Three (17 page)

A
nd somehow, once again, Three had made a decision without ever having had a choice. He was kidding himself if he thought he could leave Cass and Wren behind to fend for themselves. It might’ve been a mistake to get himself involved, but that was one mistake he could live with. Leaving these two alone to face Dagon, and Fedor, and this Asher, whoever he was, wasn’t a mistake he was willing to make.

It made some insane sort of sense. At least, tactically.

“Morningside, huh?”

Jackson chimed in.

“Why don’t you just hide out here? There’s plenty of everything you need. You try to cross the Strand, there’s no way you’d make it.”

“There’s no way they’d expect us to try, either.”

The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like the best way, the
only
way, to escape. He’d crossed the Strand before, once out, once back. He could do it again.

“There’s a train, still runs out of Greenstone.”

“Greenstone?” Jackson cried. “That’s just as bad! Maybe you could do it, but no way you could take them. No way.”

Jackson was growing agitated, Three noticed. He chalked it up to loneliness. The kid had been through a lot. They were probably the first people he’d seen since the Weir had come.

“Easy, kid,” Three said, shooting Jackson a glance. He looked over at Wren, who was staring blankly at his shuttlecar. “Mister Wren, you alright?”

Wren looked up through glassy eyes, and nodded.

“You look like you could use some sleep.”

“I’m OK,” Wren said, immediately suppressing a yawn.

“Cass, how about you let your boy get some rest, while you and I work out details?”

He framed it as a question, though it wasn’t a request. Cass picked up on the tone, seemed to understand. Nodded.

“I’m not sleepy, honest,” Wren said.

“I know, sweetheart, but it’d be good if you could lie down for a bit. We’ll have to leave soon, and I don’t know how long it’ll be before we’ll have a real bed to sleep in again.”

Cass kissed Wren on the top of the head.

“I don’t wanna take a nap.”

“Just rest then, OK? You won’t miss anything, I promise.”

Cass looked to Jackson, who was bouncing his legs up and down, anxious, restless. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

“Jackson, you think you could sit with him? So he’s not alone?”

Jackson glanced around the room, sucked his top lip, nodded.

“Sure. Yeah, sure, no worries,” he said, standing and offering a hand to Wren. “C’mon, little one. We’ll let your mom sort it out, yeah?”

Wren nodded, slid out of Cass’s lap, and took Jackson’s hand. Cass squeezed Wren’s shoulder as he moved away. The two walked to the nearest exit, brothers in exile. Just before they disappeared, Cass called after them.

“And Jackson?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Thank you.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Three watched Cass as her son disappeared. Corners of her mouth taut in that mix of emotion mothers so often feel as they watch their children leave a room: pride, love, warmth, sadness.

“He’ll be fine.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

J
ackson sat in a low Temprafoam chair at the foot of the futon where Wren slept soundly. A small lamp shone golden-orange in the corner, casting the room in a dull tribute to sunset. Jackson looked at Wren curled there, oblivious to the world in the way only children can be. Kid hadn’t gotten much sleep, he guessed, and he couldn’t really blame the boy. So young, separated from his mama, trapped in a pitch-black urban cavern with a probable lunatic. Now that he thought about it, Jackson had to admire Wren for taking it all as well as he had.

He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t belong.

The voice was in his head, but it wasn’t his own. He wasn’t sure whose it was, or what it was doing there. But it was angry. They’d been starting earlier lately. And there seemed to be more of them than there’d been when he first got back. Or did he just think that? Not like he’d been keeping notes, or counting names.

Make them leave. They’ll only make more trouble for us.

Jackson tried to ignore it. Sometimes that worked. He watched Wren’s easy breathing. The contented look on the boy’s face. Tried to imagine what his life had been like up to now, figured he couldn’t even guess. His mama was pretty beat up. And gorgeous.

She could be ours. She
should
be ours. We saved her.

And the man, Three. Gev’s friend. He’d come and gone as he pleased, seemingly content to wander in the open without any apparent obligations.

He doesn’t deserve her!

Jackson wasn’t sure what had brought the three of these people together, or who this RushRuin was that was chasing them. It didn’t really matter. If the boy were gone, and the man, who would she have to turn to?

