Dawnbreaker: Legends of the Duskwalker - Book 3 (24 page)

“Not dere’s much left safe, sure I know,” she said. “But you call any time.”

She held his gaze for a moment, a look that suggested she understood more than what he’d said, then nodded and turned away into the night.

The walk home was ten minutes by the direct route. jCharles took almost an hour.

As he finally came in sight of the Samurai McGann, he stopped and watched it for a few minutes. The giant cartoon samurai in garish colors painted on the side made him smile despite his heavy thoughts. The warrior was disheveled, shirtless, a piece of straw in his mouth, a sword held over his head, a bottle of whisky in his belt. An old inside joke, referencing a life even older. The hand-painted sign that said Samurai McGann on it was lying to the side of the door, propped against the wall. It’d been down for probably over two years now, and jCharles still hadn’t taken the time to put it back up.

He looked at that roughneck samurai, and at what it represented. The more accurate term for the character was
ronin
, a samurai without a master. A wanderer. Just like jCharles had been when he first arrived in Greenstone. How very much had changed. He’d found his place here, allowed roots to grow, to reach down deep. Now that he was looking at his little place again, the thought of tearing those roots up seemed too painful to face. Yet, now that he’d let in the thought of fleeing, he couldn’t ignore the possibility. Staying would be utterly foolish. The kind of foolish that usually got renamed to
brave
after the inevitable occurred, by whoever was left behind to do the renaming.

It always seemed to make sense in other people’s stories. Facing impossible odds. Dying noble deaths. But jCharles had seen more than a few people die in his day, and he couldn’t remember a single one ever seeming noble at the time. The choice wasn’t as clear cut, standing right there in the middle of it.

He stared up at the bloodshot eyes of the samurai; eyes either red with rage or with too much drink. The ronin had his sword out, held aloft. Homeless, masterless, purposeless. Disgraced. Still fighting, even though he’d already lost everything he’d ever fought for.

Then again, maybe not everything. With all else stripped away, his spirit remained yet unconquered.

Easy for him. He was a cartoon. And yet, if Asher and his Weir should come, he would face them, shirtless, bottle in his belt, sword held high. Where would jCharles be?

jCharles chuckled in spite of himself.
At
himself. The lack of sleep was making him ridiculous. He crossed to his place, pushed the door open, made his way through the saloon with a quick nod to Nimble. Nimble made a familiar gesture, asking if he should make jCharles a usual drink, but jCharles waved him off. Up the narrow back stairs. Through the front door.

Mol was curled up on the couch, asleep with the lights on. jCharles closed the door softly behind himself, locked it, crept to his wife. He sat down on the couch by her feet. She stirred at the movement, opened her eyes and looked at him, puzzled. Blinked a few times. When recognition finally came, she took a deep breath and rubbed an eye with the heel of her hand.

“Oh,” she said. “Not as late as I thought. Guess I must’ve been out hard.”

“Babies will do that to you.”

“Everything go OK with Holl?” she asked as she shifted around on the couch. She sat up straighter in the corner, and stretched her legs out over his lap.

jCharles shrugged. “Said to give you his best.”

“But he’s not going to do anything?”

jCharles shook his head. “Nothing substantial.”

“That’s disappointing,” she said.

“Well, yeah,” he replied. “But I understand where he’s coming from. Sort of. I don’t think he’s convinced there’s a real threat. Or that it’s as big as I’m claiming. I’m not sure I blame him.”

“So what’s next?”

He reached over and swept a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Uh oh,” Mol said.

“There are places further west. Towns small enough to escape notice. Cities big enough to get lost in.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said. “Places we left behind for good reason.”

“A long time ago, Mol.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “Probably depends on who you ask.” She placed a hand on top of his, squeezed it. “Sure. Of course I’ve thought about it. Of all the people in this crazy town, we’re probably some of the best able to make a run for it.”

Her tone hinted at which direction her thinking had taken her.

“But...” jCharles prompted.

“
But
... all the things that make it easier to run are the same things that make it easier to stay. The money, the connections. Twitch, we’ve been blessed in ways most people haven’t. Ninety percent of the folks out there don’t have anywhere else to go. And even if they did, most of them don’t have the means to get there. We can’t leave them behind, hoping someone else will stop this thing before it catches up to us.”

“It’s not like this is something I can do on my own, Mol,” jCharles said.

“You’ve got plenty of friends,” she countered. “And plenty more associates you can reach out to. You’re a man of influence. If you put your mind to it, I’m sure we could find you a right proper army.”

jCharles chuckled and shook his head. He was a businessman, not a general.

Mol squeezed his hand. “Greenstone offered us a new start, Twitch.”

“Not entirely new–”

“A second chance,” Mol continued over the top of him. “If there’s a place worth fighting for, where is it if not here?” She let him think about that for a second, and then took her hand away. “And quit saying
I
, like I don’t know what you’re implying. I’m not going anywhere either.”

“Mol...” he said, but she wouldn’t let him finish.

“Nope, don’t even start,” she said, holding her hand up to stop him.

“If you and Grace can get away safely, then you should. There’s no point in you staying here–”

“No point?
The point
is that a life without you is no life at all, Twitch,” she said, getting heated and raising her voice. She glanced at the bedroom door, paused, listened for any sound of Grace waking. Took a deep breath, settled herself, kept her voice down. “Look. I know what you mean by it, I know it’s coming from the right place. But it’s a little insulting. More than a little.”

jCharles had expected resistance, but not quite like what he was hearing at the moment.

