Evolution (7 page)

"Guess you're in luck, then."

He flashes me a sudden grin and winks.  "So are
you."

I turn my face away as I color red.  "Did you
figure out what to put on it, yet?" I ask, trying to forge ahead, and
immediately regret not specifying that I'm talking about the tree.

Thankfully, Matt does not take the opening.  He quickly
stows away his smirk and focuses on his reading. "Yeah," he says
absently.  "You'll see."

I'm not really sure I want to.  I wait a moment and
excuse myself.

"'Night," he calls after me as I climb the stairs.

Shutting the door to my room brings a small sense of
relief.  I'm still bothered that I can't lock it, but so far Matt has
never tried to come in.  I can only hope that continues.

When I sit down on my bed, I feel something soft beneath
me.  My fingers brush fur.  I frown, and reach for the aether
lamp.  A bluish glow fills the room.

I run my hands over the coat.  The inside is lined with
silky, white fur.  The outer is tan suede.  I don't know how many
layers are between, but it's the thickest, softest coat I've ever laid my hands
on.  A small piece of paper flutters to the floor.  I bend over and
retrieve it.

Merry Christmas
, it says.  I sigh and close my
eyes.

***

Halfway through the night, I hear Miranda's footsteps
running up the stairs.  I'm already awake, and I know it's her when she
knocks.  Matt is already in his room across the hall.  With company.

"Come in," I say, before she’s even finished
knocking.  I sit up and fumble for the lamp.

She scoots the chair over backward, straddles it, and says
breathlessly, "I was just with the guys."

How easily she says it, like it's nothing.  Like I
wouldn't give my right arm for five minutes.  I swallow my bitterness and
say in my most disinterested voice, "Oh?"

She nods and takes a second to catch her breath. 
"Yeah," she says.  She opens her mouth to go on, then suddenly
frowns and cocks her head.  She's listening.  "...Is
that...?"

"Yep."

"Leeta or Kloe?"

"I don't know."  I shrug.  "Maybe
both of them."

Her frown deepens in disapproval.  "This is how he
courts you?" she asks, throwing out one hand toward the door.

"I don't really care."  Though I probably
cared a while ago, when I had my pillow over my head.

"Well, I do," she protests.  "I'm going
to have a talk with him tomorrow."

"Just leave it," I say, my voice dangerously close
to turning into a growl.  I take a deep breath.  Miranda means well. 
She does.  When I continue, I manage to maintain a level tone. 
"He hasn't come into my room in the middle of the night and ravaged me, so
I say it's all good."  I give her a look.  Somehow, I hold all
the emotion inside.

Her eyes flicker nervously, then fall on the floor. 
She's quiet.  When she looks back up, she changes the subject
abruptly.  "So, Apollon was a little weird."  She eyes me.

"Weird?"  I hold back the worry that
immediately tries to spring forth, reminding myself that Apollon is often a little
weird.  "How?"

"He walked me home," she says.  "I think
he wanted to talk, away from the others."

I readjust my legs under the blanket, all the questions
running through my mind again.  I suppress the sudden, panicked thought
that it’s about Elaina Sumter’s death—a death that I am responsible for. 
Now that Apollon’s back, now that he’s been with the others a while, surely he
knows what happened.  Is there any way our friendship will survive all the
things that have come against it?  Or does he hate me already?  I
take a deep breath.  "About what?"

"Well..." She glances at the door, then scoots a
little closer.  My heart thumps, holding out against the fear of words I
am sure I’m going to hear.  Miranda’s voice is low.  Not that Matt is
listening to us.  "He said....  He said to tell you that—OK,
this is weird—that 'he's still the god of many things'."  She pauses
and studies me, her eyebrows diving downward in the middle.  "I
assume it means something to you?"

I stare at her with my mouth open, giving my mind a chance
to find logical thought through the fog of brain chemicals.  Not
Elaina.  Not yet.…The god of many things.  It's Apollon's favorite
joke.  One that Miranda is familiar with, too.  I scan quickly
through the memories.  Apollon, god of the sun.  Destroyer.  God
of poetry.  God of music.  God of the plague.  Oh.  I say
it out loud.  Softly.  "Oh."

Miranda's eyebrows go up.  "Oh?"

"Oh," I say again.  My stomach rolls
sideways.  I wrap my arms around it.  I shake my head. 
"Just tell him," I start, but my voice has gone dry.  I have to
clear my throat and start again.  "Just tell him I'm OK.  Tell
him I still have some ideas."

