Pieces of Autumn (40 page)

But that wasn't why I wanted him dead.

The girl's eyes were hollow and they met with mine. Once.
 

She might not have even realized, but she was begging me to do it.

My stomach twisted with hatred for Birdy, this man I hardly knew, but who clearly didn't deserve to live. The world would be better off without him.

I thumbed my revolver in my pocket. Birdy didn't even notice.

You know what happens when you help girls.

The Viper was angry, his eyes burning red.

What the fuck's wrong with you? You want to get yourself killed?
 

The whore's not worth it. You don't even know her.
 

Walk away. Walk the fuck away, Tate.

Tasting bile, I did it.

I turned and walked away from her.

From him.

From the man who, exactly one year later, would murder Autumn's parents.

And I never looked back.

I knew what I had to do.
 

I'd been trying to avoid it all this time, wanting to believe there was another way. Imagining a life where I could make her happy. A life where I could give her what she deserved.

It was a nice fantasy. She almost certainly wanted to believe in it too, and with her reckless idealism she'd actually try to make it happen. I had to be the one to put a stop to it.

There was no other woman in the world for me. The ghost of Daniela had ceased haunting me, leaving just a gentle throb of painful memories in the back of my mind. Autumn was my everything. The beginning and the end, the alpha and the fucking omega, and I knew I would never let myself get that close to someone again. For my sake, and for theirs.

I worshipped her, idealized her, while at the same time I wanted to beat her with a belt until she cried. A beautifully fucked-up paradox, and one that I had no intention of embracing. The sadist inside had no master. He'd never be satisfied. The Viper hated my kindness, still expecting compassion to bring pain.
 

We lay in bed together, what would be our last night like this. She didn't know that. But I did.

"It's nighttime, you know," I said, after a long silence.

"I know," she said. "Time for questions."

"You're not going to ask?" I smiled against her skin.

"No," she said, softly. "For once, I don't have any questions."

"You can ask, you know," I told her. "You can ask me any question you want, and I'll try to answer."

She was silent for a while, drinking this in.

"What did you think when you first saw me?" she asked.

I chuckled. "I thought,
my God, that's a beautiful girl tied up in my barn. I think I'll keep her
."

Autumn pinched my arm, giggling. "Liar. You're such a liar, what's the point of answering questions if you're not going to be honest?"

"It's true," I insisted. "More or less."

"My turn," I said. "What's kept you here, all this time? I want to know the real answer. Not that you needed protection. Not that you were afraid."

My heart was beating so loud, it was all I could hear.

She smiled, slowly. "Isn't it obvious?"

I shook my head.

"It's you, Tate," she whispered. "It's always been you."

I took in a sharp breath.

Stop. Please, don't tempt me.

"Even before we met," she went on. "You were in my dreams."

Self-hatred coiled inside me. I really had ruined this beautiful creature, infecting her mind with love for me. She deserved so much better. She deserved true happiness, not some twisted mess of pain and horror and lust.

I held onto her tightly, allowing myself to believe for a moment. That we could be like this. Together. Happy. Free.

But there was no room in this world for broken things. And there were shards everywhere. Embedded so deep I'd never get them out. Pieces of Autumn, scattered across my world and buried in my heart.
 

"Tate," she said, softly.

I made a quiet sound of acknowledgement.
 

"Do you have another name?" Her voice was so soft and innocent. Somehow, I hadn't managed to rob her of that. And neither had Stoker.

"You mean a first name?" My lips were still pressed against her forehead, so that every word was almost a kiss. "Or did I used to be called something, before?"

"Both," she said. "Either."

"No," I said. "Nothing I want to remember."

She nodded, satisfied with this answer. My chest ached to tell her what I was thinking, to say the words and let her try to talk me out of it. Begging tearfully, breaking down all of my defenses.

But I couldn't. I wouldn't. I had to let her go. I had to shut that door forever, freeing her from my influence.

Do it for her.

Be a fucking hero, for once in your miserable life.

Everything was in order. My bag was packed, my note was left. I'd left Autumn breathing slow and shallow, hours away from waking.

I heard a soft noise, and looked up. Hoping against hope that it wasn't her.

"Thank fuck," I muttered, seeing Joshua leaning against the door frame.

He watched me pull on my boots, waiting until I tugged on the laces to speak.

"I'm assuming you want me to keep my mouth shut."

I nodded.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he took a few steps towards me. "Just tell me this - you still love her?"

Looking down at the ground, I slung my bag over my shoulder. "Goodbye, Joshua."

I stopped on the front stoop, turning around to look at him.

"Just promise me you won't hurt her. She's had enough of that in her life."

He blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sighing, I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Fuck's sake. Just say it."

"I promise." He tilted his head. "She's stronger than you know."

I wanted to snarl, but this was hardly the time. At least he understood something about her. His opinion of me didn't matter - as long as he respected her, I could live with the solitude. I could spend the rest of my days remembering, and knowing that she'd be happy.

I started walking.

"Tate."

Pausing, I glanced back at him.

"It's not too late to fix this," he said. "Don't be an idiot."

But he was wrong. It was too late.

It was too late for a lot of things.

CHAPTER THIRTY

A New World

The moment I woke up, my arm snaked across the bed in search of him.

It was cold and empty.
 

