Rebel Heart (39 page)
He lands the boat. One last stroke of the paddle, then a watery swish, a pebbly crunch, an he’s jumpin over the side an pullin it outta the lake.
Nero swoops down. He raises a hand in thanks. Nero rises agin with a cry of farewell.
He walks towards me, up the beach, his boots loud on the rocks. His head’s down, like he’s watchin his feet. My heart beats with his footsteps. The heartstone burns in the hollow of my neck. He stops close to me. Still lookin at the ground. Then, slowly, like he ain’t sure of hisself, he raises his head.
I ain’t never seen Jack at a loss fer what to say before. But he jest stands there. Lookin at me. The music stops.
I speak first.
I thought – that second explosion, I says. The ammo store. Creed thought it might be you set it off.
I did, he says. But I chose somethin with a long fuse.
I knew you couldn’t be dead, I says. I would of felt it. I’d know.
Oh, he says.
What’re you doin here? You said what you had to.
Not everythin, he says. We was kinda rushed.
Please, Jack, I says. Don’t make things harder’n they already are.
He brushes the snow from his hair. From mine. His hand falters. Drops. It’s snowin, he says. There’s some cover over there. Can we talk?
I look away. I give a little shrug. He follows me up the beach, up the steps. We go into the room with the music box, now silent once agin. He hugs hisself, lookin around. I hate these Wrecker places, he says. Full of ghosts.
My poor eyes. They’re hungry fer the sight of him. His hands, his neck, his hair, his shoulders, everythin. I let ’em look their fill. I cain’t possibly hurt no more’n I already do, so what’s a bit more heartache?
He catches me at it. He looks his fill of me. I missed you, he says.
Don’t, I says.
A lotta things have happened since we last seen each other, he says. Not jest to me but you too. Emmi told me some of what’s gone on. What a time you’ve had, how hard it’s bin. It was wrong of me to bring you all the way here. To drag you into this. I was only thinkin of myself an what I wanna do. I’m sorry.
Is that it? I says.
Not quite, he says. He comes closer. I know it’s selfish of me to even think of sayin this. You deserve a guy who’ll . . . pluck the stars from the sky an lay ’em at yer feet. I’m the kinda guy who’d step on ’em on my way out the door. I ain’t got nuthin to offer you. He takes my hands in his. I jest want you to know that . . . how I feel about you hasn’t changed. No. That ain’t true. It has changed. It’s grown stronger. He touches my face. You run deep in me, Saba.
Oh, no. I shake my head, break away from him. Don’t do this, this ain’t fair, Jack. Gawdammit, why didn’t you send me a proper message? Tell me what was goin on?
You know I couldn’t, he says. You see how this works. I couldn’t put me or Maev at risk if anybody overheard, if they caught us.
Much good it did Maev in the end, I says. I’m gonna ask you somethin an you gotta answer me true. Did you lead the Tonton to Darktrees?
He looks at me straight. No, he says. They didn’t need me to. The camp had bin scouted out some time before. I couldn’t stop it. All I could do was give Maev an Ash an Creed a bit of cover so’s they could git away.
If yer Tonton, you got a blood tattoo, I says. Who’d you kill to git it?
I told you I went after the guys that attacked Molly, he says. I followed ’em to their camp. They drank too much an passed out. When they come to, they was trussed up, slung over their horses an on their way to Resurrection. I handed ’em in to the Pathfinder. Told him what they’d done. He invited me to pull the trigger on ’em an I accepted. That’s how I come by my blood tattoo.
Jack knows DeMalo. The thought of ’em in the same room together . . . I cain’t begin to think about it.
You should never of left me, I says. If you’d jest come with us in the first place, none of this would of happened. Everythin’s ruined. Why couldn’t you come?
You know why, he says. I had to tell Molly about Ike.
Why couldn’t you of sent a message with somebody else? I says. One of the Hawks?
He runs a hand through his hair. Okay, he says. Here’s the thing. Me an Molly have history. We had a child together. I was very young, she was very kind an . . . it happened. These things do. Her name was Gracie. She lived five months an three days.
