Chapter 25
Uncomfortable Prospects
Fresh air filtered in despite the heavy wooden window shutters; drowsy warmth filled the cabin, along with an unwilling sense of safety—Cass’s instincts said they weren’t being chased just yet, what Bern called a hurricane-eye.
False security, maybe, but still a few hours’ worth of peace was an occasion to be cherished.
Purple and umber dusk swallowed the pines, the sparse bushes, the gravel driveway, a tiny clearing, a little house.
Nigel showed no sign of either getting ready to leave or lighting the stove.
He did ransack the wardrobe for more blankets, and the sight of him with an armful of cloth and a worried expression was faintly hilarious—maybe her sense of humor was permanently deranged from bogey-hunting, or maybe she just had to be amused at something or she’d start screaming.
Her concentration was shot and the sharp, poking headache simply would not leave her alone.
There was no use in wishing for a bump to keep her up, a nod to help her down, or even a shot of something hi-test to take the edge off.
Worse than all that, though, was the persistent drained feeling, as if her body had turned transparent.
Canned soup helped—especially, she suspected, the high sodium content—but her stomach still complained.
Fantasizing about real food would get her nowhere, and when the squad was down to beans and prayers on the budget it was the height of bad manners to complain.
She couldn’t scrape together the energy to set an intention for a scenario or even a simple fact-finding mission, but she also couldn’t actually sleep.
A twilit half-consciousness was the best she managed, and each time she jerked into full wakefulness, the futon creaking slightly as she shifted, there was a shadow next to the bed.
Nigel had settled on the floor, back braced against the couch’s frame and his head bowed. The sword lay unsheathed next to him, gleaming faintly; though he never so much as twitched Cass could feel him listening. She should have been unnerved.
Instead, a faint sense of almost-comfort grew the longer she listened to his quiet, steady breathing. It was… nice, to feel someone else in the darkness, to not be alone. And her heart gave an awful twinge, thinking about what he must be feeling at fellow soldier’s absence—
No. She had to admit it. At Ed’s death.
Being under fire taught you who your friends were, and those bonds ran deep. It was all right to be scared, so long as you didn’t let your buddies down. Even a coward could perform miraculous feats with that motivation.
Oh, what the hell. It was official, she was about to start grasping at straws. “Nigel?”
“Hm.” The shadow stirred. His head rose a little. “Yes?”
She was probably a bitch for disturbing what little rest he could get. “That… sealing thing. Will it help?”
A long silence filled the cabin, nearly swallowing the night humming along outside. Cass couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or disgusted that she was asking.
Finally, Nigel answered, cautiously. “How do you mean?”
This is so goddamn awkward. But nobody ever died of embarrassment, not with bogeys around willing to do the job.
Which was a terrible, unlucky thought. Cass wished she had a downer, a fifth of whiskey, anything to dull the edges of this situation. Of her own cringing fear. “Let’s say I believe you about the Sons, about all of this. Will that sealing thing give us a better chance of getting you back to them?”
“I’m not important.” A low murmur, as if saying water is wet or gravity is real. “The only thing that matters is you reaching safety. Sealing does improve our chances, since he has some way of—”
Don’t give me details, give me a percentage. “How much does it improve our chances? Like, what’s the number?”
At least he paused, as if giving the question due thought. “I can’t truly say, only that it does.”
Still no hint of dishonesty to his tone, or to any of Cass’s exquisitely sensitive radar. Of course, she wasn’t infallible. “Do I, uh… Do I have to be a virgin?” Because that ship has sailed.
“What?” Nigel coughed, as if dislodging something in his throat. “No, of course not. I’ve never, but that doesn’t matter either.”
Now there was a fascinating assertion. She should keep this businesslike, stick to the facts, but Cass couldn’t help being curious. “Are you actually a priest?”
Holy water didn’t do shit against bogeys, but maybe her crew just hadn’t found the right brand.
“No.” At least he didn’t sound insulted, only slightly baffled. “Why do you ask?”
“Ed calls you Father, and you don’t really look old enough to be his dad.” She wanted to add, despite the grey hairs, but that might be rude. Of course she was also reminding him of a fallen buddy, and now Cass wanted to kick herself for possibly opening up a hideously fresh wound.
