Blightborn (34 page)

A meaty paw falls on Cael’s shoulder. Then shoves him away from the door. It’s the big, bearded raider. The one he scuffled with way back at the depot. What the hell’s his name? Brent? Brant?

Brank
.

Brank growls. “Oh, you’re dead, you little corn bug.” The big sonofabitch throws open the captain’s door, starts to say, “Cap, you got yourself an eavesdrop—”

But then the bearded man’s mouth goes slack.

Cael sees Lane kneeling in front of Killian Kelly. Undoing the man’s pants. He knew what it sounded like, but he didn’t think that it could really be, that Lane and the captain were really . . .

Killian kicks Lane backward with a boot to the boy’s chest.

“I
told
you,” Killian says, his face contorting into a mask of rage. “I have no time for your wicked designs, Mr. Moreau.”

That’s all Brank needs. He grabs Lane from behind, pressing his forearm against Lane’s neck. Lane kicks and thrashes as he’s lifted up—

Cael doesn’t know what’s going on, but he won’t abide what’s being done to his friend. He darts in, roaring, pistoning two
punches into the bearded man’s kidneys. Brank arches his back, howling.

He lets Lane go and hauls back and swings at
Cael. It’s a slow punch—a Boyland Barnes Jr. special, by the looks of it—and Cael’s able to sidestep the swing.

Brank misses but then tucks his arm in and cracks his elbow right into the side of Cael’s head—
wham
. Stars. Fireworks. Embers and sparks. Cael staggers backward; hands grab him and haul him up—

Cael feels it then. The patch of Blight. His stem-and-leaves. Starting to twitch. The skin there grows hot. Something stretches. As if it’s growing. Yearning. With it burns a terrible thought, one branded across his mind as if with a hot iron:
You have the power, so why not use it?

The thought isn’t his voice. But also, it is?

The stem-and-leaves twitches.

But then—

Killian calls for it to stop.

Lane shoves past them, bolts out the door.

And since nobody stops him, Cael follows after.

Lane feels ripped open. As if someone stuck a knife somewhere above his balls and drew the blade upward, a jagged, complicated line all the way to the base of his throat.

He stumbles into the bunk room. He doesn’t sit. Or lie down. He goes to the wall and slams a fist into it—once, twice—already his knuckles open and bleeding.
Why not a third time then?
But a hand catches his arm.

Cael.

Lane spins around, shoves him. “You ruined this for me.”

“What? What the hell . . . Lane . . . are you . . .”

“I’m not talking about this with you, McAvoy.” He feels tears running down his cheeks, and suddenly that shames him, as if he’s giving Cael and all the others the satisfaction of seeing him act like a
girl
in all this.

“I heard things,” Cael says. “I’m not—I mean, the captain was, you know, he didn’t deny you—”

“You don’t know shit about shit, Cael.”

“I know what I heard.”

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Lane, if you’re . . . if you’re—”

“If I’m what? A faggot?”

“Jeezum Crow, I didn’t say that—”

“Oh, so you’re too shamed to even say it.”

“No, Lane, shit, I just wasn’t gonna use that word—”

“But you wanted to use it.”

Suddenly Cael yells, “I’m on your damn side! You damn fool! I don’t give a care what you like or . . . or who you do.” He tilts his head. “Hell, actually, it kinda explains a lot. If you think there’s some fence separating you from everybody else, fine, but just know I’m on the same side as
you
. Not
them
. All right?”

Lane hesitates. Then nods. All the fight goes out of him—a twister that falls apart, its vigor and rage gutted. He plunks down on the cot. Buries his face in his hands. “I thought he liked me.”

Cael mills about. “Maybe he did. Or still does.”

“Maybe he was just using me.”

“Maybe that, too.” Cael sighs. “This been going on a while?”

“The thing with the captain? Long enough.”

“So there’s no way he got confused about what was going on in there.”

“Not unless a mule kicked him, knocked the memories out of his head. Lord and Lady, he’s the one who
started
this.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

“You don’t like girls.”

