Midnight (6 page)

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Authors: Ellen Connor

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Romance, #Fantasy

BOOK: Midnight
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“Then cover me.”
“Hector and Manuel, on me. Everyone else, hold.”
Chris stepped around a rattlesnake den and wove through the tangle of tumbleweeds. He would have liked to have his solar-powered lantern, a comforting human artificiality in the midst of enveloping dusk. But he continued, propelled by the chance to brain another one of the fuckers that had killed Ange. He hadn’t seen one in a couple of months, as if their disease had run its course. But for people like Chris, they’d left a hideous scar.
Once he would have held back. The truth about those disgusting, fetid creatures had appealed to him for mercy. Not anymore.
The injured beast yelped and whined. Its back leg had been shattered. Blood poured out of a cavernous gut wound. That sick, unnatural shimmer of dark magic swirled around its body even as it lay dying. A stench of decay fogged out of its slack, panting mouth—what brimstone would smell like. Appropriate for creatures that had made the world a living hell.
His muscles cold and stiff, Chris slammed the staff into its skull. One shot. Good-bye.
A new monster at his back gurgled. Chris spun and slammed the toe of his boot into the thing’s gut, again, again. Harder. An old rage wove into each strike. His chest felt wrapped in flame. He kicked until its insides slipped onto the desert floor and filled the waffle pattern of his worn hiking boots.
Sweat dripped in his eyes as he dropped to all fours.
“Shit,” Rosa breathed.
Even the desert seemed to hold its breath. Chris shuddered. The ends of his fingers and the backs of his thighs had gone numb. Slowly, as if coming out of a deep trance, he stood and wiped the slime off his hands.
The closer he got to them when they died, the more satisfying it was. Or maybe he just liked tempting fate. But no matter how grim the fight, Ange was still gone.
“Back to town,” Rosa said, her voice low. “Five more minutes and then sound the all-clear.”
Chris had committed their names to memory—Hector and Manuel. They strode back to town with Rosa’s purpose giving authority to their steps.
“You said you’re a doctor.” She lifted her chin. “You serious?”
“Yeah,” he said, still wiping his palms along his jeans. His voice was far steadier than it should have been, considering what he’d just done. “I’m not an M.D., but I have a Ph.D. in research zoology. In this day and age, that’s the best most people have. And when it comes to skinwalkers, knowing a little something about animals is a plus. I’ve treated patients all over the West.”
“Did they run you out of the territory for malpractice?”
“No.” His throat felt like he’d swallowed a shattered bottle. “I just never stayed.”
Gory memories crept into view. He’d been fascinated with Ange’s red-gold hair. Strands wet with blood had stuck to her forehead just as she died. Later, after all the fighting had concluded, he’d made himself take a hard look at what remained of her body. They’d stripped her, made her into a shredded, lifeless thing. He would remember that moment always.
Guilt gathered in his muscles like lactic acid following a hard run.
“You didn’t seem much like a doctor just now,” Rosa said.
“Did you want me to say a little prayer first?”
“Why?”
Chris scrutinized the woman. The lines on either side of her nose were deeper, pulled taut. The strain of living on the defensive was taking its toll on their leader. She’d gouge his eyes out with her thumbs before admitting as much. Her silent, stoic determination tightened a band around his chest; he couldn’t inhale deeply enough.
Maybe he could make a difference here before moving on. She deserved that much help.
“So . . . do I stay? Long enough to trade,
Jefa
?”
“You say my title so mockingly.”
“No disrespect.”
Again she searched his face, looking for reason to dispatch him as dispassionately as one of those beasts. But he meant it. She held a corner of society together by the strength of her will. For that, she had his admiration. So he endured her scrutiny, as stone-faced as one of her bravos.
Rosa slung the sharpshooter’s rifle over her shoulder, securing it with one hand on the strap. The message was clear. Her trust only stretched so far.
“Tonight you can bunk in with the smallest company of bravos, above the
taberna
. You cause any trouble, they get to shoot you.
Comprendes?
”
“Yup. And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow you swear allegiance to me.”
FIVE
 
