Chapter 12
It rains during Faith’s funeral. Shoes sinking into the ground, I watch Faith’s casket do the same.
Delilah whimpers, consoled by an older gentleman I remember seeing at the Order subregion meeting.
Mason holds his paramour, whose sobs rack her tiny frame as she unloads tears into his burly chest. Taylor stands alone, hands stuffed in her pockets, eyes glued to the beautiful mahogany casket.
I watch her more than I do anything else, but she pays me no mind.
The coffin is barely in the ground before Taylor takes off on her own, back toward the brothel.
I don’t see her for days. Delilah insists I can roam the hotel, but I hole up in my room, fed and watered like a pet bird. Fear keeps me away from her. Cowardice keeps me away from her. I make the choice to keep away from her.
When my mother died, they held a procession nearly the length of the city island.
From her namesake bridge down to The Archives on the southern tip of Manhattan.
Everyone dressed in black, people wept openly in the streets.
My mother’s image hung from windows and storefronts, painted in blue like the Virgin Mary.
I rode in our limousine, staring out the blacked-out window at the mix of supporters and protesters.
I watched Force members drag dissenters from the crowd and beat them.
We interred her near the southern levee in a mausoleum. I never went inside. No amount of cold marble could ever bring to life the warmest woman I knew.
And for Faith, now six feet deep in the mud, there will be no procession. No mausoleum. Just a plaque in the grass. Nothing left of her but the memory in the minds of her friends.
Snuggled in a depression cocoon of blankets, I stir only for the knock at my door. My hallway door, I note with a frown. “Go ahead.”
Delilah enters, dressed down in black slacks and blazer. With the brothel all but defunct, there’s no need for her to dress as if she’s entertaining or working. “Good afternoon, Luciana.”
“Is it afternoon already?” I’m in my pajamas. Though the sun is desperately trying to peek through the shutters I’ve drawn, I ignore it.
“It’s nearly four, actually.” She sits on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and leaning back on her palm. “How are you holding up?”
“Well enough.” What else can I say? I didn’t get shot in the heart. I didn’t lose one of my only friends. I didn’t lose a close employee. “How’s…everything else?”
“Taylor is not herself,” Delilah says knowingly. “She hasn’t eaten in days. She won’t see anyone outside of official Order business. From the looks of it, I don’t think she’s slept, either.”
“How could she? Her friend was murdered in her arms. I don’t think I’d sleep well, either.”
Cedar eyes bore into mine. “If only she had someone to get her through this time.”
“You said she won’t see anyone.”
“I believe an exception would be made if it were one of her close friends,” Delilah replies.
“I doubt she considers me a close friend. Besides, I tried. I tried and I failed. If I can’t convince her not to torture a stranger, how can I ever hope Papa might be spared?”
She studies my face for a while, making me suddenly self-conscious of my dishevelment. Her eyes traverse my comforter, fingers tracing along the helix stitching. “Luciana, you don’t actually think you can save Leader Piccolo, do you?”
I blink up at her. “I thought maybe if I—if I proved myself to Taylor, maybe she’d spare him in some way.”
Delilah’s face slacks in sympathy. “Oh, darling. Your kidnapping borrowed time for him, that’s all.”
My heart sinks. “But if I can convince Taylor—”
“No.” She stops me with a hand on my knee and a shake of her head. “No.”
The water in my eyes burns. What am I crying for?
For Papa, who is not dead? For Papa, whose birth sealed his fate?
Even if he’d been a benevolent man, they’d kill him.
It isn’t about what they’ve done, but who they are.
Leader McGovern’s children committed no crimes, but they were executed all the same.
Anyone with power gets marked for slaughter. Viva la revolución, I guess.
“For what it’s worth to you, she didn’t kill the shooter,” Delilah says in a soft voice.
Shaking out of my stupor, I meet her eyes. I’m trying to find the nugget of honesty in them. “She didn’t?”
“No. She didn’t torture her, either. Ironically, it appears your intervention saved that woman’s life.”
The news is as heart lifting as it is devastating.
My thin hope to have some sort of effect on my captor has been realized, but at the cost of having seen a woman so hell-bent on inflicting pain, she was no longer recognizable.
But ultimately, I understand. I understand how death twists you.
I understand how easy it is to do terrible things when terrible things have been done to you, and how hard it is to find the courage to keep your peace.
