E (15 page)

I run down a side alley.  Even as I am scrambling through the
alley, dodging piles of trash, splashing through puddles, I realize that I have
little chance of escape.  I emerge from the other end and make a sharp
right, but before I can get to the next turn, two of them have circled around,
anticipating where I would go.  I backpedal and skid to a halt.  I
don't need to look behind me to know I'm trapped.  My fingers close around
the hilt of my knife and yank it from its sheath.

They approach me slowly now, cautious as a pack of wolves.  I
position my back against the wall as they close the remaining distance. 
The moonlight reveals their faces.  Three of them I don't know, but two of
them I have seen with Donegan.  So he sent his men after his money. 
Well, they'll be disappointed to find I don't have it.

For a moment, I consider screaming, hoping that a Sentry might be
near.  But I will certainly draw blood before a Sentry could get here, and
that makes me an offender, too.  If I scream, and a Sentry comes, it will
kill me.  So I grit my teeth and prepare to do as much damage as I can.

One of them lunges at me, trying to knock the knife from my
hand.  I sidestep and slash at him, barely catching his arm with the tip
of my blade.  His coat rips, but the flesh beneath it is untouched. 
He jerks back.  I bring my knee sideways and toward his midsection. 
He grunts as I connect.  Before I can regain my balance and strike again,
the others close in on me.  Two of them grab my arms and pull them behind
my back while a third punches me in the stomach.  I twist as I double
over, managing to get one of them with my knife.  It happens behind me, so
I'm not even sure where the strike hits.  Fingers close over my wrist and
bend my arm, threatening to break the bone.  I cling to my knife until
another blade sinks its teeth into the back of my hand.  My skin rips, hot
blood pouring over it.  I shriek.  My weapon clatters to the ground,
and I'm not far behind it.  All I can do now is wrap my arms over my face
and curl into a little ball as they kick me.  Their feet connect with my
ribs, my stomach, my back.  Every blow is sharp and new.  I'll black
out soon, and maybe never wake up.  A brief, clear moment of regret. 
I think of Jonas.  I think of the medicine in my pocket that will never
get to him.

Then suddenly, it's over.  Maybe they've decided I'm beaten
enough to reclaim the coins that must be in my pocket.  But their
footsteps chase away across the pavement.  My first thought is that a
Sentry has picked up on the clatter.  My body is dead cold, paralyzed by
fear.  But the footsteps on the pavement belong to people, not a
machine.  Only a couple of people, I would guess.  So why are
Donegan's men running off scared?

My next assumption starts my heart beating again wildly. 
Apollon and Jonas have come to rescue me.  But, of course, Apollon is
somewhere outside the Outpost gates, and Jonas is sick in bed, struggling for
his life.  An image of blood-smeared beggars flashes through my mind,
dousing me with fear.  I run out of time to speculate.  With little
tenderness, I'm hauled to my feet.  My body doesn't like this.  I
scramble to keep my legs underneath me.  In reality, I'm mostly being held
up by the two men on either side of me.  I blink through the haze that
tries to claim me as we start moving.  We pass into the open intersection
and better light.  I know these men.  They are Matthew's.

"Thanks, I'm fine," I mutter, trying to brush them off,
but they aren't having it.  Their fingers press into my arms as they bear
me along through the dark streets.  My head levels out a bit after being
upright for a while.  "You can let go now," I say, my voice
stronger. 

The one on my right snorts quietly.  "Like hell,"
he says, his words dripping with some sort of self-contained amusement. 
"You're my ticket to a promotion."

I'm still blinking, trying to figure out if the dark spots I'm
seeing are shadows or visual distortions from the beating I've taken. 
None of it makes sense.  "How's that?" I ask, dragging my feet a
little more than necessary.  "Matt's never bothered with me
before."

"You never made it this easy for him before," the other
one answers.  "Matthew doesn't like it when things are overly
complicated.  But tonight, he'll have you on a platter."