My heart began to race. I told myself he'd just woken up early, gone to another part of the house. But I knew that wasn't it.

I could feel it, in my chest. Something was different.

Something was wrong.

He was gone, and he wasn't coming back.

Jumping out of bed, I raced through the house looking for clues.
 

His closets were still filed with clothes, and all but one pair of boots remained by the door. But that meant nothing. He could have easily left with just the clothes on his back, but there was one thing he wouldn't leave behind.

I ran to the "exam room" and shoved the door open. At first, nothing seemed out of place. Then I started noticing the missing bottles, bandages, syringes. A sickness rose in my throat, and I swallowed it down with an effort.

Resting on the exam chair was a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper.
 

I picked it up, untying the string with trembling hands.

It was his little revolver, the one he always kept close to his chest. But this time, it was fully loaded.

There was something scribbled on the inside of the wrapping, in a hasty scrawl that I had to read two or three times to understand.

Once I finally let it sink in, I stood there for a long time, tears spilling out of my eyes.

I hope you won't hesitate to use this, if the situation calls for it.

Autumn, I know you won't. But I felt the need to say it, all the same.

I won't need it anymore. Suicide no longer seems like a valid option, now that I know there is someone who would miss me.

You've given me the most precious gift possible.

The only thing anyone ever really wants, in this life, is reassurance that they won't be forgotten.

I promise I won't forget you. I know that means very little, since I don't see any possible way I'll outlive you. I know you'll survive this, I know you'll endure. Better than that, you'll thrive. There's no place in a new world for broken things like me. But there will be a place for you. You'll make sure of it.
 

You deserve to be remembered forever. And I promise I will, no matter what happens. I promise I won't let death steal away the memory of you. I've never wished for an afterlife before. I know it would not be kind to me. But I do now, if only for some chance to remember. To keep existing, so that I won't forget. But I promise, even if all that's left of me is my bones crumbled to dust, they will remember you.

You won't be forgotten, Autumn Laramie.

Don't forget me.

The time passed, as it always does.

At first, every day bled into the next without distinction. My world was blurred with tears. Of course I went with Joshua - I really had no choice, now. Nowhere else to go. He had no words of comfort for me, but he clasped my hand and sat beside me in the car while I cried. Chimaera travelled with us, in the convoy, in the back of the one of the trucks that had plenty of space for her.

I had a very nice little cabin, all to myself. A place of honor, I supposed, for helping with the liberation. It was a hollow comfort.

One of the Syndicate had been a therapist - Mary, the one Joshua had brought with him a few times. She brought me steaming bowls of soup, and never pressured me to talk. But when I finally exploded in wracking sobs, she was there to listen.

I surprised myself by talking about Nikki first, about the depth of betrayal I felt when she left me alone. Then my parents. Birdy.

Then Tate.

He was difficult to talk about. The edges of the memories were still so sharp, hurting me when I dug too deep.
 

It took several weeks before I said the words that I feared the most.

"I know I don't really love him."

Mary just looked at me. No nod of understanding, no
well of course not, dear. How could you love a man like that?

"I know I can't," I whispered, staring down at my hands clenched in my lap. "But it feels real."

I was living with the general populace, for all the difference it made. I barely spoke to anyone. But all the girls who'd been rescued from Stoker were kept far away, in their own camp. No men. They weren't going to mingle with the rest of us until they were ready.

I hadn't visited. I felt guilty, like I'd betrayed them somehow, by falling for my owner. A bad cliché, a parody of everything they'd suffered.
 

More weeks passed. Chimaera was restless and lonely. Finally, I took her out, riding onto the fields where they kept the cattle. Joshua was already there, on his own horse, a beautiful chestnut creature shining in the sunlight. His face registered surprise when he saw me, and then he half-smiled.

"Do you want to help me rope them in?"

"Yes. Please." I was grateful for the work. For the opportunity to do anything at all, except think of Tate.

I was clumsy with the lasso at first, but I learned.
 

Before many more weeks had passed, I could do the task without Joshua's help at all. My skin burned red, and then bronzed, endless constellations of freckles painted across my body. I wondered if Tate would want me like this. In his house I'd been pale as a ghost, hardly ever stepping out into the cold gray of the outdoors.
 

I had dreams of searching for him. Finding him, sometimes, in a burst of sunlight. We'd cling to each other and never let go. But in the waking hours I looked at everything that surrounded me, all the people of the Syndicate, and I knew I couldn't leave them.

We were building a new world.
 

One brick at a time, we would make everything better. We would make sure that no one else had to suffer the way I did, or Tate, or Joshua. Nikki. All the girls at Stoker. All the boys who became men who became monsters.
 

Tate wanted no part of this, and trying to understand why made my heart and my head ache.
 

Our numbers were growing. We still didn't have another doctor, but we had more teachers and more families with children, including a little boy with dark floppy hair and darker eyes. Looking at him, my heart squeezed in my chest. I was so grateful that he found us, that his family would be safe with us and he would always have enough to eat. He would never, ever find himself sitting at the feet of a man like Holland.

Everyone had a job to do. Even the youngest could help plant corn and potatoes, once the land was tilled. There was a girl with blue eyes, of about seven or eight, who came with a battered little violin and played for hours. Her fingers were more nimble than mine would ever be, coaxing plaintive melodies from the aging strings.