E (6 page)

I manage a curt nod.  He gestures to Arthur Adner, who
accepts his money and brings it to the table.  Nodding to Arthur, I toss
the coins into the pot.  "Call," I say. 

There is one excruciating moment where the cards are descending
toward the table in slow motion, where I second-guess myself and imagine what I
will do if I lose.  Then they're down, and I'm laughing.  I'm
laughing as I throw my forearm around my money and pull it toward me.  No
one else is laughing, but I don't care.

The floodgates open.  I play two more hands and win them
both.  I'm about to throw another ante in when my two friends show up at
my sides.

"Time to go," Blondie says, tapping my shoulder. 

I give him a look of annoyance.  He shrugs apologetically at
me and grins at the rest of the card players, but there's something else in
that look.  A warning. 
Don't do anything stupid.

I climb to my feet, gathering my loot.  Before I can scoop it
all up, Green-eyes covers my hand with his.  "Twenty percent for
Matt."

I use my best card-playing skills to not make a face, and count
out the twenty percent.  Arthur Adner is hovering at my shoulder, waiting
for it, so I put the coins in his expectant hands.  He nods at me, and
goes back to the bar.  A glance reveals a string of disgruntled faces
around the table.  Green-eyes takes my forearm and pulls me toward the
exit.  I'm still shuffling coins as we go.  I pause at the door to
give him his loan and the fifty I promised him.  I give Blondie fifty as
well and put the rest into my pocket.  But neither of them are paying
attention to the coins.  They rush me out the door.

The street is black, lightless.  I mean to say a quick thank
you and do a runner for my disguise in the alleyway, but both of my companions
have my arms and are dragging me along the street.

"Stop," I hiss at them.  "I paid you. 
Let me go."  I dig my heels in.  It does no good.  We're
still moving.

Blondie says in a dark voice, "I don't think you want to do
that."  He glances back over his shoulder as we make the
corner.  I catch a glimpse of light flashing into the street-- the door of
the Rustler opening.  I quit struggling and go along, but neither of them
let go of me.  We jog down the street and make another corner, take an
alleyway.  We keep moving, and turning.  Soon, I am completely lost.

"OK," I say, trying to shake them off my arms without
making it an actual fight.  I have a single piece of glass tucked into my
jacket pocket.  My fingers twitch as I consider reaching for it, but they
still have my arms.  The further we go, the more certain I am that I'm
going to have to fight my way out of this.  Should I attack first, use the
advantage of surprise?  Which one of them should be my first target? 
I can make a quick swipe and run for it.  Which way will I run?  Have
we passed any good hiding places?  Before I’ve sorted it all out, we go by
a short wall of piled debris.  Just beyond it is a small, ramshackle building. 
They push me forward, open the door, and shove me, stumbling, inside.  A
wash of light blinds me.  While I'm blinking, trying to see, I hear the
sound of a lock sliding into place behind me.

One step inside, I whirl on them.  Black dots swoop across
Blondie’s face, where the bright light has blinded me.  He’s leaning on
the door.  Green-eyes has moved to the side.

“Move out of the way,” I say.  My voice is unsteady.  I
squint at Blondie, and try to watch Green-eyes in my peripheral vision at the
same time.

“I thought you paid us to protect you,” Blondie says, eyeing me.

“Your job is done,” I say.  “Get out of my way.”  My
fingers squeeze the glass in my pocket until it cuts into my flesh.

“That would fall under ‘doing something stupid’” Blondie says,
looking annoyed.  I’m not sure if he’s figured out I have a weapon, or if
he’s still talking about leaving.  “Look,” he says, shifting slightly,
“just sit tight for a while, and then we’ll walk you back to your people.”

Green-eyes makes a soft noise.  He peels off his hoodie and
tosses it on a chair by a small table.  “She doesn’t
have
any
people,” he says.

I glance at him in alarm.  He’s figured out too much. 
If they know I’m completely alone, what’s to stop them from taking the rest of
the money in my pocket?  What’s to stop them from anything?  I open
my mouth to protest.  To lie.  But it’s too late.  I can already
see it. 

I glance at Blondie.  The wheels are turning in his
head.  If I had anyone, I wouldn’t have needed to hire them.  His
eyes narrow on me, then he opens his mouth to speak.

“Oh, no, no, no.”  The voice behind me makes me jump. 
It’s female.  I careen my head around as she slides off the end of a huge
mattress suspended on cinder blocks.  There are two more people on a
dilapidated sofa with one semi-attached, sagging arm.  An older woman, and
a small boy.  They’re frozen, looking at me.  I am entirely
surrounded.

The speaker, a girl, young like me, moves closer.  If I step
away from her, it will put me closer to Green-eyes.  There’s no room to
retreat, and no way to keep my eye on all of them.  I stay where I am,
where I can watch Blondie and Green-eyes, but I’m on the balls of my feet,
ready to move. 

Blondie and Green-eyes exchange this look-- this semi-pitying
glance.  Inside me, rage is building.  I’m shaking, but the urge to
run is changing into an urge to strike out.

