Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Dahlia
Sad melancholy sits quietly in my lower belly. Leaving the catamaran is strangely emotional, knowing I will never see it again, nor The Bite.
Maple told me once that we have three deaths. The first is when your mind is void, the second is when your body decays, becoming The Crust, and the third is the last time someone speaks your name.
Maybe… just maybe… we have hundreds. Like Tide said to me the day he died. We are bits of every place we have been and every person we have spoken to. So, every time we say goodbye to a bit, we have one little death.
Goodbye, Tide.
Goodbye, Bite.
Two little deaths.
On the surface again, it feels as though I am emerging from a dream. From years underground. Yet, it has been less than a month. So much has changed; I have changed.
Mere weeks ago, my world was huge and safe. At least, that was the veil The Trade fitted me with. I had a Collective of friends, a nice, warm flat, and Meaningful Purpose. Now… my world is tiny and unstable. A blotch of dye on the vast canvas of The Cradle.
I’m excited and scared.
Redwind pummels the large, red truck, rocking it as the road disappears between the two front tyres.
A Redwind-mask hangs in the crook of my neck, and Spero snuggles on my lap instead of in my hide jacket. The restless assassin wriggles around, and the jerking movement of the truck is too much pressure for my broken rib.
Belongings and supplies are stacked in the back, placing the three of us together in the front seats. Somewhat close.
I sit between them, all too aware of Lagos’ thick leg touching my outer thigh. The desert is ominous, a vast, never-ending vortex of nothing and everything.
Tomar and Lagos discuss the route and possible dangers, but the conversation falls silent when we bump over a hole in the road, and I outwardly wince at the pain shooting through my side.
“Are you alright?” Tomar asks, flicking his eyes between me and the road above the steering wheel he holds steadily.
“I’m fine,” I assure—lie. It hurts so much, but I remember my Ward once telling me that things hurt the most while they heal. I hold that as true, as a tether to my resilience.
“ Flower. ” There is a warning in Lagos’ tone, challenging me not to lie to them.
I grit my teeth, not wanting to be this fragile and vulnerable. I was born a Lace Girl. Common and small. All things I cannot control. I decided to leave the Half-tower, to help Tide, and to revel in new experiences.
To have control over… some things in my life. What I can control now is how I respond to this pain—this healing pain. I can be tough. “I’m fine,” I repeat.
We head toward the horizon, a sliver belt that divides two hues of hazy red.
The truck jerks, and I’m unable to swallow my whimper. My body tenses involuntarily, ready to react and to protect myself from the next violent movement.
Lagos stiffens beside me.
“You’re in pain,” he basically snarls the words a heartbeat before he scoops me up. But his touch… It is firm yet gentle.
Careful.
He braces me on his lap and becomes cement columns around me, unmoving and steady.
My breath stutters. Physically, we are close. My body is cradled by his, his warm skin humming like electricity, but his emotional reluctance is like a tangible wall that separates us.
I peer up for a split second, but it’s enough. His eyes are on me, roaming and soft, and… he looks away. The silent interaction is crowded with longing and uncertainty.
Does he have affection for me, too? Why do I feel this way?
I stare out the window. Large objects lurk in the dusty-crimson haze.
Suddenly, they are upon us. A towering pillar, and then another, and another. I gasp. Wind turbines. I can only make them out when they are imminent—it feels like the turbines are literally jumping out, lunging and alive.
It takes my breath away.
“Remarkable,” I say, awe playing along each syllable.
“Yes,” Tomar agrees. “The Redwind gives energy and takes it away. The windmills cover nearly half of The Cradle and power most civilised towers.”
Lagos grunts. “They are just big fucking fans.”
I blush and say, “Maybe the bigger the thing, the more remarkable it is.”
“The more destructive.”
“The more powerful.”
He sneers. “That isn’t always a good thing, little flower.”
“It has the potential to be a very good thing if used correctly,” I argue. “I like big, powerful things.”
Tomar glances between us. “Are we still talking about windmills?”
I sigh, wishing I had brought a hammer instead of Maple’s little hacksaw. Maybe I could chip little holes into Lagos’ walls. I know we are different. Human and Xin De. Common and evolved. I still wish for more for him, happiness and beauty and peace.
For miles and miles, windmills leap into view, the farm stretching on and on across the hazy landscape.
We drive in silence.
And drive.
And drive.
Hours later, Spero begins to cry, so we stop the truck for a break. Lagos and Tomar climb out, braving the chaos, using the truck to shelter them from the Redwind. I lay Spero on my lap and feed him from the bottle he eagerly sucks at.
I need to try to feed him tonight, need to stimulate my nipples, probably fail miserably, and try again and again.
Until it works.
It has to work!
The truck is still, my rib sighing with relief, but outside the metal vehicle, it is anything but calm.
Through the side window, I watch the wind churn in angry gusts. I remember Tomar saying that the sky has never forgiven us for ‘fucking it up.’ I wonder if the Redwind is a punishing force from a being greater than us?
From The Crust itself?
I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s too late to repair. Redwind is The Cradle’s temperament.
I’m staring at sweet Spero when Lagos and Tomar’s voices join the aggressive storm. I look up but can’t see them. They are shouting at each other, gruff voices clashing. I cuddle Spero closer. I can’t hear what they are saying. I can only take in the tones and tension.
It’s about you.
I don’t know why that thought surfaces. It’s silly and untrue… only… the energy between them has become icy and uncomfortable to be around. Now, they are arguing outside the vehicle, so I can’t hear them.
I finish with Spero and rap on the window to get their attention, only seeing that dense red air and no shapes beyond. Lagos appears first, and then Tomar on the driver’s side. They climb in and shut the doors fast.
“We’re going to stop early,” Tomar states, starting the engine and pulling onto the main road. “To give you a break.”
“I said I was fine.”
“Bullshit,” Lagos grunts.
“I don’t want to slow us down, I want to ke?—”
“It’s not open for discussion.” Lagos lifts me again to sit on his lap and glares ahead. Two tight lines pinch between his weaved brows. I wish I could smooth them with my finger and see the softness I know hides within him.
“Clearly,” Tomar mutters. “Not much is these days.”
Lagos growls out an inhuman sound that makes the hairs along my skin rise and prickle.
Brute.
With a sigh, I curl into him, pretending that he isn’t a huge, mean Xin De male and, instead—a friend.
I can feel his heartbeat beside my cheek, its thrumming soothes me, drumming affection into me whether I want it or not.
His thighs are stone beneath me, his stature just as solid around me, and I can tell he is absorbing the jerky movements of the truck so that I’m not thrown around.
“Thank you,” I whisper, honestly, but secretly hope he doesn’t hear.
Then his heart speeds up beside my ear. And I think he tilts his head, his lips meeting my hair. It’s subtle. I’m not sure it happens. If it did, it’s probably because he hates my appreciation.
That would mean he is gentle. It would mean he cares about me.
You care, Lagos.