The words sink in.  Apollon and Jonas have always been a thin
veil of protection, along with crowds and daylight.  It's not that Matt
couldn't do whatever he wants.  It's just that it would have been messy
that way.  Complicated.  And I wasn't worth the trouble.  Now,
like this, Matthew's men believe I am.  I dig my heels in and try to
wrench my arms from their grasp.  They're both a lot bigger than me,
hauling me along like it's nothing.  I'm still struggling uselessly when
we arrive at our destination-- one of the nicer buildings on a quiet street in
the southeastern quarter of the Outpost.  The man on my right lets go and
knocks loudly on the door while the other one holds me.  The door squeaks
open, and the man behind me shoves me forward.  I struggle against his
iron grip, which only seems to make my arms hurt.  Even though my strength
is fading, I try to kick his shins.  He easily avoids me.  The other
one curses something at the girl who opened the door.  She stares at me
wide-eyed through a face half-covered in puckered burn scars, then suddenly
turns to rush off.  Her steps fall short as Matthew walks slowly into the
room.

The girl stops, open mouthed.  We stop, mid-scuffle. 
Everyone stares at Matt.  His face is blank.  He crosses his arms
casually.  The moment stretches on, hanging on what he will do or say.

Finally, he says very calmly, "Let her go."

The man holding my arms releases me, and the two of them go out
the door.  I suspect that they've not gone very far.

I stand there, trying to calm myself, trying to gain some
composure.  "Matthew," I say quietly, nodding.  Red blood
trails down my fingers and drops silently onto his floor.  A puddle is
beginning to form there.

He looks at me, his gaze considering.  Considering what has
taken place?  Considering what to do with me, I think.  I can feel
each beat of my heart under that stare.  I want to run, but if I do, I
don't think I will make it three feet past the door. 

"Get Alayna," he says, waving one hand
dismissively.  The scarred girl rushes from the room.  Matt reaches a
hand toward me, half turning back the way he came.  "Come sit
down," he says.  "You look like hell."

I obey because I don't think I have a choice.  And because I
feel like hell.  Because, if I don't sit down soon, I might end up on the
floor with the rest of my blood.  I follow him through the doorway into a
small parlor.  Two large armchairs, one with an ottoman, are placed
diagonally near a huge fireplace.  Flames are leaping and crackling
within, warmth spilling out.  The pig is curled up at one corner of the
fireplace, asleep.  There's a half glass of amber liquid on the side table
of the furthest chair.  Matt motions me to the other seat, which I take
slowly, trying not to look as bad-off as I feel.  There's an awkward
silence as he walks to the fireplace and slowly turns on me, but neither of us
manage to say a word before an old woman rushes in from a room beyond, bearing
a basket under her arm.

Matt waves her toward me. 

She kneels at my feet, her eyes going instantly to the gash on my
hand.  Setting her basket on the floor, she takes out a cloth and bottle
of clear liquid.  She douses the cloth.  The strong smell of alcohol
wafts upward into my face.  She begins to dab at my wound.  A
thousand fire ants bite me all at once, but I grit my teeth and try not to pull
away from her.

Matt picks his drink up off the side table and sips it as he
stands by the fire watching her tend to my wound.  Again, that considering
look is on his face, making me uneasy.  I don't like the idea of anyone
deciding what to do with me, but there's something particular to this
expression that is worse-- some easy confidence that whatever is decided will
happen.  If there were really gods once, I wonder, did they look down on
us just like this, deciding our Fates with detached amusement?

The old woman-- Alayna, he called her-- takes out a thin needle
and some catgut.  I watch her thread the needle, her old hands
shaking.  My jaw tightens against the urge to draw away.  As she
reaches for me again, I realize that I'm disturbed mostly by the gnarled old
hands, not the fact that they will be shaky as they attempt to sew me up. 
I think of the old woman who blackmailed me.  I swallow and look away from
Alayna.  I look at Matt.

As the needle sinks into my flesh, Matt sets his drink down, pulls
the ottoman over, and sits in front of me.  He looks at me again with that
same unquestioned authority, but now, in his hazel eyes I can see a glimmer of
hunger.  His voice, when he speaks, is distant, detached.  "Been
fighting half the Outpost?"

I shrug, the sense of unease rippling through me.  Somehow I
manage not to shiver.

"Did you think that was a good idea?" he asks. 
Now, at least, a trickle of sardonic humor drips into his tone.  But
there's still a strange distance in his voice, and that bothers me.

