Rebirth (15 page)

Of course they couldn’t take her along. Cass could only guess what shape the woman was in, and it was inconceivable that she would force Ruthie to look upon her brokenness. Cass knew firsthand that another person’s suffering could seep into the vulnerable places in you, and Ruthie had suffered too recently and too much. She still didn’t know exactly what had gone on in the Convent, and while she believed most of it was simply brainwashing and rigorous “educating” in the children’s dorm, the deacons had forbidden the children to speak. Whatever the consequences of disobeying, they were stark enough or painful enough that the lesson had stuck, even now. There had been no marks on Ruthie when Cass rescued her, no injuries; she did not flinch the way Cass suspected a beaten child would. But she was just so silent, and without words how could she tell her mother what she was feeling? Until she was better, until she was all the way back, Cass would take no risks nor bring any more unnecessary fear into her life.

“All right,” she finally said. “You’re right. What else aren’t you telling me?”

Dor blinked and Cass knew he had held something back. She knew it anyway, knew it from the way he refused to meet her gaze. And she had to know. Not because she needed the full catalog of horrors that had been committed in the plain cabin, but so that she could keep Dor from thinking of her as weak, so that she could keep him from wanting to protect her. She had to keep their relationship clean; she couldn’t give in to the urge to let him take up even the smallest part of her burden. She had made that mistake with Smoke and she would not make it again with anyone. Smoke had protected her and she had counted on that protection and then he had left and there was nothing she could do to stop him, and because she’d given herself to him, he had taken a part of her with him and left her weaker, unwhole.

She would not allow that to happen again.

“You tell me everything,” she whispered fiercely. Her hands had closed around his wrists without her realizing she’d moved, and she was squeezing hard. “Everything.
I’ll
decide when the telling is done.”

“It doesn’t need to be this way,” Dor protested. “I’m not trying to keep you in the dark or, you know, prove I’m in charge or whatever. Any kind of power I had, I left it back in the Box. Here we’re equals and you don’t have to fight me to prove it. Okay?”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Cass could feel her face flaming with fury and embarrassment as she let go. “I could shoot you in your sleep or grab the wheel and run us off the road.”

The old chorus rushed from its hidden place with greedy excitement, provoked by her momentarily loss of control:
I could fuck you or hate you or make you want me or make you despise me
…but Cass resisted. She would not give in, could not give in. Today was hard but she was strong. The future was hard but she would be stronger.

“What do you want, Cass?” Dor asked gently, surprising her. Tenderness was the one thing she had not expected of him. “I get the feeling there’s nothing I could give you, nothing I could do for you that would mean anything to you. If you’d just stayed in the Box, I could have made it someone’s full-time job to keep you and Ruthie safe for as long as possible. Why are you with me? Really?”

But Cass knew that danger well. The way they asked questions and got inside you and made you start to care. And she would have none of it. “Just tell me the rest.”

Silence stretched between them, but Cass did not look away. A branch scratched against the kitchen window, and somewhere in the house was a sound Cass had not heard in a very long time, the tick of a battery-operated clock. She was warm under the afghan, and she could feel Dor’s heat, even greater than her own, and smell the soap on his skin. The candle had burned down to the last few inches and it sputtered and flickered, light dancing around the wood-paneled walls.

When Dor finally spoke, there was no emotion in his voice. “They pile the dead fifty yards beyond the house. They don’t even dig trenches. The birds showed up a month ago. They can pick a corpse clean in a matter of minutes. Sometimes there’s as many as half a dozen of them and she’s seen them flying from the south—she thinks that might be where they nest.”

“The girl told you that.”

“Yes. She would stare at the mound at night.”

Cass’s heart felt sick, but she couldn’t stop until it was all out. “And?”

“There’s a pottery bowl on the kitchen table, with a separation down the middle, like you might serve two different dips in it or something. One half, they use as an ashtray. In the other half are all the wedding rings they took off people.”

