“I will,” I say. “I’ll do it for Liza, for Wes, for the kids. For my sister.”
He nods and lets go.
Hightower grunts and holds out a big hand, which I take, squeezing it firmly.
“To Brock,” I say, raising a fist. They each raise a fist of their own and I knock mine against them, each in turn.
“To Brock,” Abe mumbles, “the no-good scoundrel.”
~~~
I stop in front of Maddy on the way out. She’s pretending to busy herself in the cabinet, rearranging the supplies.
“Thank you,” I say.
She doesn’t turn around. “Abe paid me good silver—”
“Thank you for trying,” I say.
She returns to fiddling with the supplies and I walk on, but when I look back she’s watching me go, her face streaked and glistening with tears.
Outside, I push Wes outta my mind so I don’t breakdown or break someone’s face. I focus on Jolie. I’m coming for you, girl, I think.
We take backstreets—nay, streets that are behind the backstreets, streets that no respecting king or his guardsmen would ever find themselves walking down. Beggars and those in a drug coma rest against the walls, enjoying a bit of summer sun that breaks through the dense cloud cover. There’s still snow on the ground, but it’s not cold snow.
The Red District disappears and we enter the forest. A snowbird speaks to us in whistles and light tones. If it wasn’t for my icin’ memories, I could almost be happy on a day like this.
A forced silence sets in on all of us, as if we believe the songbirds and the trees are the king’s ears, and if we speak they’ll fly or march to the palace to tell him what we said. It gives me plenny of time to watch the people I’m with, the people I wish were coming with us.
Feve’s well ahead of the group, steady and calm. Everything about him seems so self-assured, so confident. I can’t read him though, and every time I look at him I feel like he’s struggling to read me too.
Siena’s walking along next to Circ, who’s limping a little but seems to have recovered well. His leg is heavily wrapped but it must be a flesh wound, not a bone or muscle injury. We all got pretty lucky, considering. All of us except for…
I shake my head around, tell my brain to freezin’ leave me the freeze alone or I’ll freezin’ slam you against the next freezin’ tree I see! That shuts him up for a few minutes and then he says, Wes. I bite my lip, hard enough to draw blood, and go back to watching.
Siena’s shivering pretty badly, although her skins are thick. Funny though, I never really noticed any of them being cold until now. I take off my coat and give it to her. She doesn’t say anything because her teeth are chattering so much, just takes it and wraps it around herself like a blanket.
Buff’s walking next to Wilde, because that’s what he does, and she’s already wearing his bearskins. What are the chances? A guy like him with a woman like her. Zero, I think, and hold in a laugh. I hope he gets the chance to prove me wrong.
Skye’s been avoiding my gaze since we started walking, and frankly I’m glad, because I’m not sure I can bear it right now. I feel so raw, like my skin’s been scraped away, partly by the fighting and the violence, but mostly by losing Wes, seeing Jolie in the king’s grasp, leaving everything underneath poking out, emotions and nerves and blood vessels sticking every which way. It’s like the littlest thing might set one of them off, make me go crazy, crying or laughing or burning hot with rage, or a mixture of all three, laughing and crying while punching King Goff in the face.
Skye strides ahead of us and I watch her go.
She doesn’t look cold at all, as if she’s radiating her own heat from within. Or she just bears it well, like she seems to bear everything so well. I want to chase after her, to talk to her, even if we only look ahead and avoid eye contact while we’re doing it, but I don’t.
She catches up to Feve.
He tried to help save Wes.
I shake away the thought because it shouldn’t matter one way or the other, not when Wes is…
I watch as Skye and Feve talk, wishing it was me instead.
~~~
When Siena starts talking to Buff and Wilde, Circ comes over to me. He’s limping and I can see a grimace every couple of steps, which he’s unsuccessfully trying to hide.
“You alright?” I ask.
“I’ll live,” he says with a forced grin. “I’ve had worse during Hunts.”
“For the tug?” I ask, wondering what a tug even looks like. Like a bear maybe? By the time the meat gets to ice country it’s already butchered and wrapped in skins.