Chapter 19 #2
It twists my mouth and, the moment his gaze lands on me, I look down, and his satchel catches my attention.
My lashes flutter once before, slow, my shoulders lift—
I sit up at the sight of it.
Poking out from the gap in the flap, is an antenna. The radio antenna.
The CB.
It’s mine, I know it, because the little dent from a fall I took is right at the tip, and my teeth marks from all the times I’ve bitten down on it, whether I just held it in my bite while I pulled out a map, or I was anxiously chewing on something as I waited for Bee’s voice to come through.
The cold warrior has my radio—which I knew, but it was packed in his satchel, organised.
This fae is too neat and ordered for the radio to be misplaced in his bag.
If the antenna is suddenly sticking out from the edge of the flap, then it’s because he’s taken it out, then put it back without taking the time to repack.
For the first time, I wonder if he uses it. If he contacts Bee, or that fae who kidnapped her…
Dare.
Like he can sense the prickle of curiosity running down my spine, the warrior gives me a dull look before he extends his bloody hand to Glass.
Without a word, she hands over the silky rope.
The moment it’s in his grip, he gives it that familiar single tug, soft on my wrist but firm enough that I know to get up.
So I do.
My gaze lingers over the female as she brings her ungloved hand to her chest, then presses it flat. “Mika.”
Her name.
I didn’t ask for it.
I don’t want it.
She misunderstands me, my lingering look.
I want them all to remain nameless.
I turn my cheek to her, but not before the cold warrior snatches a flaming torch out from the earth.
Keeping my head down, I follow him through the camp. He takes me down the path, but before we can reach the captives, he veers off at the unfinished graves, dug but never filled in.
The darkness would swallow us here if it wasn’t for the flickering flames on the tip of the torch. It leads the way for me, and only for me, because he can see in the blackout. It’s because of the torchlight that I see what’s coming ahead.
Rows of little stone buildings.
Mausoleums.
If he knows what they are, he doesn’t care that he drags me through the wedge of space between two stone walls, he just takes me around to the back of them.
Here, we are out of sight of the camp.
The blackness is thick, save for the wedges of crimson light that seep through the gaps between the small buildings, and the flaming torch that, dropping to a knee, he slams into the earth.
There are no graves over here, no headstones or anything beyond broken iron fences and a woodchipper that’s left to rust in the dark.
Planted on one knee, the warrior jerks his chin, his face dancing with shadows stretching up him like inky fingers.
“Go.”
A command I’m used to in this pattern.
Time to pee.
I tug the rope, and it slips free from his grip.
Since I tripped over it once, I loop it around my wrist to my elbow, around and around, until it’s secure.
Before I go anywhere, I lure off the straps of my bag from my shoulders and let the backpack thud to the ground. I follow it down, fast to rummage for the wet wipes stored in there.
The packet is flimsy in my grip.
“I need more,” I tell him, because I guess there’s only two or three wipes left in the pack. “And an inhaler,” I remind him.
The greenish hue of his stare burns through the dusty light at me.
Both on our knees, we should be eye-level with the bags between us, but the fae are massive, and this one is no exception. Even kneeling, I have to lift my chin to meet his cold, silent gaze.
The wintergreen of his eyes fades into frost as he considers me.
The frosty look is never a good thing.
I’ve learned a lot, and one of those things is that the paler his eyes, the quicker I better get a move on.
So I do.
The fresh limp slows me down, but I walk the extra distance to the woodchipper.
Might be pushing my luck with this one, since it’s further away than any time I’ve gone before.
But also, privacy, you know?
The warrior watches me go until I’m behind the big wheel of the tractor that’s hooked up to the woodchipper, then—
“Stop.”
That halts me.
The wheel is tall enough to reach my chest, but he stops me from going any further out of sight.
A huff grates me before I fumble with the drawstring of my sweatpants. The knots are triple tied. All that walking, I need them as secure as I can get them.
Now, they slide down my legs before I drop into a squat—and the warrior vanishes from sight.
Behind the wheel, the torchlight doesn’t reach me, so I’m squatting in darkness that’s edged with some ribbons of crimson, like the sort of glare that comes when my eyes are adjusting, and I have to squeeze my eyelids shut a dozen times.
I hate the darkness, I hate squatting in it.
It’s a vulnerable feeling, like at any moment a snake is going to strike up at me from the grass, or spiders are making their way up my boots right now, and before I’m finished, they’ll start skittering over my exposed areas.