The cairn at the Lost Cause. Molly kneelin beside it. Their little girl. Molly an Jack’s daughter.
You had a child, I says.
We never loved each other, he says, not in the way of lovers. Friends. The greatest of friends. I would of stuck with her, even after Gracie died, but Molly’s a lot smarter’n me. She sent me packin an she was right. Some time after that, I innerduced her to Ike.
Did he know? I says.
Yeah, he says. It didn’t make no difference to how he felt about her. Or her about him.
I cross my arms over my chest. Stare down at my bare feet, turnin blue with cold. Would you be like that? I says. If I’d . . . bin with another man?
Hey. C’mere. He comes to me. Wraps me in his arms an kisses the top of my head. This is me yer talkin to. I’ve racketed all over the place. I’m hardly in a position to judge anybody.
I love you. I whisper it into his sleeve so’s he don’t hear. I’m afeared, Jack, I says. Everythin I thought I knew, pretty much all of it turns out to be wrong. Some of the things I seen of late . . . that I felt, I . . . I ain’t the same as I was. I dunno who I am no more.
We don’t choose the times we’re born in, he says. That’s the business of the stars. The only choice we got is what we do while we’re here. To make it mean somethin. I’m done with bein a dodger an a chancer, that’s all.
Maev. Smilin at me. I got no idea what all this means, Saba. Maybe you’ll figger it out.
What’m I gonna do? I says.
I cain’t tell you that, he says. Nobody can. You gotta figger it out fer yerself.
Wait here, I says.
I go to the table. I crank the music box an set the music spinnin agin. I walk back to him. Dance with me, I says.
Look at you, he says. No boots an it’s snowin. Stand on my feet.
I do. He gathers me into his arms. We stand there fer a moment. Not movin. Jest standin. Our bodies so close together. Thigh to thigh. Chest to chest. He starts to move us. Slowly we dance, among the ruins, with the snow fallin all around. Once more, the voice from long-ago times sings her song of the moon an what lies in the heart.
He rests his cheek aginst my forehead. His skin’s warm, his stubble rough. I put my hand over his heart. I feel it beatin, strong an steady.
So, how’re we doin with the rule of three? he says.
We’re two all, I says.
Huh, he says.
We stop dancin.
I’m gonna hafta kiss you, Jack, I says.
I wish you would, he says.
I breathe him in. Breathe the light of him into the dark depths of me. I kiss him. Lightly. Like thistledown. A feather driftin over his smooth, warm lips. He takes my face in his hands an kisses me, over an over an over agin. My lips an my cheeks an my eyes an my lips, oh my lips. An I kiss him back. My whole body’s shakin. On fire. He’s shakin too.
I think of what we might say. Him to me. Me to him. I ain’t no soft girl. I don’t know no soft words.
Be with me, Jack, I says. Burn with me. Shine with me.
I’ll stay till the moonpath fades, he says.
An he does.
He does.
He watches from the rocks. Unseen. Unheard.
He came to tell her again how angry she’d made him
How she’d hurt him. Betrayed him. Deceived him.
The drink he took earlier keeps him warm.
But then he arrived. Jack. In his boat.
He can’t hear what they say, but he watches them.
They talk. They dance.
He watches until he can watch no more.
Then he creeps away. Unseen. Unheard. Back to the cave where the others are sleeping.
He lies there, awake, and stares into the dark.
Hurt.
Betrayed.
Deceived.
To Sophie McKenzie, Melanie Edge, Gaby Halberstam and Julie Mackenzie, my ever grateful thanks.
Thanks to my agent, Gillie Russell, and my editors, Marion Lloyd and Karen Wojtyla, for their patience, support and wisdom.
And thanks to Paul Stansall. For everything. Always.
First published in the UK in 2012 by Marion Lloyd Books
This electronic edition published in 2012 by Marion Lloyd Books
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Copyright © Moira Young, 2012
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eISBN 978 1407 13490 1
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.