E (24 page)

"I guess that's true," I say, making my voice as even as
possible.

Neveah's eyes dart up and fix on my face for the first time. 
She holds my gaze for a moment, expressionless.  She knows they're hiding
something, too.

Jonas is looking at me again now, too, and I think, maybe, I'm
seeing a hint of relief.  "It is," he agrees.  "I
don't like it either, but it is."

I nod thoughtfully.  "OK," I say.  "Let's
just focus on food."

I'm halfway across the marketplace when I hear my name. 
Coyote Dan hobbles to catch up with me.  A quick scan of him reveals a
crude splint strapped around his leg.  He's using a stick like a
cane.  Something about his face doesn't seem quite right, like, even
though there's no sign of bruising, maybe it's a bit swollen.  The way he moves
suggests more pain than what his leg alone can deal out.  I swallow down a
quick wave of guilt for leaving him in Matt's hands.

"I've been wondering where you been hiding these days,
darlin'" he says, stopping in front of me, balancing on one leg and the
stick.

I just look at him.  His face is definitely swollen, puffy
down one side of his nose.  There's a gash in his ear, and scabs behind it
fading into his hair.  His fingers, grasping the stick, are knobby,
discolored.  Two of his fingernails are blackish blue, jagged, and
torn.  What other injuries are hidden under his thick coat?

"I'm not
that
bad off," he says, reading my
mind.  "Better than dead, that's for sure."

My eyes scan over him again.  He doesn't sound upset, but
just looking at the state of him is upsetting me.  For a moment I'm
fixated on it.  Fixated on the fact that I let this happen to him. 
He grins at me.  One of his teeth is missing.  But the laugh lines
around his blue eyes, the weathered, sun-beaten stretch of skin-- it's all the
same.  Familiar.  Friendly.  Suddenly, I'm awash in relief that
Dan is alive.  Relief that he doesn't hate me for abandoning him in his
crisis.  Relief that life goes on.  I throw my arms around him,
restraining myself enough not to knock him over, and find myself blinking away
tears.  One of them manages to escape and drops onto his shoulder as I
pull away, my hand going automatically to my ribs. 

He pats me lightly on the arm.  "Aw, now, don't you go
gettin' your pretty little face all upset on account of me," he
says.  "I'm just fine.  And if it weren't for you I wouldn't
be."

Short on the heels of the last emotion is anger.  My jaw
clamps.  My voice is a low growl.  "I can't believe Matt did
this to you--"

"Let's just leave that alone," Coyote Dan says, too
easily.  Like it didn't happen to him.  He takes me by the arm and
turns me back the way he came.  "I have something for you," he
says.  We begin the slow walk back to where his knife stand is,
usually.  He's been closed since the incident and today is no
exception.  His stuff is all packed away inside a small building that
apparently doubles as his residence.  There's a cot with a mess of worn
blankets shoved against the back wall.  Boxes are stacked against one
side.  An upturned crate near the cot holds an empty plate and a half-full
glass of water beside some tools and scraps of leather.  Coyote Dan takes
a cloth parcel out of one of the top boxes, leans against the stack, and
carefully unwraps it.  Inside, not surprisingly, is a knife.  He
picks it up by the blade and hands it to me.  The whole thing spans the
length of my forearm.  It's a lovely thing, the metal streamlined and
gleaming like it's worked from the stars themselves.  The blade is thin,
almost delicate, but probably stronger than anything in the Outpost, if I know
Coyote Dan.  The leather hilt is soft and fits my hand perfectly. 
It's not fancy or decorative, but it feels right.  It feels
right.   

I want to keep it, but I shake my head.  "I can't,"
I protest, wanting to say that I can't afford it, but I know he means to give
it to me.  I didn't do enough for him, though.  I didn't stop him
from getting hurt.  A beating, a broken leg... these can be all the
difference between survival and death in the days to come.  I didn't help him
enough.

"Like hell," is all he says.  He holds out the
matching sheath, dangling it on one finger. 

I look at him.  He looks at me.  I sigh, and take it, my
hand shaking.  I'll pay him later, I think.  When I can.

"You're a smart girl," he says, glancing past me out the
open door.  "Don't forget where your advantages lie.  And don't
let gettin' mad get in the way.  I've never seen anyone handle Matt the
way you do.  Play your cards right, and you might just get through this
mess alive."  With that, he looks again at the door. 