“Nope. I mean, not that way.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Guess that’s why you weren’t too hot on being Obligated to Francine Goggins.” Cael sits down on the cot across from him.

“Being Obligated in general wasn’t exactly high on my list of things I was looking forward to. Being forced into a marriage is one thing, but being forced to marry someone who isn’t even in the same category as what you could ever want. . . .” He lets out a held breath. “Like being told you’d have to marry a man. Or hell, a lamppost. Or a shuck rat. It just doesn’t configure.”

“And you’re sure. That you’re . . .”

Lane gives him a steely look. “Really? You’re gonna ask that?”

“Shit, I dunno how this works.” He holds up the flats of his hands. “Sorry. Sorry.” Cael rubs his head where Brank’s elbow got him. Already Lane sees a lump growing there.

“Your head all right?”

“No worse than usual. I’m dumb as a horse anyway.”

“Sometimes.” Lane grins.

Cael sniffs. “You could’ve told me.”

“I told Rigo.”

“That makes me feel so much better.”

“It’s just—you had everything hanging on that Obligation Day, thinking you’d somehow be fated to marry Gwennie and . . . you know, at the end of the day I knew you’d still at least get to marry a
girl
, and I guess that made me mad. I figured you’d be mad, too, if you knew about me. Like maybe you wouldn’t trust me anymore. Or like me.”

“You ever have a, uhh . . .” Cael clears his throat. “Crush on me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, McAvoy.” But Lane finds a small smile and puts it on display.

“I think I’m a good-looking fella. A real smooth gent.
Dapper
even.”

“Yeah, for a dirty-ass Heartlander.”

“Yeah, for one of those.”

They sit like that for a while. Just staring at each other’s margins.

“You coulda told me is all,” Cael finally says.

“No more secrets,” Lane says.

“Yeah.”

Lane watches his friend bite his lip. Like he’s turning something over and around in his mouth. Or his mind. Cael stands up suddenly, as if he’s got somewhere to be. But instead, he closes the door.

Cael turns around and starts to lift his shirt.

Lane gesticulates wildly. “I told you, Cap, I don’t have a crush on—”

“I got a secret, too.”

Holy hell.

A green stem, as thick as a pencil, a trio of leaves unfurling like little flags. Growing up out of Cael’s breastbone, right above his heart. The stem roves. As if it’s searching for something.

“The Blight,” Lane says, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Game’s over. Secret’s out. Cael holds up his shirt. The Blight revealed. The stem is longer than when last he looked. By an inch or more.

It’s moving. Like a finger drawing lines in the air.

Lane stares, transfixed. Half fascinated, half in sheer horror.

“The Blight,” he says again.

Cael licks his lips. Finds his hands trembling. “I noticed it . . . back before the depot. I tried . . . I tried to cut the damn thing off, but it just came back stronger, so I haven’t done it again.”

“Lord and Lady.”

“I need help.”

“It’s . . . it’s maybe not as bad as it seems.”

“You forgotten Earl Poltroon already?” Lane almost died by the man’s terrible, twisting vine-tentacles.

“You forgotten your pop and those Blighters?”

“I don’t have Pop anymore. I don’t even know where Pop
is
.”

“You have me. And you have Rigo. Those Blighted folk tending that garden . . . Your pop said the Blight had been stalled in them. That they were going to be okay. That it was under control, like any disease.”

“I don’t know how to ‘stall’ it.”

“We’ll figure out how,” Lane says.

Lane stands. Offers his hand to Cael.

Cael slaps it away and grabs Lane and gives him a big hug.

Then pulls back and says, “This isn’t the part where we kiss, is it?”

Lane rolls his eyes and gives Cael’s shoulder a numbing punch.

They laugh for a little while, and it feels good.

“Shit, Lane. Everything’s different now.”

“Yeah, it is.” The look on Lane’s face mirrors how he feels.
It’s not only different, it’s worse
.

Maybe this is what it means to grow up.