She tilts her head curiously.  "Do you?"

I manage a nod, and though her eyes are demanding to be told
what my ideas are, I avoid admitting that I have none.  "Later,"
I say.  "I need some sleep.  Just tell Apollon. 
Please."

***

My warehouse is coming along nicely.  Toward the
afternoon, I head to the Rustler, hoping for a break and some quiet time. 
Instead, I hold court.  Not intentionally.

People are quickly gaining confidence in my authority. 
I should have known there would be no peace.  Ever since the thing with
Sawyer and Black, I seem to be in high demand.  Several people are lined
up to buy me drinks.  There are a handful of requests for favors or
permissions, but mostly, it's bickering.  The new order of the Outpost has
people testing their boundaries, encroaching on their neighbors, and trying to
grab as much as they can while they can.  I do my best to set them
straight.  I even throw in a few well-placed threats, hinting that Matt
won't like some of the things I have to tell him.  Not that I'm going
to.  But they don't know that.  I grow tired of it all quickly. 
I dismiss the small crowd that has grown around me, and head outside. 
Jacob and Taylor trail after me.

I trudge down the street, ignoring everyone.  I wanted
to be alone, but now that I am, at least sort of, the solitude is beyond
lonely.  Despair threatens to creep in once again.  I head in the
direction of my warehouse, but halfway across the marketplace, I stop in my
tracks and stare.

Neveah is accepting a coin from a boy holding a small
pouch.  As she pockets it, she looks past him and sees me.  I don't
know what to expect—anger, disappointment?  I’m still not sure how she
feels about what I did when Grey attacked.  Ultimately, we left her
behind.  Left her to the battle and then, unknowingly, to Matt.  Was
she hurt?  Frightened?  Does she blame me for not helping her sooner? 
Does she even know I helped at all?

As she sees me, her lips turn upward in the gentlest of
smiles, tentative, understanding of my hesitation, accepting.  Perhaps
it's because she doesn't ever speak that she’s able to say so much without a
single word.

I run to her and throw my arms around her.  We stand
there in the marketplace, holding on to each other.  My eyes are squeezed
shut.  My heart is full.  Relief overflows.  For the longest
time, there is no need to say anything.

Eventually, we draw apart.  I don't mention the past. 
I know I've been forgiven for whatever I may have done.  Instead, I tell
her about the future.  But first, I fix Jacob and Taylor with a glare, and
point to the place I want them to wait, within sight, but out of hearing
distance.  Looking uncomfortable, they follow my silent directions. 
Neveah’s blanket is spread with packets of herbs displayed for sale.  We
sit together at the far end, the familiar scent of the herb packets—a scent I
associate entirely with Neveah—bringing a rush of comfort and familiarity. 
Leaning close, I whisper to her, telling her everything.  My failed plans
for all of us to leave.  My fears that the Sentries will keep
coming.  How difficult it has been to be away from my family—how I’ve
worried for her and Apollon.  All my grief.  She listens, and nods,
and pats my knee.

"There's something I would like you to do," I say,
after we’ve sat together for a moment in silence.  I never realized, but
now it is clear to me that Neveah is such an important part of my plans.

Her eyebrows go up.

"I'm making a place for people to get help.  If
they're sick or hurt.  I want you to run it."

She frowns and cocks her head, eyeing me.

So I ramble at length about my efforts to convert the
warehouse.  "You could teach people," I tell her. 
"You could show them how to look after each other."

Her eyes fall thoughtfully on the little bundles spread over
her blanket, considering.  There is a light in them that makes me feel
warm inside.  I really think we can do this.

“And I can pay you,” I blurt, suddenly remembering. 
“To make up for your income here.  I’ll pay you better.  I promise.”

Her eyes flick to me inquisitively, and somehow, the
curiosity in them makes me blush.

“I, um, rigged this deal with what’s left of Donegan’s
guys,” I mumble, wanting to establish that the money is not coming from Matt,
though there are some links I would prefer to sever.  “It’s enough for a
while.  We’ll need to buy things, too.  But I have an idea for the
long run.  I just haven’t enacted it, yet.”

She nods slowly, but she’s still giving me that analyzing
look.