“Wait, why is that ironic?”
Delilah nibbles on the inside of her cheek. “Taylor found out she was not the intended target. The assassin thought Faith was you.”
I’ve never been punched in the stomach before, but I have to think this is what it feels like. A sharp, intense pain in the gut, with the lingering sensation I may be bleeding internally. “Me.”
“Yes. The shooter is from a separatist group—bigger, more organized and well-connected than any gang in the regions. The assassinations of McGovern and Thorne have made them bold. The war has created an opportunity for them to target both sides, as we target each other. So far, our goals have been aligned so they haven’t affected the rebellion much.
You, however, are an outlier. They are apparently quite angry that you’ve been spared.
” Delilah watches my face and rubs her thumb in the divot on the side of my knee.
Raking my fingers through my hair again, I inhale slowly to steady my breathing. It’s too much to process. I close my eyes and try to regain my focus. “It’s my fault her friend died. It’s my fault Faith is dead.”
“It does you no good to wallow in misplaced guilt. What you should be doing is going next door.”
“How do I…I don’t know what to do for Taylor.”
“Be her friend,” she says and rises from my bed. “I won’t presume to speak on her behalf, but, Lucy, she needs a friend.”
“What do I tell her?” With a disgruntled sigh, I toss my blankets to the side and shift to sit on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything. Listen.”
For days I’ve lacked the courage to open a door.
Out of context, it’s embarrassing. I’m Luciana Piccolo—doors used to open for me.
Now, the best I can hope for is to be allowed in.
I change into more presentable clothing, take a few deep breaths, and forgo any courtesy knocks on Taylor’s door as I open it and enter her room.
Taylor sits in the middle of her bed, legs crossed, staring down at an open book. Her eyes never waver from the pages, glued to it as if it were relaying the secrets of the universe. She doesn’t move as I inch toward her bed.
“Hey.”
Her head lifts to acknowledge my presence, and I barely remember to contain a gasp at her haggard appearance.
A pair of tired eyes are dry and bloodshot, two indigo crescent moons beneath them.
There’s still a faint smear of black eyeliner on her eyelids, her lips cracked and chewed.
She looks like a train wreck. Scratch that.
She looks like someone poorly dealing with an incredible, sudden loss. I know that look.
She stares in my direction. I’m not being looked at, but through. “I suppose knocking is out of the question.”
Good to know her sass is in better shape than she is. “How are you feeling?”
“How am I feeling.” Taylor snorts and shakes her head, dropping eye contact. “What do you want to hear?”
“I want to hear the truth.”
“No, you don’t.” I raise an eyebrow at her and continue my slow walk toward her bed. “Everyone wants to hear what will make them feel better.”
“I don’t. I’d like to hear the truth.”
Taylor rolls her eyes. “Do you? Okay. The truth is, I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you look fine. The strung-out drug addict look you have going on is quite becoming.”
Taylor combs her fingers through her hair, as if that’s going to help, and grumbles, “I have been busy.”
“Or maybe you’re not ‘fine.’”
“Sure.”
It’s like I’m staring at the red and green wires of a bomb, scissor in hand, countdown timer screaming.
“I admit I don’t understand how you do this.
I can’t stop thinking about those Dusters back when we were escaping Thorne’s mansion.
The families that won’t have their wife or husband come home.
Moms and dads, gone forever because of me.
Not to mention Faith. I didn’t know her like you did, and I don’t know how I’ll get over it. ”
“The Dusters died to protect what they thought was necessary to protect. When you find something worth living for, you will kill and die for it.”
“Death being inevitable doesn’t make it less unfair. My mother was taken years before age could catch up to her. She was vivacious and zealous, right up until the cancer got to her brain.” My hands shake in my lap, so I wring them together. “Faith’s death is unfair.”
“Life is not a game, determined fair or foul. It just is.”
“Don’t speak to me in platitudes. Her death was unfair. It’s okay to be angry and hurt about that,” I snap.
Taylor eyes me with disbelief, but there’s a touch less suspicion and heat. “She was my friend and she deserved better. But I cannot waste my time agonizing over what is out of my control.”
“I understand, but what you’re feeling inside, that sadness? It will only grow if you don’t unburden yourself. I should know.” I look down as Taylor’s fingers trace the spine of a book. It’s A Farewell To Arms. “Is this one of hers?”
Taylor bobs her head. “Her favorite.”