Midnight (10 page)

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Authors: Ellen Connor

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Romance, #Fantasy

BOOK: Midnight
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NINE
 
Rosa was pleased. Ten days had passed since her successful run against those last trespassing truckers—ten days since Chris Welsh came to town. But with no further signs of aggression or intrigue, it was time to celebrate. Tonight they would finally let off some steam. A proper Burning Night.
The fiddle sang out, its bright, infectious notes driving the bravos to dance in the plaza that blazed with the orange of a bonfire’s flames. Since there weren’t enough women to go around, the men formed up en masse. Rosa couldn’t remember who had started this tradition, perhaps as a mockery of the old country line dances—given the tunes Wicker could play. But the diversion had taken on a life of its own. This too was a test of their manhood, each vying to execute more intricate steps, ever faster movement, and quicker footwork.
She watched from the sidelines, stifling a smile. They each wanted to impress a woman enough to get her to take him home for the night, but most of them had long since given up dancing for Rosa’s benefit. She no longer received significant glances from anyone but Falco. Firelight danced on their sun-burnished skin, rippling in mysterious patterns. All of them bore her mark—the tattoo each received after initiation—which gave her a secret smile.
There was something beautiful and primitive about men dancing for the pleasure of women. The bravos took pride in their grace. It was every bit as much of a battle as any other part of their lives, only with a more desirable reward.
Wicker was too old to play the game, so it was just as well he could fiddle. She admired his skill with the instrument; it was the only time he ever looked truly happy. Rosa knew a couple of the songs he played, such as “Turkey in the Straw” and “Cotton-Eyed Joe.” Not for the first time, she wondered about the loved ones Wicker had lost, but they didn’t ask such questions. Coming to Valle de Bravo was like being reborn.
Falco stepped out of the line and jigged his way toward her, his feet a blur. The other men hooted and clapped in time. Not for the first time, he beckoned. But for the hundredth time, she laughed and shook her head. Anger flashed in his handsome face. Whatever life had been for him before the Change, it hadn’t taught him much about rejection.
Which was too damn bad.
Jolene had been giving him the come-hither eye for the last four months. A brown-haired woman in her midthirties, she had probably been overweight before, but hard work in the communal garden and the obligatory omission of junk food and processed sugar had firmed her up. With her bone structure, Jolene would never have Singer’s sylph slenderness, or even Rosa’s own compact, lean muscles, but some men—Brick in particular—liked a woman thick. Falco wasn’t one of them. God, how Rosa wished he’d notice Jolene’s interest and leave her the fuck alone.
Jo gave him one last look and then grinned at Brick, who was dancing for
her
benefit. She seemed capable of wising up, at least. When the big guy approached her, she took his hand and swung into a turn: heel out, right cross, twirl. Shit, it looked like so much fun. With a faint sigh, Rosa wished she could dance in her own right, like one of the men.
She tipped her head back, the music washing over her, and stared at the stars. Their torches and lamps didn’t compete with the spectacular light show overhead. So strange to realize grandchildren wouldn’t believe them about a time of man-made lights so bright they fogged the stars. That world seemed like a distant dream to her now. But nothing was more real than the desert sky, where black swirled with diamond dust.
“Why aren’t you dancing?”
Of course the doc would interrupt her stargazing. Rosa refocused, surprised at what she saw—Chris Welsh, as if for the first time.
He must’ve traded for a razor. Shaving revealed a lean, hard masculine beauty and sun-weathered skin. A mane of rich chocolate-dark hair tumbled toward his collar in ragged waves, softening a face that had seen tragedy. His golden hazel eyes held a familiar sorrow, as if he carried a weight too heavy for bearing but too personal to put down. She shared that burden, knowing her brother’s death would haunt her always.