Cass’s vision swam. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes. The girl’s name is Anna. She said when they took her there was already a girl in the room, one who’d been there a few months. One of her arms was broken and she had an infection and she smelled like she was rotting from the inside. She started screaming when she saw Anna and she didn’t stop until they took her out into the backyard and shot her. Then they locked Anna up to the same bed.”

15

MONTHS AGO, WHEN THE CITIES WERE BURNING and bodies lay bloated in trenches, Cass had thought she’d seen the worst. She remembered saying those words to herself:
at least now I have seen the worst
. But every time some other horror came along, something she had not imagined or prepared herself for, and she would think she could not survive it. And then she did. And Dor’s story was the worst yet.

Cass suspected that this was what determined, more than anything else, who survived and who did not. The ability to live through the moment when you found out you had been wrong once again—that things really
could
get worse, that suffering came in yet more designs, that survivors’ capacity for ruthlessness or Beaters’ hunger and cunning exceeded what you thought you knew. You could still be surprised, and you could take it.

People died a thousand different ways—suicide, attacks, poisoning, riots, dehydration, starvation—but Cass came to believe that the real cause of most deaths was giving up. Lose your will and you were likely to leave a shelter door open, or forget to check for blueleaf, or cross paths with marauders—even carelessly cut yourself and die an ignominious death of infection or tetanus. Your body would bloat and rot like any other, and you would never have a gravestone or even a cross to mark the place you fell, but your silent requiem would be a song of despair, of wretchedness.

What made some people keep fighting while others succumbed? Cass didn’t know. At first, she’d fought for Ruthie. But when she woke in a haze so profound that she barely remembered who she was, there was some other source of determination so fundamental that it might as well have been her very bones, her DNA. She was a fighter and she would not stop being a fighter, even if the one she’d fought hardest against most of her life was herself.

If anything could make her give up, it would have been losing Smoke—because she had slowly invested him with herself, allowed the protective layer of distrust and anger to crumble until there was a hole wide enough to let him in. She had allowed that to happen, she had slowly accumulated the hundred habits of love, and she had done so foolishly, like a teenager with her first crush.

Well. She’d never been such a girl, so there was her excuse—by the time she was old enough to have a boyfriend, her stepfather had already taken from her that possibility. His hands on her body had done more than destroy some medieval notion of her innocence, they had erased her ability to believe that someone could love her, to trust herself to be part of a couple, to believe that she could be worthy only for herself, for what was true and essential.

But then Smoke had come and everything else was so broken that she’d loved him almost by accident. When every minute felt like a prelude to death and disaster, she’d allowed herself to steal moments of comfort with him. They were to be only that—stolen moments, meaningless moments, episodes she would pretend to forget in the daylight. Only that hadn’t happened. He had loved her at noon as much as he did at midnight, and having Ruthie back was so joyous and overwhelming that she forgot to keep resisting. She forgot to keep protecting herself, and she’d allowed him to take up the yoke—to care for her, to nurture her, to hold her. Sometimes their lovemaking felt transcendent, as though climax transported her outside herself for splintered moments of divinity. And sometimes, when Smoke held her afterward, it was confusingly like being held by a parent, or by God Himself, someone who would love her forever.

But Smoke did
not
love her forever. Not enough to stay, anyway. He chose vengeance—ugly, dark, violent—over her. And that was that. Her one failure, her one fall. She’d built that wall back up in record time, and it was twice-strong, twice-high.

Dor watched her carefully, and she knew he was waiting for her to crack. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She was stronger than that, stronger than he knew.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” she lied.

Dor blinked, looked uncertain. “Still…”

“Still nothing. You were right to leave her the gun, but you know she’s just going to use it on herself.” Her voice sounded tinny, a cheap and insubstantial version. She made herself face Dor, but she couldn’t stand to look in his eyes. They were cinnamon-flecked in the light, a deep, deep brown; but at night, with only the candle for illumination, they were depthless black, and she didn’t dare risk being absorbed by that unknowable gaze. Instead she focused on his jaw; on the stubble that had appeared before the morning was done, on the hard lines of his bones.

