Chapter 24
Monstrous Irrelevancy
He had not lied, Nigel told himself. His lirai needed whatever comfort could be found, and it was just barely possible Edward had survived his desperate holding action.
The reflex of truth lingered in his head. Certainly many things were possible in the world, though not probable. Why had the Elder not fled with their Dreamer instead? The younger man was a better choice, being far closer to anything resembling normal human responses.
Yet Nigel hadn’t questioned, had not thought twice.
Was it a betrayal of his Elder? Should he have insisted?
The god was not whisper-worrying at the floor of a Father’s consciousness, but perhaps he did not need to.
It was no doubt stunningly obvious to even the dimmest observer that Nigel was…
attached, to her. Or simply, greedily reluctant to give up the comfort of a lirai’s presence.
Who would not want to soak in that grace?
And her brittle, heartbreaking determination to help—once she’d finished the coffee she kept attempting to leave the bed, to take part in one task or another.
It was difficult to keep her at rest, and he thought it quite likely she did not wish to risk loosening her grip upon waking consciousness.
Not when she knew what terror sleep could hold.
She only consented to stay still when he perched on the thin cotton mattress’s edge.
Curled on her side, hands folded under a stale, lumpy pillow rescued from the wardrobe’s depths, she bit her lip and stared at the ancient, balky kitchen stove crouched against the shack’s opposite wall.
This dilapidated hut was nowhere near good enough for a Dreamer.
The worst thought was that Edward was outside the circle of a lirai’s regard now, and as soon as her grace wore away he would be fighting the Mad God’s whispers—or worse. When Nigel saw his Elder again, what if…
Don’t borrow trouble. He had enough and to spare.
Some of the nearby dachas were no doubt inhabited by vacationers; transport would not be difficult to acquire in the dead of night.
Of far more concern was whether his lirai’s strength would last if pursuit drew close again.
He had neither time nor capability for teaching her finer control, despite her obvious hunger to learn.
Cans of condensed soup, crackers the consistency of dry plaster—humble fare, but she made no complaint.
She even gave a pale smile or two, refused to eat unless he partook as well.
Telling her the concern was unnecessary, that the energy released from violence or the death of shadowbeasts was more than enough to fuel a Son, did not seem particularly helpful at the moment.
Late, hot afternoon was treacle-golden and quiet save for a faint breeze and the blurring of cicadas high in the arms of pines and junipers.
Balsam and a faint tang of water rode the wind, and in truth it was quite pleasant, especially as her strength began to return and the wonderful, soothing balm spread fitfully over his skin once more.
Given his druthers, Nigel would have spent the time until dusk pacing from the front door to the back, wearing a trench in hardwood flooring and thinking about what to do if a lone predator—or several—happened by.
Ironically, this was a situation in which there was very little prospect of the god’s minions finding a Son and his prize, unless Cass went walkabout in an infested part of the Dreaming Lands and drew notice.
No urban sprawl full of eyes and ears, they were not traveling in a stolen vehicle liable to casual notice by a curious trucker or highway patroller, and if he could keep her calm there would be no sudden spikes of terror spilling into nearby planes of existence.
“Nigel?” She stirred, slightly. “I have a question.”
“Certainly.” He restrained the urge to rise, clasp his hands behind his back, and bow his head respectfully. Etiquette seemed to only make her more uncomfortable; she would learn to expect her full due inside any temple they arrived at.
He would be banished from her presence forthwith, being a reminder of incompetence—if, that was, he survived. Which was less and less likely, the more he mulled upon their situation.
“People like me. Lirai.” She waited for his nod. “They’re ‘potentials’ first, right? How do they turn into the other? Is it always the same way?”
“Ah, that’s the Flame. Generally it’s… you see…” How much could he say? She did not need to be betrayed, pushed into an oubliette so the wondrous illumination of the living planet could rise, burning away protective accretions of ‘normal’ consciousness every child learned to build in self-defense.
“Rainbow-y?” Her tone was soft, infinitely tentative; a shy doe, ready to halt at any moment. “Looks like fire but doesn’t burn, and the light has every color at the edges, some you can’t name. Is that it?”
Did she understand just how dangerous is was for one who had met such a wonder to walk unprotected through shadowbeast-crowded lands? “Yes, that does indeed sound like it.”
“I figured.” Her knees twitched, as if she wanted to curl into a tight, protective ball.