Run, Rosa!
José’s voice rang in her head, drowning out the music. For a moment she heard only screaming, and it took effort to clear her thoughts.
Belatedly, she addressed his question. “If a woman accepts a man’s invitation on Burning Night, it’s as good as saying she intends to spend the night with him.”
“Helpful,” Chris said. “Straightforward. No chance for mixed signals.”
“Exactly.”
“Why do you call it Burning Night?”
“Because they’re all blowing off steam.”
Well, most of them, anyway.
She watched Lem, the young man she’d whipped, with an edge of concern. He wasn’t much more than twenty-one, homely and socially awkward. The kid had a huge crush on Singer, but she wasn’t interested. Still he watched her, even as he danced. Rosa’s danger sense kicked in. She had hoped that punishment, combined with Viv’s maternal comfort, would discourage further bad behavior, but given Lem’s expression, she couldn’t imagine this ending well. Wicker’s report that he continued to try and trade for liquor did not settle her misgivings. Yet she couldn’t exile him for what he
might
do.
“But not you,
Jefa
.” Chris’s tone held an odd note, one she couldn’t place.
For an instant she felt tempted to tell him how hard it was sometimes, but she knew better than to let her guard down in front of a man, even one who insisted he was just passing through.
“You could,” she said. “Maybe convince one of our ladies to welcome you officially.” The teasing words left her feeling sour, but she pretended not to care, pointing the others out to him one by one. “That’s Jolene, but I don’t think you could pry Brick away from her tonight. Although maybe his younger sister, Singer . . .” She tilted her head toward the slender young woman with silky black hair and caramel skin. “But she’s too young for you.”
“Agreed.”
Huh.
In Rosa’s experience, men’s attitudes toward having sex with younger women could be summed up in a few disgusting words: if there’s grass on the field, play ball
.
It was to his credit if he wasn’t just saying what he thought she wanted to hear.
“That’s Mica.” Poor dental care and a weak chin made her downright homely, but she had a fit body, and a number of the men didn’t seem to mind. She was popular enough that two bravos vied for her attention. The torchlight was kind, highlighting her strong legs and pretty hair.
“And Abigail.” She indicated the plump, grandmotherly woman with the white hair, tapping her foot merrily. “She bakes all our bread.”
“Maybe I ought to get to know
her
better.”
Rosa skimmed him up and down. “
Sí
, she may be willing. She’s been known to get down after a few drinks.”
The doc seemed startled. “Seriously?”
“She’s a woman, isn’t she?”
“Would it mean cake for breakfast?”
“I guess that would depend on you, cowboy. Are you
worth
cake for breakfast?”
¿Qué haces, estúpida?
That tone could almost be construed as flirtatious, and Rosa didn’t play. The men had to take her seriously.
Fortunately, he focused on the question. “Hell, I don’t know.”
She went on as if she hadn’t stumbled. “Viv, she’s the small Chinese woman. She might give you a tumble.”
“Good to know.”
That left Bee, who never came to town, and Ingrid, who seldom danced. Tonight she must’ve decided to disprove Falco’s claim that she was a lesbian by hooking up with Ex, the quiet ex-con who did all their ceremonial ink.
Tall and lean, with gunmetal gray eyes and dark hair starting to silver at the temples, Ex didn’t talk much, but his movements gave him away. To Rosa’s mind, the tattooist was more dangerous than Jameson because he didn’t advertise his dangerous potential. His skills were not limited to smithing. He’d been part of some society that liked to pretend they lived in the Middle Ages. Imagine such a weird hobby being useful after the Change. It didn’t track with what she knew of his having been incarcerated. Often she wondered what he’d done to be arrested, but she would never ask. Prison had only refined his skills in the metal shop.
“Where’s Tilly?” Chris asked at length.
He likes pregnant women?
Pervertido
. Or maybe he just likes Tilly.
She was a very sweet person, after all—sunny and pure, and Rosa couldn’t relate to her at all.
“She doesn’t feel up to dancing. And Jameson would put a knife in your eye for looking at her. They’re our only monogamous couple.”
Thank God.
