19
“The Regiment’s power and influence spread quickly.
Critics claim this was the result of fear: fear of war, of dictatorial ideologies, and most importantly, of the demonic.
In Sundbourg, a country that once boasted so-called progressive or secular views, an inexplicable panic would arise shortly after the Regiment’s establishment, leading to a resurgence in theistic thought and beliefs. ”
The last hour of the journey is torturous. The silence between Slade and I permeates the compartment, although not the same way it did for the first few hours. No—this silence is heavy. Charged. The visible tension in Slade’s shoulders never lets up.
One of us could move compartments, of course.
Given the time of night, we seem to be the train’s only occupants.
But that feels like capitulation, and I’m determined to win this round of whatever fucked-up game it is we’re playing.
And so I sit there, ignoring my own frustration as I work on driving his higher.
A coy smile. A light swipe of my tongue over my upper lip.
It’s worth every tic in his jaw, every flash of his eyes.
Those tiny movements give him away. Each one is like a ripple spreading out across the calm surface of his impassivity.
Once in a while my gaze drops back to his fingers—that sole indication of his matching agitation.
The stark contrast of black ink on pale skin.
When the train finally shudders to a stop, I’m about ready to leap out of my skin.
It’s raining, and I throw my hood up as I follow Slade out onto the platform.
I can immediately tell we aren’t in Valestadt anymore: The tall, soot-stained buildings and the accompanying sense of urban claustrophobia are gone.
Beneath the astringent smell of burning coal, the air is clean, and I realize the familiar rumble of automobiles is missing.
It’s too quiet. A chill climbs my spine.
In the distance I can see a few scattered houses, squat and indistinct beneath the dark sky that swallows up the smoke billowing from their chimneys.
The Outskirts—that’s where we are. Whereas the Trench sits at the southernmost part of Valestadt, the Outskirts are just past the northern end and aren’t considered part of the city.
They encompass much of the coast along the river that separates the Reaches from the rest of Sundbourg, extending west to the Brevanian border.
I vaguely recall speeding through them during the earliest parts of my childhood, back when my parents would take us on rare visits to the rocky beaches of the northwestern shore.
I jog down the platform steps to catch up to Slade. The rain is cold, somewhere between drizzle and downpour, and I tighten my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.
“Keep up,” Slade barks, his voice nearly lost in the spattering of water against the pavement.
He doesn’t even seem to notice the rain.
It leaves marks like tear tracks on his cheeks.
For a moment he reminds me of the statue in the abandoned square near his house.
Maybe it’s the way he looks like a figure painstakingly carved, his countenance equal parts solemn and sharp.
“You said your friend knows about the Reaches and that he owes you a favor.” I’m almost breathless as I keep pace with Slade. “Are we only going to him for information, or do you plan to bring him along?”
Slade lets his gaze slip to mine, then refocuses on the path ahead. “I have no intention of bringing him. But he frequents the Reaches often. He’ll know the best way to cross and the best place to go once we do. He’ll be able to tell us what, exactly, the Congregation entails.”
“And do you expect he’ll be willing to answer those questions at this time of night?”
“Diabolists don’t need as much rest as you do.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Slade shoves damp hair back from his face. “He might have some questions for me first, that’s all. I expect we’ll be spending at least a couple of days there. Then, on Friday, we can continue on to the Reaches.”
I halt in the middle of the street. “A couple of days?” I raise my voice at Slade’s retreating back. Realizing I’ve stopped, he pivots, rolling his eyes.
“Is that a problem?”
“We’re not here to catch up with friends,” I hiss. “We’re on our way to assassinate a Prophet.”
Slade glances down the road in the direction of the train station. “Why don’t you say that a little louder? Maybe put out a news release.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He continues walking. Over his shoulder he says, “No use barging into the Reaches before the Congregation has even begun.”
“But—”
He whirls around once more, causing me to nearly collide with his chest. We’re face-to-face. I can see each raindrop clinging to his lashes. I resent the way my heart stutters, as though it’s immediately forgotten I’m supposed to be annoyed.
“We will cross into the Reaches when I’m good and ready,” Slade says too pleasantly.
“Until then, this is an ideal location to be. It’s close to the river and away from the eyes of the city.