Us! She would stay with us!

No, she doesn’t belong!

We could make her belong! She could be one of us!

He straightened the blanket that covered Wren. The boy was blond and pale, vibrantly pale in a way that made him seem more alive, more healthy, than anyone had right to be in this world. Jackson would’ve said angelic, if he’d believed there could be any such thing. And he had a sudden urge to smash the boy’s face.

“No!” Jackson said aloud, to himself. The voices shrunk back at the sound of his, but only for a moment. Wren shifted.

The boy. The man. Gone. We could console her. She could stay with us.

He wanted desperately for the voices to stop, for Cass to stay, to be his own again, to give the voices what they wanted. His eyes clenched with the strain. Tears streaked. Pain.

“All I have to do,” he said to himself, “is nothing. Just. Do. Nothing.”

Jackson balled his hands into tight fists, felt his nails bite into his palms, his knuckles burn with the tension. This wasn’t the first time. But it hadn’t been this bad before. There seemed to be more of them. Angry.

You know how!

Yes, do it! Make her ours!

We deserve it!

It’s easy! The boy is sleeping, he won’t fight!

Too much. Jackson stood. Crept to Wren. Leaned over him. The boy so peaceful. Beautiful. A stained-glass window of all that was right and missing in the world. Unfair.

Jackson’s hands moved of their own accord.

T
hey’d made as much of a plan as they could. They’d leave at first light, and make for Greenstone. How they’d manage to get on the train, if it was even possible, they’d figure out once they got there. One thing at a time.

Without thinking, Three reached out, ran his thumb along Cass’s cheekbone, gently. Felt her tense under his touch. But not flinch. He knew he should pull his hand back. Didn’t. Her eyes flicked to his, searching.

“We gotta get you some rest, girl.”

“If that’s all you’ve got, save it,” she said.

She swatted his arm with a backhand as he withdrew. Three found himself half-smiling without knowing why.

She blinked, slowly. Shook her head. She’d lied about her burn rate, he knew. She was holding it together well, all things considered, but he could see it. The paleness of her lips, the dancing pupils, the tremble of her hands that she tried to conceal. They’d have to find her quint again, no doubt. Shouldn’t be a problem in Greenstone, if they made it that far. But it’d be nice to know just how long they had before she needed her next hit.

“Anything else you wanna tell me?”

Her eyes dropped, brow furrowed. She placed both hands on the table, palms down. Drew a breath.

“They want my son…” she started. No surprise there. Cass paused, lingered. Traced a small circle on the table between them. Three waited. Willed her to own up.

Come on girl, let’s have it all. How long till your next dose?

The circles on the table got smaller, slower. Then, without looking up, she told him the rest of the story.

“They want my son,” she repeated. “And I’m dying.”

S
omewhere, far below, an inhuman cry echoed.

C
ass bounded down the hall ahead of him, faster than he remembered ever seeing her move; she’d reacted nearly instantly to the scream. No, not scream. Screams. Two voices, one unholy shriek. It hadn’t occurred to him before that he had no idea where Jackson might take Wren. Now he couldn’t understand how he’d been so foolish.

The pair raced past the medical apartment and leapt down the stairs that led towards the primary living quarters. Cass hit the landing so hard she nearly fell, but managed to maintain her frantic momentum and streaked down the central corridor. Three skidded to a halt, dropped to a knee. Listened; strained.

A sound, at the edge of hearing. He whirled and headed down a side passage, hunched, trying to steady his breathing as he searched. There again. A faint sob. The corridor dark. Doors sealed. But the muffled cry growing more apparent with each step. Near the end, a dull orange glow seeped from underneath a door.

“Cass! Here!”

In three strides he was there, propelling his whole mass into the door, throwing it open so hard the doorframe separated from the wall. Then, froze. Scanned. Cass skidded into the room while Three tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Wren!” Cass shrieked.

She flew to her son, flinging herself around Three and onto the boy who lay crumpled on the floor, fetal, at the side of the bed. Hands over his ears. A bright, thin trail through his fingers: blood.

