“Yeah, but I don’t know any for real, though. …” Dess trailed off.
His eyes fell to my wrists. I could see him thinking about how my wrists were always hidden from plain view. Shock and disgust, anger and betrayal. I was everything that was wrong. I killed according to who could pay me, not because of weakness or strength. If the barrier around Kersh broke, I had something to do with it.
“You know one, Dess,” I said bleakly. Too late to take it back, any of it. “Me.”
Dess got up. Afraid. Of me. One wordless shake of his head and he was gone.
I was still sitting there, having not moved at all, when Chord showed up a couple of minutes later. He simply placed our food on the table, pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and took me by the hand. We walked out. And I went home to wait.
When Dess finally texted me two days later, it was this:
Are you still striking?
No, I’m done,
I texted back.
Then:
Good. It’s okay, then.
I pretended everything was fine. So did he. Eventually it was fine. It
felt
fine. And that was how we left it.
Until now.
What’s up Dess?
I tap onto my screen, still sitting on the curb outside of school. On impulse, I switch it to visual so we can see each other. It feels right to have this conversation face to face.
“Hey, West!” His cheerful kid face is on my screen, and in the background I can see a bunch of other boys. There is a corner of blue sky, green treetops.
I like seeing Dess like this, just hanging out with his friends—a complete, no worries about death, just living life.
But it’s also sad to see his friends. Boys, all around his age. Qualifying age, but not yet active since they’re on campus. If I visit a year from now, how many of them will be left? In two years? In three? Not this many.
If I could spare any kid from facing their Alt, is it wrong to want to? What about my own?
Especially
my own?
“Hey, West!” Dess says again, his grin at seeing me contagious enough that I can smile back, even if my heart isn’t in it.
“Hey, Dess. Where are you off to?”
“We’re going to go check out that virtual arcade, the one they just fixed up after that fire last year.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Hey, so I just wanted to make sure. Are you and Chord still taking me to that sports tourney on Thursday? The one in Calden?”
I’m already letting people down, and I haven’t even started yet. First Baer, now him. “Dess, I’m sorry, I can’t make it. I won’t be in Jethro then. There’s some required upgrading for the assistants working with the skills program.” Lie, lie, lie.
His face drops. “But it’s opening week.”
“We’ll take you—Chord and I both—when I get back, all right?”
“But you promised me ages ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Dess. I can’t.”
“Sure, West, okay.” His disappointment is palpable, even through the screen.
“Dess, I’m sorry.”
“I’m going to go now. My friends are waiting.”
“Okay, I’ll—” But the screen turns dark. He’s disconnected already. And I don’t blame him.
For a long minute, I just sit there, unable to move. Finally I text an apology to Marsden and Thora, blaming a bad headache and the need to get home. I get to my feet. Against the heat of the afternoon sun, my face burns, and I can swear my marks are burning, too. Home, then, and I start walking. I replay Dess’s words in my head, the ones he asked me months ago to make sure he wasn’t wrong to trust.
Are you still striking?
No, I’m done.
Lie, lie, lie.
I remove all my weapons before heading over to see Chord. No guns, no blades, no poison. This is the last of my time with him, before I let myself go cold again.
He’s at the door seconds after I knock. All height and wild dark hair and even darker eyes. I’ve never been happier to see him.
“Hey, where have you been?” he asks. He’s got a tablet in one hand. I’ve caught him doing his homework. “Thora said you had a headache or something?”
I step up and wrap my arms around him tightly. Press my nose into his chest so I can breathe in his scent, absorb what I can of this normal after-school life. Like a safeguard until I’m done, this gleaned antidote. “Sorry, I did.” Lies, once they start, take on a life of their own. “But I walked it off.”
Chord holds the back of my neck with his free hand and leans down to kiss me. “That’s good. You didn’t want a ride?”
“No, I think I just needed some air.”
He grabs my hand and squeezes. “Hey … listen … ,” he starts.
His voice is not his own, full of distraction, and I’m mad at myself for not realizing right away that something’s wrong. A single curl of alarm pierces the heavy anxiety that’s taken up most of my stomach, ever since the Operator showed himself. But I just talked to Dess, and Chord’s right here, safe … “What is it?” I ask.
Over Chord’s shoulder, I can hear someone moving inside his house.
“It’s Nash,” Chord says quietly at my look. “We’re just finishing up that chem demo I was telling you about. Cutting it close, but it should get done in time. Too late to replace Quinn with someone else.”
“Where’s Quinn?”
“He went active last night.”
I picture the boy who spoke to Chord in the hall at school yesterday. His clear gray eyes are no longer clear. They’ll be closer to black now with assignment numbers.
I follow Chord inside, and Nash is in the front room. He’s gathering his stuff—tablet, papers, charts—off the coffee table and pushing it into his backpack. He looks up as we come in. A sunburst of sandy hair, eyes a light brown. In their depths, and in the sluggish movements of his hands, is dull shock, shot through with fear. And I know it’s not just because he and Quinn have been good friends for years, but also because Nash is still an idle.