“Let her go,” the girl demands, gesturing at Blondie to
move.  “She doesn’t want to be here.”

“She doesn’t want to die, either,” Blondie says.  He raises
his eyebrows at me questioningly.  “Do you?”

“I want to leave,” I say very calmly.  I’m shaking from head
to toe, but somehow my voice is steady.

Green-eyes sits down.  “No one here is going to hurt you,” he
says softly.  “But if you go back out there right now, your chances aren’t
good.”  He glances at Blondie.  “We can’t really make that choice for
you, though.”

Blondie rolls his eyes and steps sideways away from the
door.  In an instant, I’ve taken his spot.  I have my back to the
door, and I can keep my eye on all of them.  There’s still the issue of
undoing the lock, though.  My instinct has me focused on escape, but
Green-eyes’ words are worming their way through my mind.  After everything
I’ve learned about the Outpost-- about people-- I have no reason to trust
them.  But something makes me pause.  Something makes me scrutinize
these people, like each one of them is a card in a hand that could determine my
fate.

I can look at them all now.  The older woman on the sofa has
a mark, like me, Green-eyes, and Blondie.  I recognize her now.  The
herb peddler from the marketplace.  She was decent to me even when she
thought I was poxy.  The other two are unmarked.  The boy is skinny
and small, probably not more than seven.  His brown eyes are wide, his
hands frozen on the dog-eared book in his lap.  The girl is pretty, and
annoyed.  Hazel, almond-shaped eyes, hair halfway down her back in fifty
shades of brown and gold, tiny waist and plenty of curves-- she’s the kind of
girl guys go for.  Her jaw is set.  Her lips curl down at the
sides.  She’s glaring at me.  Waiting for me to go.

I consider the outside.  I can slip down an alley and find a
place to hide.  I can wait it out until morning if I need to.  I am
about to reach behind me for the lock when the herb-dealer stands up.  She
walks to a wood-burning stove, removes a lid from a pot on its top, and stirs
the contents inside.  The shack fills with the aroma of those contents, a
mouthwatering smell. 

She begins ladling soup into bowls.  Three of them.  She
passes one to Green-eyes, one to Blondie, and holds one up, looking at me.

The younger girl flounces, now.  “Everyone contributes,” she
says, as if it’s a deal-breaker.

Blondie fishes in his pocket and tosses her the fifty. 
"This should do."

Her eyes go wide on the coin in her hand, her mouth in a small
'o'.  She looks at me again.  I don't like the way her gaze is
picking me apart, analyzing me.  Anger washes across her face. 
"Did you
steal
this?" she demands, holding the coin out as
evidence.  "If--"

"It was a fair game," Green-eyes says.

She frowns, but she holds her tongue.

I ignore her.  I’m looking at the herb-peddler and her bowl
of soup.  She’s looking at me, too.  Her gaze is patient.  I
know better than to accept food from anyone, now.  But this is not the old
woman.  What she is offering me, she’s offering freely.  I know this,
even though no words have passed between us.  I purse my lips and consider
the rest of them once more. 

The small boy does not appear to be a threat, and neither does the
girl, unless glares could kill.  Blondie, as deadly-looking as he is,
chugs his soup and considers me with a half-patience.  He doesn’t want me
to go, but it’s doubtful he would stop me if I tried to open the door. 
Green-eyes has set his bowl to the side and is picking mud from his boot,
ignoring me entirely.  There’s just the side of his face, the curve of his
back, and one sculpted shoulder.  He doesn’t even care if I leave.

Begrudgingly, I take a small step away from the door.  “I can
pay for it,” I say, but no one answers the statement.

Halfway across the small room, the herb-dealer presses the warm
bowl into my hands.  Suddenly there's nothing else in the universe.

I sit next to her on the couch and scoop mouthfuls of hot, chunky
broth.  There are potatoes and carrots, and small bits of meat that are a
combination of tough, chewy fiber and globs of fat.  It's the best thing
I've ever tasted.  I pace myself, trying not to have the manners of a
starving person.  Everyone is watching me.  I glance from face to
face and see the questions that they are about to ask.  Only, they
don't.  I finish my soup, use my finger to get every last drop, and sit back,
waiting.  But none of them utters a single question.  I'm so thankful
for this that I return the favor, and ask them nothing.  It doesn't make
for the liveliest conversation.

When we’re finished, Green-eyes takes our bowls to a bucket of
water on the counter and washes them.  Blondie steals his chair. 
Rain starts to patter on the roof of the shack.  In only a moment, it is
pounding so loudly I think it might beat the walls down.  Green-eyes comes
back and sits on the end of the bed next to the girl.  We listen to the
rain for a few minutes.

Blondie suddenly grins at me.  “Wouldn’t want to be out
there,” he says.  I attempt a smile to humor him.

Apparently, it’s enough encouragement.  "That's
Miranda," he says, without formality, pointing at the girl with the
glare.   Blondie’s finger moves to Green-eyes. 
"Jonas."  And then the skinny boy, "Oscar."  The
sad-looking herbalist. "Neveah."  Then he places his hand on his
chest. "And I'm Apollon."

