Chapter 23
Try To Believe
A low, groaning creak, then the sense of motion stopped.
Until that moment she hadn’t realized the steady rocking was actually something carrying her—or more precisely, someone, and she knew who it was almost at the same moment soupy half-consciousness spilled through aching muscles, her hanging head, her dangling arms.
Cass’s fingers were swollen, throbbing in time to her heartbeat.
Her head was a lolling pain-pumpkin, temples pounding with dry agony, and the instant she stirred there was a short, sharp sigh.
He sounded either relieved or bracing himself for unpleasantness, and the sound forcibly reminded her of Bern.
What the hell? She twitched, unable to tell which way was up for a moment.
The world revolved around her like a plate spinning on a stick, and she was set on her feet with surprising gentleness.
The rushing in her head intensified now that she was upright; Cass nearly went straight down again, fetching up against something warm and reasonably hard with a thump.
She found her face buried in a broad chest, well-worn leather straps to each side, and around her waist was a sinewy arm. He held her upright, his other arm across her shoulders, and the warm spot in her hair was his murmur.
“All’s well, I’m here.” Such simple words, four little syllables far too short to contain the flood of comfort they carried.
Cass’s legs trembled. She felt oddly pale, almost transparent despite the amount of sheer physical misery. The rushing in her head receded slightly, and she gripped harness-straps with shaking hands, leaning hard against the only safety available in an increasingly insane situation.
“What you’re feeling is incipient burnout,” he continued, calm as ever. “You can channel an amazing amount of energy, but even a lirai has limits and it’s clear you’ve been running on fumes for some while now. You need food, and rest.”
Sure, okay. Great. Cass forced her hands to unclench, but couldn’t quite pull herself away from shelter just yet. A soft thump under her ear was a stranger’s heartbeat, strong and even.
When was the last time she’d been this close to anyone else, for more than a bare moment or two?
Bern and the guys were super careful on that front, only briefly and rarely leaning into her personal space even when she would’ve liked something more than a big-brother nudge or a wallop on the back and a good job, soldier.
Apoc sometimes gave her a side-hug, or Steve ruffled her hair after range practice.
Sure, Trille touched her all the time, taking vitals, but it was medical contact, nothing more.
“Okay,” she whispered. Her lips were dry, chapped and cracked, but at least she wasn’t being dangled upside down over a shoulder or chased by monsters at the moment.
Take what you can get was a favorite saying among bogey-hunters. She struggled to think through the haze of fatigue—they’d stopped, so there were things to do, duties to perform. Her eyes wouldn’t open just yet; she tried to haul the lids up. No dice, as Apoc would say. “What… where…”
“Can you stand?” Nigel asked. Very gently, all thing considered. As if she had a choice. “If not, I can—”
“I’m fine,” she managed. I have to be. “You? Are you okay?”
The resultant pause was full of small sounds—wind against branches, more creaking, faint chirping, an entire collage of morning, outside, rural or close to it. No crunch of tires on gravel or mutter of traffic, which also meant no screaming mental pressure of crowded-close humans.
The quiet was nice, but she couldn’t enjoy it. Not under current conditions. Still, the steady rhythm against her cheek was comforting.
“You’re alive.” Nigel stood very still, body heat radiating through thin T-shirt material. “That’s the important thing. I didn’t expect you to wake so soon, it can take a Dreamer several days to recover from that kind of overload.”
Guess I’m an overachiever. Great. Cass told her legs they were just going to have to carry her whether they liked it or not, and forced her eyelids to part slightly. Dim light poured in, assailed her headache; the world was just waiting to assault her afresh.
“Where are we? And Ed, is he okay?” She didn’t want to lose that slow steady rhythm pressed against her cheekbone but she straightened anyway, peeling herself away.
As much as she could. His arm remained around her waist, even if the one over her shoulders loosened.
“He’ll find us.” Nigel was gaunt, blue eyes burning. His mouth thinned even more than usual, and a lingering shadow-smell of bitter, burning iron clung to him.
She knew that look. It meant casualties.
The low, friendly creaking underfoot was the porch of a small house with shuttered windows.
A smudge of twin gravel tracks overgrown with low scrub impersonated a driveway, and proud, scrappy pines cloaked the hillside.