“Hi, West,” Nash says. “How’s it going?”
“Okay. You don’t have to leave, though.”
“Nah, me and Chord have one more day. We can meet up tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry about Quinn.” I want to tell Nash that everything will be okay, but I don’t. Can’t. I have no clue how strong Quinn’s Alt might be. It might already be over, and we simply don’t know it yet.
“Yeah, thanks.” Nash slowly zips up his bag. “I think … I think he’ll be the one, though? He’s always had a really good aim, you know? And he’s sneaky as hell when he wants to be, don’t you guys think?”
I look up at Chord, who only shakes his head at me. He looks grim, but as a complete, as the one left in the wake of the incompletions of loved ones, this is familiar ground. Terrible and ugly, but familiar. “See you tomorrow, Nash,” he says. “Let me know how much I can do on my end tonight.”
“Sounds good. See you at school.” Nash opens the front door, is about to step out, when he stops. Looks back, his face vulnerable. “You guys are both completes. You know what it takes. And you’ve seen his skills. Does he even stand a chance?”
Chord looks at me, his expression torn open, apologetic. Because Nash doesn’t know
how
Chord completed his assignment. Chord being the one, and worthy, never even came up. It was my brother—and Chord’s best friend—who died the day we found Chord’s Alt. Luc’s death saved Chord.
The silence is stretching out too long, so I snap it with a half-truth: “We all stand a chance, Nash. It’s how the system works. You know that.”
He exhales, nods. Gives us a wave and leaves, careful to shut the front door behind him.
Chord sits down heavily on the couch. Tosses the tablet he was still holding onto the coffee table. His expression is bleak, broken.
I move closer to him, aching to do for him what he always seems to do for me without any thought at all: make things right.
“Chord, I …” Stumble to a stop.
Because I’m not him, far from it, and I’m still learning and still at a loss when he’s the one hurting.
Chord looks at me. And waits. He never seems to lack patience when it comes to me. I don’t know how he does it, when I would have walked away from myself many times over by now. But his eyes are full of ghosts, and right or wrong it’s on the tip of my thoughtless, careless tongue to tell him. About Sabian, about his offer, about
everything
—
He takes my hand and pulls me down to sit on his lap. Fits me against his chest until neither of us are going anywhere. He bends his head down and sighs against my neck.
“Tell me again that we’re done,” Chord says quietly. His lips brush my skin. Painting me.
I touch the side of his face.
We’re done, Chord,
is what I want to say. Instead I say, “It’s really sad about Quinn.”
Another sigh. “Yeah, it is. What do you think? About him completing?”
I try to place him in class and come up blank. “I don’t know. He might be okay, in the end. Depending …”
“On his Alt.”
“Yes.”
“Poor guy.”
“Which one?” I ask him.
“Both, I guess.”
I nod. It’s easy to forget that both Alts are just as worthy to those who love them.
“But it doesn’t change me wanting Quinn to win,” Chord says. “Or feeling for his family, his friends. Like Nash.”
“I know. Same for me.”
Chord slowly presses his mouth against my neck. Tilts us over and slides us lower until we’re both lying down on the couch. Him beneath me. Eye to eye. No hiding possible. Only because it’s Chord is this bearable. To be vulnerable but not feel like I’m in danger.
I trace the lines and angles of his face with my eyes, so familiar to me now that I see them in my sleep: the ebony slashes of his eyebrows, eyes dark over high cheekbones, the overly wide mouth, the strong jaw. Skin neither light nor dark, his head full of thick brown curls.
“Hey,” Chord says to me softly. We’re mere inches apart. My trembling exhales are his inhales, our blood warming each other through our skin, his thudding pulse setting the pace of mine.
“Hey.” Despite it all—the sorrow over Quinn, the weight of what I’m about to do pressing ever closer—I’m smiling. Right here, right now, I’m happy. “I’m glad I came by,” I say to him.
“Me too.” Chord’s voice, huskier now, his words liquid with heat. His eyes, even darker, narrow slightly. He tugs me closer. He tastes and smells of everything that is him, everything that I love, and I wrap my hands around the sides of his face, not wanting to let him go. Not wanting to miss the feel of his body beneath me, holding me to this life, this world spun between just the two of us.
So I let myself drown. In him, in this. Chord kisses and kisses me, devastating me and saving me, and I meet him beat for beat.
Forget everything for just a while.
Until the cell in my pocket buzzes. A text. Sabian.
Against Chord’s mouth I freeze.
“West?” Chord winds his hands deeper into my hair. My name is a rough whisper on his lips. Still tangled against mine.
Slowly I break free, lean back.
I can’t be here anymore.
“I should go,” I say to him. I press another kiss against his mouth, slow and full, a brand and a claim, and sit up.
He looks at me. His eyes are like fire on my skin. “You’re kidding, right?”