“Cass…”

“It’s all right.” She shrugged. “It’s better, really. Hopefully she’ll do it outside, and that way if some freewalker comes through they won’t have to deal with the mess.”

Dor reached, hesitantly, to put his hand on her shoulder again. It seemed to be his entire repertoire of comforting gestures, and his touch was awkward, heavy. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Do
what?
”

“Act like…like it doesn’t affect you. Like it doesn’t hurt.”

Hot, acid tears instantly welled up in her eyes, and Cass knew that if she blinked they would spill. So she would not blink. She bit down on her lip, hard enough to distract herself. “It
doesn’t
affect me. How could it affect me? I don’t know her. She’s just some other woman. The difference between her and me is that she got caught. I didn’t. I mean, yeah, it was probably thanks to you…do I need to thank you? Is that what this is about? Do I need to give you credit for the save? Okay, Dor, if it wasn’t for you, I’d be tied to that bed too and she and I would be getting fucked together, fucked until we were used up and I wasn’t anything at all. So, thank you. Seriously.”

Cass was breathing hard, and she suddenly couldn’t stand his touch, his tentativeness. She shoved his hand off her arm but she didn’t move away from him on the couch; she could see his scar, the one that had slowly faded and disappeared under the hair he no longer cut, tracing across his forehead.

“Look, Cass…” Dor sounded almost alarmed, and that pleased Cass. The ravenous angry part of her trembled with excitement; she’d gotten to him. She’d provoked him. “I know you’re upset about Smoke, that you’re feeling—”

She hit him before she realized she was going to, flat hand across his cheek, a resounding slap that took him off guard and probably stung like hell. “You have no idea what I’m feeling,” she snarled, and then she pulled back to hit him again, astonishing herself. The sprite that was her anger danced in ecstasy, sending her heartbeat wild with excitement. She felt the spittle at the corners of her mouth and the blood rushing to her face and the tingle of the slap in her palm.

He caught her wrist, hurting her, his strength a ridiculous overmatch to hers. He held her arm in the air, glaring at her, and she wondered for a moment if he would throw her to the ground. The sprite chortled within her, urging her on.
Make him,
it cried—
make him do it
.

“You don’t know who I am—what I have
really
been,” she said. Spittle landed on him and she didn’t care.

“I know you’ve been through a lot,” Dor said, the flash of anger quickly receding, his features rigid and careful. “I know you’re tired and possibly in a state of post-traumatic stress, and what you need is to—”

“
Fuck
what I need,” Cass said. “Fuck
you,
you have no idea what I need—”
You were there,
she wanted to scream.
You shot him in the head. You saw that poor wreck of a woman. You saw the rings.

Oh, God…the rings.

They’d taken the rings, slipped them from fingers shrunk from hunger, tokens of times unimaginably long ago, of celebrations and promises. They shot the husbands and the wives in the backyard. They put the rings in a bowl. The bowl sat on the table. They smoked and ashed in that bowl. Down the hall the women cried and wished they were dead.

He was close, so close to her, his silver-streaked dark hair falling in his eyes, his expression shocked and hard, angry. Had she made him hate her? The sprite crowed with satisfaction and victory as Cass struggled to free herself from his grasp and he only held on tighter, hurting her, his fingers tight on her wrist, squeezing. With her free hand she pushed him, put her palm to his face and ground against his mouth, his teeth, and he grabbed that hand too and held it just as hard so they were locked in a silent battle. If he let go, she would claw his eyes out, she would tear his skin. She would draw blood and then he would know that he did not know what she felt, that he could
never
know what she felt.

She climbed on top of him, hooking one leg over his lap so she was straddling him, making him twist her arms painfully.

“What are you doing,” he muttered, but she ignored him, she dug her knees into the sofa on either side of him, she pressed her body against him, ground herself into his lap. “What the hell are you trying to do, Cass—”