THE TIES THAT BIND

“I WANT TO FIND MY FAMILY,”
Gwennie snarls, then flicks the knives. They fly free, straight and true. One in the heart of the dummy. One in the throat. One in the balls, or where the dummy’s balls would be.

Davies chuffs a laugh. “You went and learned how to castrate a man. You must be great fun at parties and dances. All the men lining up to get with Little Miss Ballcutter.”

His daughter, Squirrel, giggles and falls onto her back, rolling around like an overturned turtle. “Ballcutter!
Ballcutter
. Cutterball! So funny!”

Gwennie cocks an eyebrow at the crazy little girl, then turns back to Davies and talks as she walks forward and starts grabbing knives. “I’ll say it again: I want to find my family. I’m frustrated, okay? I’ve been with you guys, doing what you want, and I’m no closer to them now than I was.”

Davies sighs. Runs his hands along his scalp. It sounds as if he’s rubbing a strip of sandpaper. “That’s risky. You could put them in danger; you know it, and I know it, and even Squirrel knows it and she’s nine years old—”

“Ten, Papa.”

“It doesn’t support the”—he gesticulates an invisible rainbow over his head—“
larger
goals of the Sleeping Dogs.”

“They’re Heartlanders. Like me. And they’re
already
in danger.”

“Yeah, sure, yes, but do the math, dummy. Saving three people jeopardizes our ability to save a lot more. We put ourselves out there—”

“
I’ll
put myself out there. I don’t need help.”

“Listen, Little Miss Ballc—”

“Gwennie. Call me Gwennie, or I’ll cut
your
balls.”

“Gwennie. They like you here.
I
like you here. As part of us. Which means you have to play the way Salton and Killian Kelly and the other members of the Circle of Dogs want you to—”

“Imagine it,” Gwennie says, jaw thrust out. “Imagine that your own daughter was out there instead of here with us. Imagine that some other family had her. That there were threats against her.” She strides up to him and pokes him in the chest with the tip of a knife. “Now, what would you do about that?”

“I’d burn down the whole flotilla to get her back.”

He says it without hesitation. Without blinking.

Then he sighs. “I’ll talk to Salton.”

“Soon.”

“Yes. Soon.”

“Today.”

“Fine.
Fine.
” Another sigh, the exasperated sigh of a parent to a troublesome child. Curiously, a sigh she never hears him make toward his own daughter—who, right now, is still rolling around on her back. “Today.”

“Good.”

Then, past the door, she sees Merelda walk by.

She darts around Davies to catch up.

“Hey,” she calls after.

Merelda turns. Her face is downcast. “Hey.”

“You’ve been keeping to your room.”

Merelda shrugs.

“You look . . .”
Like you’re pouting.
“Sad.”

“I’m good.”

“Merelda, if you don’t want to talk to any of these people—”

“Raiders. You mean, talk to these
raiders
.”

“Mer—”

“Raiders who are keeping me captive.”

Gwennie rolls her eyes. “They’re not keeping you captive.”

“Can I leave?”

“What?”

“Can I leave? Like, can I walk past you, find a way . . . out, and just leave? Go do as I please?”

“That wouldn’t be safe.”

“See?
Captive
.” Merelda’s pouty look is suddenly acidic. Her lips curl into a sneer. “Where
are
we anyway?”

“The back channels of the Engine Layer. It’s why everything kind of . . . vibrates.”

“It smells like a busted motorvator.”

Jeezum Crow, Merelda. Complain much?

Gwennie throws up her hands. “Like I said, Engine Layer.”

“These are—” Merelda lowers her voice. “These are
raiders
. What are they doing for us, Gwennie? We gotta think of ourselves here.”

“Thinking of yourself is what got you into trouble.”

“No, I don’t mean—I’m just saying, they’re all up in their own business. They don’t care about us. I want to see my family again, and I bet you want to see yours. I want to put all this behind us.”

Gwennie looks around, makes sure nobody is listening. “I’m making efforts in that direction. Okay? I’m working on it.”

“It doesn’t look like you’re working on it.”