There was simply no room to do so on this small bed, but if he moved she might well decide not to speak further.
An uncertain, fragile trust, granted because she had no other option.
“A few years after my parents… anyway, I was twelve. There was a summer camp for foster kids—getting the ones that couldn’t be placed out of everyone’s hair for a month, I guess.
It was pretty okay. But there was a day hike, and a thunderstorm. I got lost.”
“Where was this?” A careful, neutral question; he suspected what he was about to hear, and it chilled him as no unclean’s presence or hunting-horn could.
“California. Near San Diego. Well, you could drive there in under an hour, at least.” She darted a glance at his expression, licked dry, chapped lips in a quick flicker.
Cautious, but not openly mistrustful; was it unworthy to feel relief that some progress had been made?
“But we were out in the hills. I guess I got a little loopy during the storm, because I found a cave and thought I’d just hunker down and wait for the rain to pass, but it was like…
oh, like I was pulled in. I fell, and the rainbow-y stuff happened.
” Her breath caught. The memory had to be traumatic.
“They sent out search parties. The weird part is, apparently I just showed up—walked back into my cabin—two days later, and when they asked where I’d been I couldn’t say.
It took a while before I was normal again, you know?
” Another soft, thoughtful pause. “Only I never really have been.”
Deep, undeniable cold boiled all through Nigel, along with a quiver suspiciously like terror.
The thought of a child, an orphan at that, so achingly vulnerable and rendered even more so by a lirai’s sensitivity, buffeted by the clamor of normal minds, hunted relentlessly by the Mad God’s minions, surviving amid multiple horrors…
“And just so you know, I don’t blame you or Ed,” she continued.
“For bringing the cops to the campground, I mean. It sounds like you didn’t know, and honestly it’s my fault anyway.
If I wasn’t a freak Bern and the others might still be alive.
Or at least they wouldn’t be trying to hunt the type of bogeys we were af—”
“No.” A single syllable, far too harsh, bounced off the shack’s wooden walls.
The floor creaked sharply, and Nigel’s right hand, resting on his knee, clenched into a knot without conscious direction.
“You cannot—you absolutely cannot think like that. You have no idea the good you’ve done, just by being alive. ”
“You sound like Trille.” Her faint, pained smile remained, a welcome ghost. Her hand stole from under the pillow. Wonder of wonders, she laid hesitant fingertips against the back of his fist. “He was our medic.”
The touch burned up his arm, hit his shoulder, spread in a soft haze.
Strange, now there wasn’t enough air inside the tiny structure, and Nigel was extremely aware of his own questionable competence, not to mention cleanliness, after a night involving vehicular disaster, pitched battle, and flight.
Deeply unworthy, he was nonetheless rewarded.
To be the cynosure of a Dreamer’s attention was the most pleasant thing imaginable, especially to a Son.
Had he done his duty, it would be his Elder receiving the gift. Had Nigel been selfish? There was no way to blame the Mad God, not with her presence warding away the whispers.
“I am sorry.” He sounded odd even to himself—the words thick and hoarse, struggling through a weight of guilt.
“We didn’t mean them any harm.” Unless they endangered you.
Was it better or worse to refrain from further comment?
She deserved absolute, complete truth, yet it might destroy whatever measure of trust he’d managed to gain.
Or whatever compliance would keep her alive.
Nigel coughed, trying to dislodge the sudden rock in his throat while the rest of him stayed still as possible, so as not to lose the butterfly-brush of her fingers resting against his skin. “They seemed like good soldiers,” he finished, aware of the monstrous irrelevancy.
Good men died every day. A dangerous thought, since his own despair might rob him of a critical edge in future battles. The only slim thread of hope was peering up at him, dark eyes wide and pained, gloriously tousled hair raveling over the harsh cotton of a cheap pillowcase.
“Yeah.” She withdrew, tentative trust suddenly gone and her eyes darkening suspiciously; Nigel was almost glad, since the gorgeous warmth of direct contact threatened to break him in a way no gambit of the Mad God’s had ever come close to doing.
“We’re safe here for a little while. I can feel it. ” Almost daring him to disagree.
Nigel simply nodded. When she appeared to slip into a light doze he unfolded, soundlessly, and drifted about the cabin, trying to think of another chore to accomplish, anything to keep him occupied quietly so he wouldn’t wake her.
Even if she was pretending.