My eyebrow goes up.  I can't help it. 
"Apollon?"

"Apollon," he says, grinning at me.  "God of
the sun.  Destroyer.  Among other things."

I try to restrain a smirk.  "I see."

Miranda clears her throat.  "And you are...?"

It feels strange, naming myself out loud.  "Eden,"
I finally say, wondering if I sound convincing.  Parents are supposed to
name you.  You're not supposed to have to do it yourself.

But Apollon says thoughtfully, "I can see that." 
And no one else comments.

I consider what he means while the rain pours and the wind
howls.  It sounds like it will never stop.  The beggars at the fire
barrels must be drenched.  Surely the fires are out.  I shiver, just
thinking about going back out there.

“You can’t go back out in this.”  It’s the boy-- Oscar. 
His voice is high and uncertain.  His brown eyes turn to Apollon. 
“Can she?”

Apollon shakes his head.

Miranda groans.  Jonas rubs her back soothingly and whispers
something to her.

“Fine,” Miranda snaps.  “But we’re not staying up all night
babying her.  We’re wasting oil.”

Everyone shifts into motion, readying themselves for bed.  They
kick off shoes and turn down the single patchwork quilt on the old
mattress.  I stay where I am as they douse the lamps and climb into
bed.  In the dark, I listen to the rain.  Outside, the world is cold
and unforgiving, but this is the warmest, most comfortable place I’ve ever
slept.  Still, I only doze.  Every noise, every movement startles me
awake.  Halfway through the night, the rain has stopped.  I’m wide
awake and considering fleeing.  What am I even thinking, trusting anyone? 
What is it these people want from me?  Why are they being so kind to
me?  I chase these questions all the way to the morning, when light has
come, and they all stretch, and groan, and climb sleepily from bed.  It’s
too late to go anywhere.  But, hopping off the end of the bed, Oscar
smiles at me.  That’s when I realize it.  I don’t want to go.

I stand up and stretch, running my fingers through my hair.

Apollon eyes me.  He's looking at my forehead, where my hand
has pushed back my bangs to reveal my mark.  He meets my gaze now, and the
corners of his mouth move-- not in a smile, but in a look of
understanding.  I drop my hand and look away, at the others.  The
idea that someone may commiserate has its pull, but I'm not ready for it
yet.  I'm not sure I will be for a long time.  Again, I consider
leaving, and wonder how I'll get back to my disguise without being noticed.

Oscar builds a fire in the small pot-bellied stove, and cracks
eggs into a pan, swirling them as they cook.  Jonas cuts thick slices of
bread with his belt knife, laying them out on the stove top to warm.  I
forget my dilemma as the smells waft toward me.  Instead, I'm lingering,
watching from the edge of the kitchen, feeling awkward, but not enough to sway
my focus.

Miranda seats herself at the table, which is scattered with pieces
of metal, and picks up a pair of needle-nose pliers.  She begins
fiddling.  I don't know what she's doing, but she clearly does.  She
and Apollon chat about news in the Outpost, most of which I already know, with
Jonas and Oscar occasionally chiming in.  Neveah counts bundles of herbs,
placing them carefully in the center of a blanket she folds into a
parcel.  She sets it aside and waits on the sofa for breakfast. 

The smell of the food beckons, making my stomach growl.  I
turn away and sit next to Neveah.  She glances at me and offers something
like a smile, but it's the saddest smile I've ever seen.  I return it
anyway.  Then I let my eyes wander over the room, over my companions.

Apollon has taken up the chair by the door and is tipping it back
yet again.  He's saying something about cats, grinning at Jonas, who
glances back over his shoulder, laughing, and replies "Not
anymore."  Apollon throws his head back and laughs, his eyes-- as
blue as the ocean-- sparkling. 

Meanwhile, Miranda is absorbed in whatever she's doing.  Her
forehead occasionally furrows as she makes a twist of the pliers, tests
connections with the prongs of a meter, or stops and studies her project. 
I watch her fit the metal conglomeration onto the end of a blown glass
orb.  An aether trap.  She glances up at me suddenly and
scowls.  "Hanging around much longer?"

I say nothing.  I should go, but then, there's the
eggs.  Not to mention I haven't figured out how to navigate my way through
a strange part of the Outpost without my disguise in broad daylight.  I
should have thought of that, during my deliberations throughout the
night.  My cheeks flush.  I can feel it.  I don't want to be embarrassed,
or angry, but I am.

Then Apollon says, easily, "Maybe you should stay,
Eden.  Maybe it would work out OK for all of us."

I look at him, but still don't reply.  Why would they want me
to stay?  What good am I to them?  They have everything they
need.  And more.  Miranda is fuming.  I don't want to step on
anyone's toes.  The last thing I need is an enemy.

She thunks down her pliers, leans back in her chair, and fixes
Apollon with a look.  Her raised eyebrows are a question, but they are
also a statement.  Apollon still looks perfectly relaxed, rocking on the
two legs of his chair.

Jonas turns around silently.

Neveah, next to me, just watches.

Oscar speaks up.  As he carefully turns the eggs over, he
says, "I want you to stay,
too."