Low humidity, sandy soil, and scattered boulders still seemed a bit like California, but she didn’t think they’d headed south.
Nigel clearly didn’t want to talk about poor Ed, and visibly decided to orient her like Bern or Trille often had to after scenarios or other weirdness.
“Utah,” he said. “Or at least, that’s the most likely; we were almost out of Idaho.
There’s a group of vacation cottages, this is one of them. We’re safe here for a little while.”
Oh, God. Cass couldn’t sway or buckle—he was holding her too closely, and he was also searching her face as if suspecting something.
It was yet another look she’d seen before, when a new recruit figured out the bogeys were indeed real and was on the knife-edge of disliking, or maybe even fearing her, too.
Because of what she could do.
“I’m sorry,” she said, dully. Such an inadequate phrase. “You… I’m just so sorry.”
“For what?” But his grasp loosened, and he was suddenly all business. “There will be water inside, and I’ll have to look at the electrical system. It isn’t very luxurious, but at least you can rest.”
“Nigel.” Cass leaned away—not very far, her muscles all had a case of the rubbery gooshies. “Stop. This isn’t going to—look, I’m sorry.”
“None of this is your doing.” He shook his head, and the silvery stripe at his temple gleamed angrily as a hint of crimson swelled through bony pines crowning the eastern slope. “Come on. Let’s get you settled.”
He finally let go of her, but slowly, as if afraid she’d collapse.
A few moments had Cass settled, leaning against a splintered support pole for the porch’s listing roof, then he turned away.
An arthritic screen wheezed open and the actual door had a deadbolt, which was no match for the invisible shimmer he could produce.
That particular trick seemed incredibly useful, and she tried to concentrate, to see how he was doing it.
Unfortunately, the effort set her head pounding again. She winced, inhaling softly; she wasn’t quiet enough, because Nigel stiffened, glancing over his shoulder. “Don’t attempt to help,” he said, quietly. “It might give you actual burnout instead of simple exhaustion.”
The cabin was an almost-literal shotgun shack, but someone spent plenty of time and sweat equity on the interior.
The upholstery was mostly red gingham, the curtains cheap fabric but neatly sewn, and the tiny kitchenette clean as a whistle under a layer of desert dust. An enthusiastic, deeply amateur landscape painting took pride of place on the living room wall, and a potbelly stove crouched in a corner opposite the open kitchen space, its well-mended chimney rising straight and proud.
Cass leaned against the solid wooden back of an ancient futon sofa with red-checked cushions, endlessly glad to be stationary for a few more moments.
Her legs trembled. The painting looked like a Bob Ross follow-along, happy little trees and a curving lakeshore.
The interior smelled of disuse but not rot—a good airing would take care of the staleness, and a wooden broom hung bristles-up to one side of the front door said that the first thing its owners probably did when arriving was open every window and give the plank floor a brisk sweeping.
I could live in a place like this. It certainly beat camping; Cass even glimpsed a slice of well-bleached linoleum that had to mean plumbing. There were only three doorways—front, back, and bathroom—but that was more than enough for her, so long as the neighborhood was quiet.
The bogeys would eventually follow her here, though. So would the big kahuna. That foul, horrible, gabbling scream—that was what the bogey-cries were impersonating each time they whistled through a city’s concrete canyons.
Now she knew.
Nigel finished his inspection by pacing to the back door, examining it thoroughly.
“Water’s already on,” he said. “The loo’s fine I should think, just let the pipes run a bit before drinking anything.
Power might be a little trickier, I’ll have to look at the main.
I… apologize, it’s not more comfortable.
But at least we have some breathing room. ”
“You don’t have to.” Cass hugged herself, gripping her elbows hard. Bony points dug into her palms. “They always find me, even if I keep moving. It’s…” It’s inevitable. Really you should get as far away from me as possible. The words stuck in her throat, dry and hopeless.
“It’s a miracle.” Nigel turned, his gaze roving the interior. He probably had everything in here memorized even at such short notice; his constant intensity was very nearly fearsome. “You don’t realize just how important—”
“I’m infected,” she said flatly, aware of a strange bubbling sensation behind her breastbone—the same old dull, useless anger. “It’s a disease, and it gets anyone near me killed. Sometimes I wish the bogeys would just eat me. At least I wouldn’t have to be so afraid all the goddamn time.”