Chapter 22: Delirious
THERE'S AN INCH of snow by the time Jonas gets home. As he steps inside I can see footprints past him on the path— his footprints, intermingled with mine. We've been waiting on him for dinner, and now, Miranda passes out our bite-sized meals quickly, unwilling to wait any longer. We dine without conversation. My stale, hard bread scrapes the roof of my mouth. When I'm done, I sit there, and skim the tip of my tongue across the skin that hangs down. Prodding at the wound takes my mind off of how hungry I still am.
After a while, I grow tired of the taste of blood and try to smooth the skin back where it belongs. I look at Jonas and say, "So where were you?" I imagine he'll brush me off. He always does.
Today, he shrugs, still focusing on whatever crumbs are on his plate. "The Rustler," he says. "Trying to listen in, you know. Hear some news or something."
"Anything interesting?" asks Apollon absently.
"Nah."
I set my plate aside and try for the same casual tone as Apollon. "Who was there?"
"Ah..." He takes his plate, and Miranda's, and Neveah's to the bucket, though there's no point in washing them. Apollon is still chasing crumbs. "Not too many," Jonas says. "Lloyd. Sumter. A couple of Matthew's guys. Not much going on though. Complaining to Arthur about the price of the whiskey— you know how it is."
"Yep," I say. I do. Jonas has described a typical night at the Rustler. Quiet. Not much going on. No one can really afford much to drink. I bite my lip. Tonight at the Rustler was anything but typical. I know, because I was there, not all that long before Jonas came home. The place was packed because Matt was holding court, wooing his army and possible allies with free drinks. Strengthening his hold on what is left. I abandoned ship when things started to get a little too festive. The party will probably still be going when dawn cracks over the horizon. My stomach hurts. Jonas is lying to us. Jonas is lying to me. I say nothing.
In the morning, Neveah sets out for the market, her shoulders slumping. Jonas is next, out the door. I've considered following him, but instead I wait until Apollon is leaving, and tag along. I accost him with questions before we're halfway down the sidewalk. "What's Jonas up to? Where does he really go? Is he still working for Grey, too?"
His eyes roll sideways to me as we walk, looking wide and nervous. "Could you say that a little louder?"
I narrow my eyes at him. "Do I need to?"
His face hardens. He's angry again. Well, good. That makes two of us.
He stops as soon as we emerge from the gap in the wall and pulls me to the side. We stand in the shadow of all the piled junk, and face off with crossed arms. The silence builds between us.
I get tired of it first. "Look," I say, softening my voice, though it still sounds cool and distant, "tell me what's going on with him. We're supposed to be working together— all of us. How are we going to survive if we can't even be honest with each other?"
The look he gives me says that he thinks my question is stupid for multiple reasons, none of which he's going to share with me. Quickly following it, his face turns to stone. Immovable. There's not even going to be an argument. He says, quietly, patiently, "If you want to know what's going on with Jonas, you're going to have to ask him." Then he stuffs his hands in his pockets, turns his back on me, and strides off into the snow.