The Arrivals. Melissa MarrЧитать онлайн книгу.
and patted his cheek fondly.
“We can’t stay in the inn tonight, Katherine. It’s not safe enough. We’ll head back to the camp.” Jack had stopped when she had. Her brother wasn’t going to admit that he could see how tired she was, but he would adjust his stride so she didn’t have to say it.
She smiled at him. She could make it as far as Gallows, but walking the extra miles to camp would be too much. “No,” Kitty objected. “We can stay in Gallows.”
“The inn isn’t safe enough right now.” Jack wouldn’t do anything he thought would endanger the group unnecessarily, even for her. “We’ll pack up when we reach Gallows and be on the road before full dark.”
“Tomorrow,” she said.
“The brethren are likely to have others here. We can make it to camp tonight. The inn’s not—”
“I’ll keep watch for Kit,” Edgar interrupted. “You and Francis can take Mary back to camp tonight.”
At the same time, both Kitty and Jack said, “But—”
“Kit needs to rest.” Edgar’s voice was even.
“We should stay together,” Jack argued.
Edgar leveled a daunting look at him. “We’re almost to Gallows, Jack. Either we all stay there, or we divide. Whether she’s willing to admit it or not, Kit needs rest.”
For a moment, Jack looked at Kitty with the sort of penetrating gaze that made her want to lie to him. She didn’t often succeed at that, but she felt like a failure for putting him in this position. He didn’t understand how much any sort of death magic drained her.
Before Kitty could lie and say that she was well enough to travel tonight; that she didn’t want to abandon Mary; that she wasn’t exhausted from being shot, bloodburned, and backlashed, Edgar added in that absurdly reasonable tone, “Mary’s dead, Kit. You won’t do anyone any good in this state, and Mary won’t wake for six days.”
“If at all,” Jack added. She could tell his answer had changed as he’d studied the girl.
“If at all,” Edgar concurred.
Jack nodded, and they fell into silence as they walked. There wasn’t a whole lot to say. Either Mary would wake, or she wouldn’t. No one knew why any of the Arrivals did or didn’t wake after they’d been killed. Most everyone woke a few times, but there was no pattern to the hows or the whys of it. They got poisoned, shot, gutted, drained, or killed in any number of ways, but they often stood back up alive and perfectly healthy on the sixth day as if they’d only been sleeping—except when they didn’t.
It wasn’t until they reached the junction where they had to go separate ways that Jack suggested, “Francis maybe ought to go with y—”
“No,” Kitty cut him off. “You’re carrying Mary, and you have further to go. If you run into trouble, you’ll need him.”
“Be careful. Please?”
“Like Edgar would let me be anything else when I’m injured.” She tried for a reassuring smile.
“And you’ll come straight back to camp in the morning?” Jack prompted.
Kitty wanted to argue that he was being difficult, but she’d earned his suspicions—plus she was too tired to argue. She nodded. “Promise.”
Neither Francis nor Edgar said a word, but she knew that they’d both obey Jack if it came down to a direct order. And while she wouldn’t admit it aloud, she knew that they should obey him. There weren’t a lot of things she believed after all these years in the Wasteland, but the one truth that she held on to like it was her religion was that her brother was worth obeying. She’d follow him to Hell without a moment’s hesitation. For the first few years after they’d arrived here, she was pretty sure she had followed him to Hell. In the Wasteland, any number of impossible things lived and breathed. The one unified truth here was that the denizens of the Wasteland all thought the Arrivals were the most unnatural creatures in this world. Sometimes, Kitty thought they were right.
Tonight, though, they were simply a weary group of displaced humans. Kitty watched Jack carry Mary away, saw Francis scan the area for threats, and hoped that come morning no one else would be dead—and that in six days, Mary would be alive again.
CHAPTER 2
By the time Edgar and Katherine returned to camp the next day, Jack had already finished an extra patrol and begun debating going back out. It wasn’t that he was avoiding mourning; it was that he didn’t know if he should mourn. Until the next six days passed, he wouldn’t know if Mary would wake. If she didn’t, there would be a void in his life. They weren’t in love, but they’d been less and less likely to sleep in separate quarters over the past few months.
That was the only excuse Jack could give for putting Mary in his tent instead of her own. He’d given her the bed they’d often shared, and then he’d left the tent—and the camp—to patrol. Afterward, he’d slept on the floor for a few hours, and when day broke, he’d patrolled again. This wasn’t the first time she’d died, but it was the first time since they’d become … whatever they were.
He’d covered Mary’s body with a blanket as if she merely slept. He’d replaced her bloodied and torn dress with a nightdress, adding to the illusion of rest. Unfortunately, the glass of whiskey he held in his hand at this early hour unraveled the edges of the comforting lie that he’d tried to construct. She was dead.
There was no way to predict which deaths were permanent and which were temporary. Jack had spent many a week waiting by the bedsides of Arrivals who didn’t wake—but he’d spent even more time alongside the beds of those who stood up six days later and continued their lives here in the Wasteland with nothing more than a few lingering bruises. After twenty-six years in this new world, he’d found no pattern to it, no way to make sense of it. The native Wastelanders didn’t die and wake; that odd state was reserved for the Arrivals, those who had been born in another world.
Jack had just retrieved a second cup from his cupboard when he heard raised voices outside his tent. He’d known his sister wouldn’t be pleased. Katherine would have expected to find Mary in the tent she and Mary had shared, and Jack wasn’t the least bit surprised to see his baby sister scowl at him as she shoved open the tent flap.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asked.
“What were you thinking?” His sister stomped into the room, stopping beside the tiny table where he sat.
Jack gestured at the empty chair, but Katherine stood with her hands on her hips and her lips pressed into a tight line. When she didn’t move, he said, “Mary slept here most nights lately. It seemed right for her to wait here now.”
Katherine’s temper visibly deflated, and she sank into the chair across from him. “Damn it, Jack. You can’t ever let anyone help you, can you?”
He poured her drink and slid it to her. “So it would be easier on you?”
His sister let her breath out in a loud sigh. “No, but—”
“Let this one go, Katherine.” Jack concentrated on his whiskey, taking a sip and letting it roll over his tongue. It wasn’t precisely as bad as the swill they’d served up in saloons in California, but it wasn’t the expensive stuff either. He didn’t remember the last time he’d had truly good whiskey—or the money to buy it. The Arrivals worked mostly for the governor or for private citizens in the Wasteland. They weren’t ever flush with cash. That said, Jack took pride in the fact that they worked for the good of the Wasteland. The jobs they took were ones that bettered their world, paid next to nothing—and irritated Ajani, the power-grabbing despot who was steadily destroying the Wasteland.
“The brethren didn’t seem to take offense at anything before they opened fire,” Katherine said, pulling