I shake my head. “No, I …” My pulse is heavy in my throat. “I’ve got so much homework to catch up on. I’ve been so distracted with counseling …” I get off him and stand up. The ground is solid, but I still feel shaky inside.
Chord sits up, swings his legs around, and stands. He catches my hand with his and tugs me closer until I’m standing right against him. Nothing to look at except his face, and no way to hide mine from his.
Never do I need to be more careful than right now.
“Hey, why the hurry?” he asks. His eyes chase mine down. “You want me to come over? I got that chem demo I can—”
I shake my head. “You know we wouldn’t get anything done if you came over, Chord.” I grab his hand tight. “And I really have to.”
“Is it something else?”
“Like what?”
His gaze is both troubled and embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to push you. Have I been pushing you lately? I thought we were okay, deciding to go ahead and—”
I kiss him. “No, it’s not that. At all.”
He sighs. Runs his free hand through his hair, making it even messier. “West, you’re killing me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Chord kisses my wrist. “You sure?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“All right, if you say so.” He wraps his arms around me so tightly I can barely breathe. But I don’t fight it. I don’t care that there’s no air, that I can’t move. It would mean having to stay. Safe with him.
He relaxes his grip, and time restarts, my decision still made.
Chord tucks my hair behind my ears. “I should feel guilty that I don’t care about you getting your homework done, but I don’t.”
“I know you don’t. I’m
glad
you don’t.”
Chord adjusts the neckline of my shirt, smiles, lets his lips brush against my forehead. “Can I walk you over?”
Say no. And get moving.
He’s
waiting.
“No, it’s fine. Stay here and get your demo done,” I say.
“I’d rather spend time with—”
I stand on my tiptoes and tilt his head down and press a final kiss onto his mouth. “I love you, Chord,” I whisper roughly.
He doesn’t let me pull back before he’s there, capturing my words with his, letting them gather and grow together. “I love you, too, West Grayer. Don’t ever forget that.”
Not even possible. “You don’t, either, then.”
“I won’t,” he says. A promise. I take it with me so it can lead me back.
I sit on the edge of my bed, and with the silence of the house like thunder in my ears, I tap my cell awake with a finger that’s not quite steady.
And learn how to best complete my next assignment. Memorize her face and form, her weaknesses and strengths. This idle who I’m going to kill. Nausea rises in my throat and I barely manage to swallow it back.
Watching the text scroll across the screen, I’m reminded that I’ve done this before—too many times. The only thing that tells me I’m not reliving the past is that typical striker clients can’t write up such a detailed, meticulously researched spec sheet. By the time clients contact strikers, they’re well aware of time slipping away. Their spec sheets are punctuated by desperation.
I pick out the most relevant info and read it again:
Origin Point: 667 Hudson Street,
Gaslight Ward
Time of expected contact: 20:00
Of special note: Alt has specifically requested this
additional shift for extra payment. Calculated probability of a no-show: <2%
And then a picture of the idle.
I close the document, knowing the spec sheet will be automatically wiped away. The Board, covering its tracks. I tuck my cell into my jeans pocket and get to my feet. Go to pick up my bag where I left it by my door and carry it over to where I’ve laid out all the weapons on my desk.
The Roark gun with its vials of poison, my old gun, and the two switchblades.
I pick up the Roark and the vials and drop them into my open bag. My fingers gently skim over the old gun and blades.
Not for me to use this time.
My hands are shaking as I tear a sheet from the tablet of watercolor paper on my desk and grab a pen from one of the buckets. What to say to Chord? I’m at a loss as usual when it comes to words. This time, it seems there’s too much to say to even possibly know where to start.
So I do what I’ve always done. Let my actions and my weapons be enough to speak for me. I place my gun and the blades next to the piece of paper. With my pen, I scrawl this:
Chord, I’m okay, and I’m even leaving these behind to show you I’m perfectly safe. I’ll be back in a few days and I’ll explain everything then. Please don’t try to find me. I’m asking you not to, all right? I love you.
—West
PS This has nothing to do with Baer or Dire, so there’s no point in asking them about it.
And that’s it. There’s nothing else that can be said.
I zip up my bag and sling the straps over my shoulders. They settle in easily, already familiar.
Downstairs, I force myself to eat something. Nothing that requires thought to put together—a granola bar, water, a leftover slice of the pizza from last night. When I’m done, I do what I do every night before going to bed. Twist the blinds shut, wipe off the counters in the kitchen, and sort trash from recyclables. I’m moving on autopilot again.
Three days. Less if I’m quick. Physically, I think I’m in good enough shape to do it—it’s the mental part that I’m not sure about.
I turn off all the lights inside as I leave the house. It’s starting to get dark out now, and the low gloom enfolds my home like a blanket, putting it to sleep for later.
I walk fast down my driveway. Hit the street at a near run as I make my way toward the outer ward train station, the one that will take me to Gaslight Ward. The faster I move, the less time I have for thoughts and worries … the less time I have to think of what I’m leaving behind and what’s up ahead.