If the other women paired up, that would leave too many disappointed, sexually frustrated men. Rosa would be unable to keep a lid on the situation then. As it was, the daily balancing act was almost impossible to manage, and she hoped more women would make their way to Valle from other, less-sought-after settlements. In the meantime, Falco had been demanding a halt on male immigration for the last six months.
Chris chuckled. “I wondered if she might be strong enough to join in, but maybe not. I’m not . . .
interested
.” Pausing, he studied the festivities with a melancholy air. “Never thought I’d see anything like this again.”
“What’s it like out there?” In this area, she admitted the superiority of his experience. He bore the unmistakable stamp of a man who had hard years behind him, running from something.
Once Rosa had found the valley, she hadn’t ventured very far. They patrolled and raided the stretch of road leading into and away from their territory, quite strategically located. From drivers they’d hit and traders who came and went, she learned of settlements to the north and east. If anyone survived to the south, they hadn’t come through to talk about it.
“It’s empty,” he said. “And quiet. I don’t think I realized how quiet until right now.”
She nodded, familiar with the weight of silence. Before Rio joined her, she had spent her days listening to the birds, the insects, and the rattle of snakes. Sometimes she sang or talked to herself; it didn’t help all that much. But once she had someone to look out for, things mattered more. Having nobody was the worst feeling of all.
The doc shared more of his travels, which Rosa intently absorbed. “I even came through Vegas on the way,” he said. “You know how some places are just stamped in your memory? Timeless. That was Vegas for me. Hard to see it in ruins.”
Her
abuela
’s house in Juárez was like that. Always smelling of fresh corn tortillas and the pot of beans on the fire, that casita remained unchanging in her mind’s eye, with its cool adobe walls and a shrine to the sacred Virgin Mary.
“It’s never good if you try to go back,” she said quietly.
His mouth twisted. “Yeah. I didn’t mean to.” His gaze went distant, over the dancers and into the darkness beyond. “Tabitha and I got married there, one night at Paris Las Vegas. Did you know the Eiffel Tower replica’s built on a two-to-one ratio to the original? We learned that on the tour. One hundred and sixty-four meters.”
Rosa eyed him with bemusement. “I had no idea.”
“Imagine just . . . taking a tour. Staying in a hotel. It seems ridiculous now, even wasteful. But the New United States had succeeded and its borders were sturdy. The change was a problem for the east to cope with, as if it would never touch us out here.” A sick laugh chugged out of his chest. “I told Tab we’d just have to make do with Sin City’s version of Paris, because who knew if the original still stood. I’d said it as a joke.”
“Did she die in the Change?” It was a personal question, but he’d brought up the past first. That gave her the opening.
“I don’t know. We divorced a year before.”
Though she had no idea how anyone else kept time, they used the abbreviations BC and AC. Before and after. So this happy honeymoon belonged to the BC world. Those memories were often painful, especially if he didn’t know what had become of this woman. Sometimes closure offered more comfort, even if the news was grim.
“Are you looking for her?” Maybe that was why he wandered. Sweet, if so. She had a secret softness for men on impossible quests. It probably sprang from reading too many Arthurian myths.
“No. I think I travel just to get away from myself.”
“What was Vegas like, the second time?” Rosa could tell he needed the question because he carried the haunted echoes. They trailed him like ragged feathers on the edges of his shadow, drifting darkness.
“The Luxor collapsed. The Bellagio fountains have evaporated. And the Eiffel Tower’s toppled, half buried in the sand. There are a few packs holed up—skinwalkers, you call them—and a few humans. But most have gone crazy with the isolation. At least there were no bodies in the streets. The sands and the hellhounds had taken them.”
Packs?
That distracted Rosa beyond much hope of concentrating on whatever else he said. The idea that the monsters were social and cooperative with each other made her feel sick. Falco strode over before she could question Chris. The party was breaking up, and he didn’t seem to like how long she’d been talking to the new guy.

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