I take the hint.  I nod, and leave.  Whether Matthew
spared Coyote Dan on my account or not, it's probably not the best idea to be
seen spending too much time with him.  I'm guessing that whatever he did,
or was suspected of doing, was related to Sarah's attempt to gather a
rebellion.  I can't associate myself with anything of the sort. 
Especially not with Oscar in Matt's care.  I strap the sheath and knife at
my waist as I walk, removing the home-made version and slinging it on my arm. 
Something about the act makes me sad, even though the new model is vastly
superior.  The poorly-stitched sheath and ugly, taped-up shank make me
think of Jonas, of how he worked hard to make this for me.  I look up,
where I'm going, hastily reminding myself that it was for all of us, not just
me, when I see them-- Jonas and Apollon-- on an intersecting course with
mine.  Apollon smiles and waves, though I note that something about the
way he walks still doesn't seem quite right.  Like he's holding himself too
stiffly.  Like he doesn't want to bounce or bend.

As we close the intermediate distance, Jonas's eyes fall on the
knife he made for me, then flick to my belt, where they narrow
ever-so-slightly.

"Guess getting socked in the mouth isn't so bad after
all," I say, smiling at them, beating them to the punch line.

Apollon laughs, then makes a low whistle, moving sideways to check
out my waist.  I draw the knife, flip it around, and hand it to him.
 He makes an appreciative noise.

Jonas is looking at me.  Just looking at me.  His face
is blank, distant.

"Nice," Apollon says, bouncing the blade in his
hand. 

I nod, and glance at Jonas, who's still looking at me.  I
feel myself wanting to fidget, and force my body to be still.

Apollon hands the knife back to me.  I stow it in its
sheath.  Then I take the one stringed on my arm and hold it out to
Jonas.  "This is yours," I say.

There's a delayed reaction, enough to make me wonder where he's
been mentally.  He shakes his head, a puppet animating after a long stint
without a puppet master.  "Nah," he says.  "Keep
it.  You might need it.  As a backup or something."

I retract my offering and nod.  "So what're you guys up
to?"

Both of them offer something in the form of a shrug, a frown, a
head shake.  They brush me off.  They're not up to anything. 
Not Jonas and Apollon.  We start walking along toward the center of town,
toward home, which is on the other side of the Outpost.  I want to call
them out, find out what's going on, but this isn't really the place.  So I
content myself with strolling along beside them.  I glance at Jonas again,
and I'm sure that he's a million miles away. 

Apollon, walking between us, nudges me with his elbow. 
"Chsh," he says, smiling down at me, shaking his head. 
"Sometimes I wish I was a girl."

He means the knife, but I can't resist.  "Yeah, so you
could grope yourself, huh?"

His grin widens.  "That would also be a perk."

"You might not accomplish much else."

He laughs, and slips his arm around my waist as we walk, squeezing
me to him.  In a low voice, he says, "I'd rather grope you."

I laugh, and reestablish the distance between us with a playful
shove, knowing that he's joking, at least mostly, but I'm suddenly
uncomfortable for two reasons.  The first one is that Jonas' eyes dart to
me.  The second is, when Apollon squished me a little closer, I caught a
whiff of something like flowers and honey.  I know that smell.  The blood
drains away from my face, but I look away, down the street, still
laughing.  "You'd grope a goat if it would let you."

"Depends on the goat," Apollon says, shrugging.

I make myself laugh again.  The conversation trails off into
silence.  After a moment, I gather the courage to do the next thing. 
I catch Apollon by the arm, stopping, but look at Jonas.  "We'll
catch up with you, OK?" I say.  I don't expect that he can answer
anything else.

Jonas, again, just looks at me, but then nods.  He blinks,
looking rattled, as he turns away from us and continues down the sidewalk.

We watch him go.  Then, Apollon's eyes skim down me,
reserved, waiting, but maybe hopeful.  I'm about to punch him in the gut
when I notice he's absently rubbing himself where I shoved his side
earlier.  "Are you OK?"  I ask, deflating.

He nods, brushing it off.  "Fine."

"Good," I say.  "Because I'm going to kill
you."

His hopefulness melts into a puddle of frowning confusion. 
"Uh..."