Three’s eyes swept the rest of the room, saw the sole of one of Jackson’s feet poking out from behind the bed. He prowled cautiously around the edge, one hand moving instinctively to the handle of his blade, though he doubted there’d be any need for it. Wren was the one softly sobbing. Jackson, so far, hadn’t stirred.

“Baby, what happened? What happened?” Cass was pleading with Wren, cradling him to her, voice trembling with fear. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”

Three rounded the bed. Jackson was there, lying in an awkward pose, one leg bent behind him with the other outstretched. Eyes open, but unseeing. Mouth slightly agape. Didn’t seem to be breathing. Three relaxed, released his grip on his weapon. Shook his head. Wren was going to have to do the talking.

“Wren,” Cass continued, “Wren, baby, please, talk to me.”

Three moved to them, took a knee, looked into Wren’s face. The boy’s eyes were open, and they rose to meet Three’s. He was scared, confused, but he didn’t seem hurt. Cass was frantic. Three stretched out his hand and took her shoulder, firmly, to steady her.

“You OK, kid?”

Wren nodded, took his hands from his ears but didn’t offer anything more. There was a wet smear along the side of his face where the cut on his hand had reopened, but from what Three could tell, he didn’t seem to have any new injuries.

“Can you tell us what happened?”

Wren pulled away from Cass enough to sit upright, and wiped his eyes.

“Wren–” Cass said. Three caught her eye and shook his head. After a long moment Wren spoke quietly, like he was recounting a bad dream.

“I was sleeping. And I heard some people talking. But when I woke up, it was just him.” He lowered his head. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Three said, standing and offering his hand. Wren stood on his own, Cass accepted the help. “Go on up to the Commons, maybe your mom could take a look at that hand. I’ll be there in a few.”

Wren nodded, trudged out of the room, careful to avoid looking in the direction of Jackson’s body. As Cass moved by him, Three caught her arm, leaned in close.

“Can you check, make sure his signal didn’t slip?”

She nodded and followed her son out. Once they were gone, Three returned to Jackson’s side and crouched. Whatever the boy had done didn’t seem to be external. There were no obvious bruises or even scratches. Jackson’s leg position suggested he had been bedside and fallen slightly backwards, but mostly straight down. More than anything, it looked as though he had simply collapsed where he stood. Whatever Jackson had done had made Wren feel threatened, that much was certain. Beyond that, Three was at a loss. He looked into Jackson’s staring eyes. Poor kid, to have survived the Weir only to be dropped by a harmless looking five year-old. He reached out and shut Jackson’s eyes. At least he’d be at rest now. Finally.

Three ran his hand over his own head, over his stubbled face, pinched the bridge of his nose. One less person to worry about. But troubling questions to answer. Was it even safe to travel with the boy now? He exhaled loudly, stood to his feet. Dropped his neck to one side to crack it. Froze.

On the floor below him, Jackson’s eyes had opened again.

B
ack in the Commons, Cass dabbed Wren’s tiny hand with a medpatch, watched the foam seep into the wound, cleansing and sealing it. Wren winced at the sting, but held as still as he could. Neither had spoken since they’d left the room. They both stared intently at the hand until the tiny scouring bubbles had all but died away.

“There,” Cass said. “OK now?”

Wren wiggled his fingers, closed his hand into a fist.

“It’s cold. And tingly.”

“That means it’s working, sweetheart.”

The questions were eating her up inside, but she didn’t want to push him if he wasn’t ready to talk. From what she could tell, Wren wasn’t hurt at all. Scared maybe, but mostly, she could see now, frustrated. His mind was at work, replaying the events, trying to understand what exactly had happened and not being able to piece it together. He stared absently at his hand.

“How about something to drink?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“For what, baby?”

“I killed that man, didn’t I? I killed Jackson?”

Cass put her hand along her son’s cheek, felt it warm, soft.

“I think so.”

“He was real nice to me.”

She was dying to know what had happened, but just leaned forward, kissed his forehead, put her head to his.

“He was nice to all of us, sweetheart. But that doesn’t mean he was good.”

“He was good, Mama,” Wren answered. “It was the other ones I didn’t like.”