“I need to get going,” I say and abruptly lean in to give
her a hug.  I don’t really have anywhere to go, but I’m feeling the need
to retreat from her questioning eyes.  I scramble to my feet and head off,
my bodyguards trailing behind me.  Unfortunately, the questions come along
with me.  What am I doing?  This sickhouse—it’s an acceptance of my
sentence.  I’m stuck here.  I’m making the most of it.  I’m even
making the most of my association with Matt.  So where does that
lead?  And am I willing to go there?  The questions set my heart
racing, and I can’t quite decipher what emotion is behind the rush.

I feel a sudden and incredible need to sit and think things
through.  I want to go home and hide, but part of me is still resistant to
the idea that Matt's house could be a place of retreat.  Instead, I head
for the Rustler, determined to tell everybody to piss off and leave me alone
while I sit and nurse a drink.

I’m still pushing through the door when I register Matt's
voice inside.

"Well then," he drawls in a tone of jovial
authority, "someone bring me Coyote Dan."

His eyes fall on me as I step inside, and there’s a little
flare of surprise.  One hand is poised in the air where he was swishing
it.  He sees his victory before I can disguise it.  He grins at me.

Coyote Dan
.  Matt's adopted my nickname for
him.  Something so simple.

I look down, but I can't stop it.  I'm smiling.  I
put one hand over my mouth to hide it.  But my feet decide to move toward
him, crossing the room with a mind of their own.  I lean up against the
bar next to him and we regard each other.  He flicks one finger toward
Arthur and the best whiskey in the Outpost materializes in front of us. 
We take up our shot glasses and look at each other during a long pause.

"Merry Christmas," I finally say, begrudgingly
though it is.

"Merry Christmas," Matt beams in return.

We clink our glasses together and drink up.  Arthur
pours another round.  We take this one more slowly, eyeing each other and
not talking, much like the first time we ever shared a drink.  I study
Matt’s face and consider that I was wrong about Apollon.  That Matt wasn’t
lying to me.  He really didn’t know.  And Neveah didn’t seem hurt or
traumatized at all.

Soon, Coyote Dan comes in and, after a brief greeting, Matt
pulls him away to a table where they sit and quietly talk business.  My
eyes wander over them from a distance, wondering what Matt has Dan up to
now.  Last I knew, he was working with Lloyd on forging weapons for the wall. 
That was before Grey attacked the Outpost and crumbled the wall to
pieces.  Are they remaking the weapons for the reconstructed wall? 
Or is it something else?  Whatever it is, Coyote Dan, who once questioned
Matt's side, now seems eager to please.  He must have learned his lesson
the first time.  He still needs the stick to walk.

As if he senses my eyes on him, and my dark thoughts, Dan
glances up at me.  His smile is a straight stretch of mouth.  His
weirdly blue eyes seem to be summing me up.  Still the same old Coyote
Dan.

I nod at him, once.  Matt glances at me with a
half-smile.

Not very much later, Matt and I walk home together. 
I'm not really surprised when he draws me straight through the house to the
back porch.

"Again?"

He just smiles, pulling me by the elbow.

The cage, this time, is filled with four incredibly noisy
birds.  They make a sound that chills my spine.  The call of a
ghost.  Something otherworldly.

"I thought ducks quacked," I finally manage,
covering my ears with my palms.

"I'm pretty sure ducks have round beaks," Matt
says, studying the birds in the cage.

I regard the duck-like, black-and-white speckled
things.  It's true.  Their beaks are pointy.  "What are
they, then?"

He shrugs.  "Noisy."

"Incredibly.  Do they lay eggs?"

He smiles.  "Maybe."

I wave him off, going inside.  "You have no
idea," I say as he follows me.  "They could lay rocks for all
you know."

He just laughs.  "Think of them as rare and
exotic," he suggests.

I roll my eyes.

By halfway through dinner, both of us are flinching at every
phantomlike cry that pierces straight through the wall and into the dining
room.  We look at each other across the table and reach a silent
understanding.  The birds have to go or no one will sleep.  Likely,
we'll both go insane long before bedtime.  Without speaking, Matt stands
up and leaves the room.  I hear the front door open, and the murmur of his
voice.  He returns just as quietly, and takes his seat.  In a moment,
there is the clunk of metal footsteps out back.  I freeze,
listening.  The birds get noisier.  Metal clangs.  And then,
slowly, the Sentry’s footsteps move away.  With them, the calls of the
birds fade into the distance.  As they melt into merciful silence, I sigh.