybe not today, but if your body doesn’t heal from this naturally, we will find other options. I can try spellwork too, if necessary.”

  Eyes still closed, Francis nodded.

  “I promise I’ll do everything possible.” Kitty brushed his hair away from his face with her fingertips and then took the rag up again to wipe the blood from his cheek. As she did so, she glanced at Edgar.

  Without her needing to say anything, Edgar understood. “I’ll find Jack,” he said. “He was still outside with the new woman.”

  “Tell Hector to stay with Melody if you see them,” Kitty added as Edgar went to the door. She wasn’t going to break down sobbing; that wasn’t a luxury she allowed herself very often. Instead, she sat beside her friend, wiping the blood from his face and thinking of solutions—and a few stray thoughts on exactly how much she wanted to hurt any of the people who were responsible for Francis’ injuries.

  Chapter 25

  From the moment that Edgar and Kitty left her alone outside with Jack, Chloe had heard that wiser inner voice reminding her that getting involved with Jack was a superbly bad idea. You know nothing about him. He already said that all of them are killers. What did it say about him that he was the one in charge of a group of murderers? Being with him would not only be a violation of the very rational edict against sleeping with the boss, but in these circumstances, it was also a whole new level of wrong: she wasn’t clearheaded, wasn’t even sure when she decided that she was on board with this he’s-the-boss plan. She’d never been particularly renowned for ha
ving good sense.

  They’d walked through the dusty desert town for a few moments, but when Chloe saw Jack wince and rotate his arm, she felt a flare of guilt. “You were shot. How did I forget that?”

  He shrugged with his uninjured shoulder. “It’s mostly healed, just tender.”

  Chloe stopped. “Do you—I mean, do we usually heal that fast?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “I have no idea.” Jack smiled at her, and her stomach felt like the Blight was swarming inside her, as if hundreds of tiny wings were taking flight at once.

  For a few moments they walked in silence, and then she said, “If you want to go back . . .”

  “Because of the bullet? Or because you’re feeling a touch less skittish?” Jack asked.

  In some way, his bluntness was a refreshing change from most of the people Chloe had known back home. When she hesitated, trying to find a way to be forthright in return, he prompted, “Chloe?”

  “Right. I’m not saying I trust you, any of you really, but if you had intentions, I don’t think you’re trying to . . .” She looked away, feeling the uncharacteristic urge to blush. “I mean, you seem like a gentleman, despite everything. You were the one who stopped the two of us earlier.”

  Jack gave her what she was coming to think of as his serious stare. It was the look that came over his face when he was weighing out his words, as if the act of speaking were something that merited more consideration than most people these days ever used. After a pause he said, “I have decidedly ungentlemanly hopes, but there are places aplenty to hire satisfaction if I wanted to.” He motioned to an intersection of streets in the distance. “There are creatures of all sorts who work in the flesh trade here. It’s not so different from when I was in California . . . except in the variety. There’s things here a far sight stranger than anything I could’ve imagined as a younger man.”

  With a start, Chloe realized that the cowboy attitude toward brothels was a bit more casual than the one she’d known during her time. At home, there was often a wink-and-nudge behavior that implied that there was something dirty about sex. Using the services of a prostitute wasn’t something most men would even admit to considering, much less doing. In the West, in the world Jack had known, however, women would’ve been scarce, and brothels were simply places that provided a service for a fee. She suspected that it was much the same here.