“Ah.” The shadow changed as Nigel’s head dropped slightly and rose, a small nod. “I am a little older than I look. Sons have three phases, I’m in the third. But either way, I’ve never, ah. Never had relations, you could say. With anyone.”
Is he saying what I think he is? “You mean you’re…”
“I was very young when I joined the Sons.” Guys generally didn’t like admitting a lack of experience—at least, not when other males were around.
They’d tell the crew’s zany little sister all sorts of personal shit, though.
Maybe Nigel now regarded her as a mascot or strange pet, as Bern always had.
“You should try to rest, Cass. We’ll move before daylight. ”
That was the important thing, she guessed. “Walking to the highway and hitchhiking?” The very idea made Cass even more exhausted, if that were possible.
“Some of the cottages are occupied.” Nigel’s tone remained the same, dry and factual. The streak at his temple gleamed dimly. “We’ll acquire transport when they’re most likely to be deeply asleep.”
More car theft. These poor people, it’s a shit way to end a vacation. “So, uh…”
“What?” He didn’t sound annoyed. Either his self-control was nearly pathological or he was really just that patient. “Go on and ask.”
Her jaw ached, and her shoulders. The rest of her was cold and stiff as a crowbar. He’d given her an out by not going into further detail about that sealing stuff, but she had to be sure. “Should we do that before we go? You know, the…”
She’d done worse to survive, especially after leaving juvie. But this felt like a whole new level of indignity, because he actually seemed—despite everything—like a reasonably good guy.
Frank would have liked him, once they got used to each other.
She couldn’t reach out for Bern and Apoc tonight, and had no way of knowing if the last nightmare was real or simply a terror-soaked dream. Maybe Nigel could tell her, but it would take a long time to explain and how would he react to the news that she’d been attempting to get outside help?
Could she risk it?
Lying still and closing her eyes while a man did what he wanted was stupidly easy by comparison. Which probably made her a coward, but that wasn’t news.
She’d known as much about herself for a very long time.
“It would be an honour I do not deserve,” Nigel said, finally. “And you are very close to true burnout, which is exceedingly dangerous. Not only that, but I promised you.”
You did? Wait, what did you promise? The futon was unreasonably comfortable, she decided. Almost like sinking into a cloud. “I don’t remember that.”
“Nevertheless.” A shadow of a man sitting patiently on the floor, head bent, hands loose, his voice quiet as the wind at the cabin walls. “While I still have the freedom to choose, Cass, I will not… inflict that on you. You’ve suffered enough.”
Which was an interesting way to put it. Before she could answer—not that Cass had any idea what to say—he unfolded in one controlled, fluid movement, a soft metallic gleam running down the sword’s blade before it slid back into the sheath.
Cass tensed. Or tried to. She was so tired.
“I’m going to check outside,” he continued; his ring gave a shy twinkle as well. “Try to rest.”
Which left her sliding down the long hill into sleep after all, both sneakingly grateful he hadn’t taken her up on the offer and wondering if he just plain found it distasteful.
Neither were comfortable prospects. Then again, nothing about this was.
* * *
Dawn was a pink and orange migraine attack boiling on distant, smudged blue mountains.
Cass’s eyes were still grainy, her head ached, and her stomach rumbled as she propped her sneakers on the dash of a stolen black Jeep.
If she did this riding shotgun in the pickup Steve would mutter about kids these days, but Grik wouldn’t care.
If in the RV, Bern would sigh, Apoc grin, or Trille mutter if we get into an accident you’ll eat your own tibias, but at this point the last hardly mattered.
Nigel frowned slightly as he drove, a look of such profound concentration it threatened to scorch indifferently repaired pavement in front of them. He didn’t mention the ‘sealing’ stuff again, but he didn’t act any differently, either—polite, restrained, solicitous.
Distant.
The Jeep hummed as if happy to be moving; at least there wasn’t a stranger’s luggage in the back.
She tried not to think about whoever was left stranded at the larger, much cozier cabin it had been parked outside, or about the heart-pounding anxiety of waiting at the end of a long gravel driveway for a car to appear, for shots to ring out as a sleepy vacationer—in this part of the country, likely to have a hunting rifle handy—heard an engine rouse or the crunch of small stones under tires.
She stole small glances at her traveling buddy for twenty miles’ worth of working toward the highway before his chin turned toward her slightly, though he kept his eyes on the road.
“Is something wrong?” Thankfully, he didn’t sound irritated.