"And if I don't," I continue, lowering my voice to a
whisper, "I'm sure Matt will."  I glare up at him
meaningfully. 

Now he gets it.  "Shit," he says.  He spends a
moment looking, open-mouthed, from me to the street and back, probably
considering escaping.  Then he grabs me by the arm and pulls me to the
side.  We walk to the closest alley, check that it's clear, and step
in.  I'm frowning, rubbing my arms against the cold, and he's pacing away
from me, studying the ground.  It takes a while before he looks at me
again.  When he does, he says, "How did you know?"

I raise my eyebrows at him, considering not telling him.  But
I kind of have to.  He can't be going around smelling like Leeta. 
"You smell like a hooker," I say impatiently.  Maybe it's not a
nice way to describe Leeta.  She's a slave-- presumably a lifestyle she
did not choose for herself, but I can't help disliking her.  She's hugging
all over Oscar.  My Oscar.  And I only get to see him here and
there.  Maybe I should be thankful for her kindness.  But I
absolutely hate her. 

"Uh..." Apollon says again.

"What the hell?"  I ask him, breaking my patient
streak.  I whap his arm with the back of my fingers.  "What are
you
thinking
?"

Mouth still open, blue eyes wide, he barely shakes his head.

Not a satisfying answer.  "Well?"

"I uh..." he rubs the back of his neck, "...Idunno."

My eyebrows crumple downward.  "Are you
crazy
?"

He shakes his head at me properly now.  "Eden," he
says, "you don't understand.  Just... just let it go, OK?  Don't
worry about me.  I--"

"No!"  I glare up at him, my fingers clenching down
on my crossed arms.  "You can't do this.  You have to
stop.  I won't let you."

"I have to," he says, leveling his blue eyes at
me.  "So just shut up and leave me alone about it."

I don't know whether to be angry, frightened, or what.  I'm
so confused.  I just stare up at him.  "What?"  I
finally manage, calmly.  "Do you like... love her or something?"

He snorts.  That would be a no.  Again he looks away and
shakes his head.  He's mulling something over.  Keeping something
from me.  Finally, he looks back and offers a pitiful shrug and
frown.  "I don't know," he says.  "Maybe..."

I peer at him through half-closed eyes. 
"Bullshit."

His chin jerks away like I've hit him.  He takes a small step
back, clamps his jaw shut, and crosses his arms. 

Very softly, I say, "Try again."

Now he looks at me, and his blue eyes are full of poison.  He
hates that I'm dragging this out of him.  That I won't fall for his
lies.  But he's my friend-- my family-- and I would rather piss him off
than let him get himself killed.  I stand my ground, and look as stubborn
as I can, and wait for him to tell me the truth.

When he does, I change my mind about wanting to know it.

"She is a fountain of knowledge," he says
condescendingly through gritted teeth.  He glares at me, then follows up,
without the gritted teeth, but still in the same belittling sing-song,
"And Grey likes knowledge."

I cover my face with my hands, rub my eyes with the tips of my
fingers.  "Oh, God..." I mumble.  Oh, God.

For a moment, we're quiet.  It all sinks in.  All of its
horror.  How did I not realize this?

"Eden," Apollon finally says, softly, touching my
arm. 

I lower my hands just enough to look at him, still pressing them
over my nose and open mouth.

His look is pitying.  He wants to comfort me now.  But
he doesn't know what to say.  His fingers squeeze my arm as he gathers
some sort of flaccid explanation.  I don't want to hear it.  Really,
right now, I just want to lie down and sleep.  Suddenly, I'm so, so tired.

I slip away from his touch and move off.

"Eden," he says, as I walk to the end of the alley.

I hush him with one arm, fingers spread, held out behind me, and
keep walking.

***

I'm lying in bed, wide awake, listening to the breaths of everyone
around me.  Jonas' arm is stretched over my waist, heavy and
reassuring.  Through it, I can feel him breathing, soft and even.  I
focus on that arm, and try to keep from screaming.  The arm. 
Jonas.  Quiet.  Warm.  Everything is OK.  So why do I want to
scream?  Why is this whirlwind building inside my chest?  Then I'm
remembering standing in the street, looking at the Sentry.  Sucked into
that moment.  It walks toward me.  I stand there.  It keeps
coming, like the car on the road the night we tried to leave the Outpost. 
I stand there.  I can't seem to shove myself out of the way.