It rushes me.
That’s the catch with the lick of privacy I found behind the bulky tractor wheel.
It steals my sight—and brings anxieties.
But it also keeps me out of his line of sight.
He might not feel desire for a human woman, the thumbs, but that memory is seared into my mind. His double-take and bewildered lingering stare on my pelvic area when I changed in front of him.
It’s just a little hair…
That’s all.
Not like I have wax appointments lined up in the blackout.
Besides, I was never really the type to worry much about it.
In the Before, I trimmed. Kept it tidy. And even sometimes in the blackout, I indulged in that.
A trim here and there. It’s not like I went out of my way to do it, to plan it, to schedule it.
But the apocalypse comes with a lot of quiet, dull moments, of time just staring at walls, and hey, I used some of those moments to groom myself, so what?
I also used pore strips in bathrooms of homes we broke into, and whatever I could get my hands on to pass the time.
I didn’t think it could get any more boring than it was back then.
I was wrong.
Now, there are no razors to fiddle with, no pore strips, no magazines, no nothing. Just eternal darkness and fae warriors.
It should have me in constant adrenaline, drenched in a forever panic, my insides always icy and coiling, my head always frantic—
But I’ve sort of gotten used to it.
That’s horrible.
There’s shame creeping onto my cheeks at that.
Somewhere along the way, my adrenaline just settled.
I huff away the thoughts before I feel for the wet wipes I left on the curve of the wheel. My other hand is firm on the hard rubber of the tyre, a grip that I hope holds and keeps me from losing my balance on this aching leg.
My fingertips fumble over the damp wipes I’m searching for, then I lure one out. I only just bring it down to my spread thighs when the glow of the flames around the wheel flickers.
My insides go cold.
I throw my stare up—and find the cold warrior advancing, his predatory steps bringing him around the nose of the tractor.
The glare I shoot up at him isn’t kind.
I hiss through my clenched teeth. “I’m not finished.”
Fuck off, you monster, is what I really want to say.
His stare is unfaltering, it’s a challenge of apple-green and frost and threats.
“Go away,” I grit out the words.
The heat that burns my cheeks is hotter than the torchlight.
He’s not done this before. Any time I’ve found some scrap of privacy for this, he’s stayed back.
Not this time.
Standing over me, his head tilts, almost like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do, if I’ll shove at him or skitter away.
But I do nothing except hold the wet wipe against myself, shielding myself.
He hums a curt sound before he extends his hand—
I frown at the square he’s holding.
My eyes squint against the darkness, the flimsy gleam of flames not quite reaching me behind the wheel.
As if reading my mind, he lifts his hand, the square with it, and brings it into the light touching the curve of the wheel.
I blink on it.
The edges sharpen, the pattern clears—and I realise he’s holding one of the period pads from my backpack.
“I…” I’m not bleeding. “I don’t need that.”
Still, he offers the pad to me, right in front of my hot face. “You need it.”
Cheeks flaming, I lift my hand from my thigh, then snatch the pad. The movement wavers me, and I steel my grip on the tyre so I don’t lose my balance.
His gaze drops for a split moment, barely a second, if half of one.
But he still fucking looked.
And before he turns his back on me, the creases of a frown etch into his face.
He stalks out of sight.
I swerve my narrow stare between the arch of the wheel and my underwear as I stick the pad on, then fold back the wings.
Then I wipe.
Wet wipes have gotten me through this lifetime of no showers, no baths, not even the hot springs. But it isn’t a substitute that has me feeling clean. It’s like sanitising my hands when I know I need to wash them.
I finish up behind the wheel and, as I come around the tractor and into the path of light, I fasten the strings of my sweatpants.
The stare I aim at him is narrowed.
He doesn’t see it, not while he’s crouched with his back to me, digging through his satchel.
The knife strapped to his thigh glistens in the light, a blade that looks like it’s been crafted from glass and peppered with flakes of gold.
Disinterested, he orders, “Cover your body.”
A familiar command.
It’s his way of telling me to put the oil on, the stuff that protects me from freezing to death in the cold.
He gestures to the bench in front of him—and I just notice them now, the rows of stone pews behind the mausoleums.
The one directly in front of him is shrouded in weeds, but there are a few jars set out along the left side, a warm soapy cloth folded neatly, and on the right side, nothing, a clear spot.
I huff a misty breath before I march for the pew.