I level my gaze at him, throw him a cocky smile, and, overriding
my body's refusal to do so, kick his foot lightly with mine.  "Sounds
like something
you
would do?"  I've heard some stories, seen
the kids playing at being Matthew.  I'm going out on a limb, but it's all
I can think to do.

When my foot knocks into his, he flushes red.  He stands
before I can clock the rest of his reaction, arms crossing, and moves past
me.  I'm worrying that I've crossed the line, feigned too much familiarity
with someone who is used to being so far above everyone else.  I glance
back and catch a glimpse of his face as he paces slowly behind me.  His
eyes are slightly narrowed, his jaw working.  Before I can figure out what
he's thinking, Alayna jerks at my arm, silently reminding me to be still. 
I turn back to her, and feel the weight of Matthew standing behind me.  My
mind scrambles for a way out as my eyes watch Alayna's gnarled hands poke the
needle through another bit of my skin.

"You could be dead," Matthew finally says. 
"You're lucky."  His voice is cold-- so cold I can feel every
word moving up my spine.  I've angered him, and I don't know how to undo
it.  My head rushes with dizziness.  The stress, or the loss of blood? 
I feel like kicking at Alayna, yanking my half-sewn arm away, and
running.  I barely restrain myself from doing so. 

Then, softly, I feel Matt's fingers touch the right side of my
neck, just above the collar of my jacket.  Calm descends on me from somewhere
far away.  I turn slightly, move my left hand across, and cover his hand
with mine.  I lift my face to him, smiling softly, and say with utmost
sincerity, "I
am
so lucky... to have a friend like you.  Thank
you."

Then I see it.  This time, when he flushes, it's like the
spring thaw.  The ice melts and slides away.  Underneath is something
alive and warm.  The corners of his mouth curve into a smile.  His
hand turns palm-up and squeezes mine.  "Of course," is all he
says, but the words are soft, almost a concession.  He withdraws his hand
and walks to the other chair, where he sits and quietly watches Alayna finish
her work.  His gaze is steady and thoughtful, but my heart rate is
leveling out, my nerves dulling back to normal awareness.  Some of the tension
leaves my shoulders.

"Why
are
you running around the Outpost in the dead of
night?" he asks, finally.

"I had to get some V2," I answer, patting my pocket.

His eyes scan my face.

"My friends are sick," I say.  "I need to get
home."

His face progresses rapidly through a series of emotions, from
wonder, to disappointment that fades to compromise.  His eyes go to
Alayna's gnarled hands, watching her push the needle through my flesh, raise it
in the air, pull the catgut tight.  For a while, he's quiet.  Then he
says, "You could have come to me, you know."

I don't know how to answer that.  So I don't.  I just
nod.

He sighs and places his empty glass on the side table.  The
fire crackles.  A log pops.  We watch the little shower of vermillion
sparks and say nothing.  Alayna pulls the catgut tight for the final time,
and snips it off with a small pair of silver scissors.  She places a strip
of cloth around my hand, gathers her things, and retreats from the room.

I shove myself to my feet, and stand still for a moment as the
dizziness swirls through my head.  My whole body aches, especially my
ribs, but I don't think they're cracked.  Matt takes me by the elbow and
walks with me into the front room.  The girl with the burn-scarred face is
there on her hands and knees, scrubbing at the blood on the floorboards. 
She glances back briefly, without pause, and I see for the first time that the
non-scarred side of her face is quite beautiful.  Matt's eyes, however,
are on his bloodied floor.  My blood has seeped into the cracks between
the wood, and must be removed.  If a Sentry walked in now, it is possible
that someone would be taken away.  The Sentries could read the edge of the
cut on my arm, determine it was not made accidentally, match the blood to the
cut-- and someone might end up boxed.  Maybe Matt, maybe Alayna, or more
likely, this girl, who now has my blood on her hands.  There are ways
around the Sentries' logic, but when blood is involved, it's not as easy to
deter them.  So here we are, with Matt ready to let me leave, and now he's
looking at the blood I have unkindly loosed upon his floor.  Thinking of
the massive inconvenience, to say the least, it could cause him.  This
can't be good.