If you’d like to rush in and kill my brother on your own, then by all means, be my guest. But if you’d like my assistance, you’ll be patient and do as I say. ”
My jaw is tight as I glare at him through the rain. “When are you going to learn that I’m not some pliable woman for you to order around?”
He tilts his face down to mine, a challenge in the curve of his lips. “When are you going to learn,” he croons, “that that’s exactly what you want to be for me?”
I jerk away, my face suddenly hot. I hate that he does this, and that I can’t seem to control my reactions. “Fine. We’ll stay with your friend until Friday at the very latest. Assuming he even wants us there.”
I expect Slade to look smug, but something almost like worry flickers in his gaze. “Excellent,” is all he says.
Much of the Outskirts is undeveloped land somewhere between forest and field, but every so often the foliage thins to reveal the ruins of a large concrete building, walls cracked and strangled by creeping vines.
Former factories, no doubt. Before the rise of the Regiment, the Outskirts was an industrial hub.
Factory workers lived in temporary housing long since reclaimed by the elements, while rich owners occupied estates in the hills.
The factories themselves were abandoned and left to fall into disrepair when the Regiment clawed back on unsanctioned and unnecessary technology.
Soon the trees thicken, the paved road giving way to a gravel path that takes us switchback-style into a higher altitude.
I find myself bitterly wishing we had hired a car.
At the very least, I would’ve preferred to make this trek when I wasn’t exhausted and soaked to the bone.
Slade, of course, doesn’t appear to tire.
His steps are sure and lithe, never faltering.
After what feels like an hour, the road flattens and the trees part, giving way to an ancient black house that makes my eyes widen.
It’s imposing enough to rival Gabriel’s.
A former factory owner’s manor, no doubt.
It’s perfectly symmetrical, with a wraparound front porch, arched windows, and dormers that taper to severe points.
The grounds are fringed on all sides by dark coniferous trees.
Though we’re far from Valestadt’s center, the house somehow manages to evoke the gray, smog-choked city with which I’ve become so familiar.
“Your friend lives here?” I hiss, awed and slightly apprehensive.
Slade doesn’t answer as he leads me up the wide steps. Ornamented pillars prop up an overhang that shields us from the rain, and the front door is twice as tall as I am. He raps impatiently on the polished wood. I shoot him a sidelong frown.
“You’re nervous,” I accuse. “Why?”
He doesn’t look at me, but that muscle tics in his jaw.
“Should we—”
The door swings inward before I can finish.
A woman stands on the threshold clad only in a nightgown, her brow knit in bewilderment.
Her wavy hair is loose around her shoulders, the strands somewhere between red and brown, and her eyes are a luminous green.
She’s beautiful in a way that makes my brain stop generating thoughts.
For a moment I forget where we are and that I’d been expecting a man. I forget men exist at all, in fact.
If Slade is as perplexed as I am, he shows no sign of it.
“Ceri,” he says in a rough voice, and I realize this is no first meeting. “Is Emeric here?”
Rather than answering, she takes a step forward and punches him in the face.
It quickly becomes apparent that I’m missing a hell of a lot of context.
I take a step back to make room for Ceri, who pulls the door shut behind her while continuing to glare at Slade. She’s only a few inches shorter than him, which makes her significantly taller than me, even without shoes. The wind whips her nightgown around her like a pale-pink cape.
“You motherfucker,” she hisses at Slade, who didn’t so much as flinch from her strike. “I cannot believe you have the audacity to show up here without a word.”
I like this woman very much.
Slade doesn’t snap back the way I anticipate. He lowers his voice, his expression imploring caution. “Really, Ceri, you ought to be thankful I did what I did.”
“Thankful?” The single word is pitched high. “Do you know how worried he was? How betrayed he felt once we were able to guess where you’d gone? We thought your foul brother had finally gotten to you. You’re lucky I don’t—”
A deep voice calls Ceri’s name, then, and the door handle slips from her fingers as someone wrenches it open from inside.
The man that appears behind her is muscular beyond reason, his bicep flexing as he braces a hand against the doorframe.
His skin is a smooth brown, his curly hair black as ink.
His mouth is bracketed by lines of tension as he scans the porch.