Rosa had seen the look in Chris Welsh’s eyes before, in a dying wolf that had chewed off its own leg to escape a trap. It was a sick combination of desperate and feral, compounded by complete lack of hope. Recognizing that, she should have made him move on right away. Such a man didn’t add to a community; he only soaked it in his own bitterness and set it on fire.
“I’m not swearing anything,” he said. “I don’t want to join your elite few.”
There had been travelers over the years. Not many. If the desert didn’t get them, then skinwalkers, hellhounds, dust pirates, snakes, or scorpions did. Most chose to stay, but committed wanderers preferred to go on in search of some far-off El Dorado. Rarely, traders came and went, rarely to be seen again. She had no problem letting them fill up their bottles and canteens, barter if Wicker was interested, and then head out.
Mostly she had just been baiting him to see how he’d respond—and predictably, his hackles went up, like the wounded animal she’d compared him to. His reaction provided insight into his otherwise opaque character.
She flashed her teeth in a smile that was anything but friendly. “We don’t look for crazy in our bravos anyway.” That was the only way to describe how he’d charged beyond the safety of the town perimeter to kill hellhounds hand to hand. “As I said, Wicker in the general store handles all our goods. Not now, though. Everyone will be on high alert tonight.”
“Old time general store, eh? Looks ancient.”
“No shit.” Rosa laughed. “We weren’t the first ones here.”
It had been a miracle to find structures in place in a defensible valley, nourished by underground rivers. Even in the dry season, they could survive here—most of their citizens, anyway. Rosa had long ago accepted that people died, and sometimes you couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. Though she was suspicious of him, she wouldn’t deny Valle any potential for medical care, even if he had not been trained for people. She didn’t like doctors anyway. They never wanted to give it to you straight, so they wrapped the ugly truth up in tests and treatments, offered chances, and refused to deliver on what they promised. Unless you could pay more.
“I won’t bother you long,” he said.
“No, you won’t. But later I’ll want to talk to you about what you said underground.”
“About the ineffective nature of your test?”
“Not so loud,
estúpido
.” She stepped away from the gate without looking back. He’d follow her, because all men did, because they feared her or they liked watching the sway of her hips. Either way, she got the same result.
To Rosa’s surprise, he stood where she’d left him, a frown pulling his brows together. “I’m not used to being called that.”
“Then quit acting like it. Come on.”
His sigh carried in the silence, but he did follow. She didn’t speak again until they reached the privacy of her casita. The walls were cool and white, thanks to the nearby limestone and salt flats. A while back, they’d loaded the trucks with enough supplies to make whitewash for ten more years. The rugs on the adobe floor, she’d woven with her own hands. Each one told a story, not that she expected him to notice that. Or care.
Her furnishings were simple: a hand-carved rocking chair, a table with two dining chairs. She’d made the place comfortable with patchwork cushions Singer created out of old clothing and buckwheat hulls for stuffing. Doubtless Dr. Welsh would be surprised to learn they had a garden of edible desert plants, filled with barrel cactus for the yellow fruit, beans from mesquites, paloverde trees, yuccas, and agaves. Most times they cooked communally to ensure no one went hungry.
Rosa wondered what he thought of her simple home, with one room for living and one for sleeping. Like everyone else, she used the latrine and the public showers. In all honesty, it was nicer than where her family had lived in Guatemala. There, after each storm season, they’d needed to rebuild the
palapa
.
Jaw clenching, she told herself to forget those days, since they were lost and gone. She unstrapped her rifle and propped it against the wall, still within easy reach.
“It’s very nice,” he said, as if surprised.
“We live well here. Or as well as any since the Change.”
“I’m beginning to see that. You wanted to talk to me about—”
“Yes.” She indicated he should take a seat at the table, and then, being a good hostess, she set it with a ceramic plate of sliced prickly pears drizzled with honey. Then she poured two cups of agave wine and joined him.
“Down there, you said we’re probably ten percent skinwalker.” The very idea sent a shiver of horror through her, but she hid it. “Explain.”
That couldn’t be right. But to defend her people properly, she needed to hear him out. Listen to the crazy man, so she could dismiss his claims. Their system worked. No nonhumans made it past their defenses. Rosa was almost sure of that.
Almost.
Tension shriveled her belly.
He stared at the plate as if it held writhing maggots instead of pretty rounds of peeled fruit. “You don’t use a scientific method. There are two kinds of . . . skinwalkers, as you put it. The bad ones, like the hellhounds we just fought, have no self-control. You can tell them on sight because they attack instinctively. The good ones—”
“The only good skinwalker is a dead one,” she said flatly.
“Do you want to hear this or not? If you’re going to waste my time, then I’d rather get a good night’s rest, finish my business, and be on my way.”
“Sorry.” But she wasn’t. Not really.
By the sharpness of his look, he knew that. She wasn’t used to men who met her eyes without glancing away. It made her feel bristly.
“The good ones,” he continued, “retain their humanity. They control the change. Just putting them in the dark won’t tell you if they’re wholly human.”
No.
That couldn’t be true. Her hands curled into fists. “How do you know this?”
“A long time ago, a lifetime ago, I had a friend named Jenna who was also a wolf. You’d need to torture someone she loved to make her change if she didn’t want to.”
So they weren’t safe. No matter what they did. Anybody could be hiding an animal in his skin. Rosa met Chris’s gaze.
Including you.
She ought not let him out of her sight, since he called skinwalkers his friends. Instinct told her to kill him before he caused further trouble, but violence gave lie to the promise of sanctuary—a pledge she didn’t take lightly. If the men believed her word was worthless, even to an outsider, she would lose their support. If she lied to one man, what would stop her from doing it again? That was the first spill down a long, slippery slope.
“You don’t tell anyone else,” she ordered.
He shrugged. “It’s not my business what folklore you disseminate. I’m just passing through.”
We need a new system . . . the old one is flawed.
While Rosa worried the problem, he took a slice of fruit as if he expected her to poison him. Rosa swallowed a sigh and chose a piece for herself. She ate pointedly to prove it was untainted, and then downed her wine. Viv was improving; this latest batch was light and sweet, with no sour maguey taste.
“Eat as much as you want,” she said. “I imagine it’s been a long time since you had fresh fruit.” Yet he didn’t show any signs of deprivation: no swollen joints or black, bleeding gums. Maybe he had found plants along the way. That hinted at more resourcefulness in the face of hardship.
The man didn’t reply, instead taking her at her word. He finished half the plate and swallowed from the cup. “What
is
that?”
“Agave wine. We also have
tiswin
, saguaro beer. And honey mead.” That was it in the way of drinks, except for the vodka they’d salvaged. But no one could count on such windfalls. The heartiest learned to fend for themselves.
From the look of him, Chris was still hungry. At that late hour, the communal meal would be finished. She rose and drew a wrapped basket from her cupboard. The dark sourdough bread made from buckwheat flour still smelled rich and good, even a couple of days later. Because it was near the beginning of the week, she had fresh cheese as well. Wicker had arrived with three malnourished goats, including a buck. The animals had since bred into a small herd that he tended with great affection, which provided milk for the settlement. The old man hadn’t traveled from far away, unlike everyone else, and he’d brought all he could fit in his ancient pickup truck, including the goats. Rosa always assumed that, coupled with his skill at trade and keeping the books, he had once been a farmer.

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