“What would you say,” she continued, “if I walked in here and told you I wanted you to take our baby and run, while I stayed behind?”

“I would laugh.”

“And what if you thought I was serious?”

“I reckon I’d be a little insulted.”

“More than a little,” she said.

“Well,” he said. “What if I tell you you don’t have a choice?”

“I’ll laugh at you right in your face,” she said. “Real loud like. And then you’ll have to get Grace back to sleep.”

He smiled in spite of himself, shook his head. “Someone once told me I was a man of influence, you know.”

“You still are, in the right circles,” said Mol. “So use it to do the right thing.”

“Why is it that you always seem to know what the right thing is?”

“Obviously so I can tell you what to do.”

“Obviously,” he said. He sat there for a moment, looking at his firebrand of a wife. “I just don’t think we’ve got enough muscle here, Mol. Not in Greenstone.”

“So we import it.”

“Import it? I...” He stopped, corrected himself. “
We
don’t have the money to hire the kind of talent we’d need.”

“I didn’t say hire.”

And now he saw where she was going.

“That’s dangerous territory, Mol.”

“People still owe you from way back. And you’ve still got friends out there. What about 4jack and Zimm? Or Mr 850?”

Names jCharles hadn’t spoken in a decade at least. Maybe closer to two. Had it been that long?

“Or Kyth,” Mol said.

“Kyth?” jCharles said, and he chuckled at the thought. “You know, I’d like there to be something left of the city
after
we save it.”

“Have to save it first.”

jCharles looked back at her, shook his head. The fact that Mol was pushing him to bring Kyth in showed just how serious she was. There’d been some bad blood between the two of them when they parted ways, and as far as he knew they’d never reconciled. But she was right. Of course. If they were going to make a stand here, there was no sense in leaving any option unexplored.

“Call them,” Mol said. “Worst thing that happens is they say no.”

“I doubt that’s the
worst
.”

“Call Kyth.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. You should do it right now. No time like the present.”

jCharles shrugged, but he could see his wife was serious. He shook his head again and accessed contact details he hadn’t looked at in years. Issued the request. The credentials were synced to the individual, but folks in Kyth’s line of work had ways of spoofing identities.

“I don’t know if this will even still connect,” he said while he was waiting for a response. Even if the creds were good, that was no guarantee Kyth would accept. Mol just watched him expectantly.

A few seconds later, the connection was granted and immediately afterwards a voice came through.

“Twitch?”

“Kyth,” jCharles answered. Mol gave a tempered smile.

“That can’t be you,” Kyth said.

“It’s me,” jCharles said. “You wanna buy my book?”

Kyth laughed on the other end at the long-unused, long-running joke, probably more from the shock of hearing from a long lost friend than from the joke itself. “
Spatz
, Twitch! I can’t believe it! You know certain people have been trying to tell me you died?”

“You could’ve called to check.”

“I would have if I’d believed any of ’em,” Kyth said.

“Yeah, well, not dead yet,” jCharles said. “But that’s kind of why I’m calling.”

W
ren woke
with the thought that he’d fallen out of bed. And when he opened his eyes, he thought for a terrible moment that Asher had come and destroyed jCharles and Mol’s home and that he was buried alive beneath the rubble. But sleep fell away with an adrenaline burn and Wren almost laughed with relief as he remembered where he was. jCharles and Mol were alive.
He
was alive. And he couldn’t decide whether it was a good sign that he’d slept, or if Haiku would be horrified by it if he ever found out. Whatever the case, there was light at the entrance of his little cave; the warm, golden light of dawn, calling him out of hiding.

Getting out of his hiding place was agony. Every muscle, bone, and joint cried out with each movement, taking their revenge for the punishment he’d delivered them. There was a cold, damp spot inside his hood where he’d apparently drooled. Worse yet, his entire right arm had gone completely numb from being pinched between his body and the floor all night. There wasn’t enough room in the hiding place to shake it out and he couldn’t trust it to support any of his weight. He ended up scooting out backwards using his knees and his left hand while he dragged his prickling right arm behind.

A cold morning greeted him, much colder than he’d expected. The temperature hadn’t been exactly comfortable in his little cave, but it was notably warmer than the air outside. He hadn’t realized the heat from his body could be that much of a factor, and he certainly hadn’t had any idea that the space he’d hidden in could retain it that well. That was another lesson he’d try to take with him.

He sat on the floor at the entrance to his hiding place for a few minutes, shaking out his arm and enduring the angry prickling fire of his nerves coming back to life. Everything hurt, and he was lightheaded with fatigue. Wren didn’t know how many hours he had slept, but it didn’t feel like it could have been that many. Certainly not nearly as many as his body needed. If he slept for a full week, he doubted even that would be enough. And he was ravenously hungry.

When he could move his right hand again, Wren crawled back in and pulled his pack out. He adjusted his hood and drew another ration bar and his water out of the pack. These he took over to the doorway, where he wrapped himself up snugly in his thermal blanket and sat down to breakfast. As he ate, he watched the shadows flee back to their own hiding places as the sun painted the grey landscape with its golden-orange rays. Wren hadn’t awoken quite at first light, but it was still early. He wondered if Haiku and the old man were awake yet.

After he finished his breakfast, he stayed there by the door watching the sun come up for a time. It was soothing to his soul in a way he hadn’t expected. As terrifying as the night had been, the dawn seemed that much warmer, and sweeter, and even deserved. Maybe it was because for the first time, this was a morning that Wren had earned for himself.

When the sun was fully risen, Wren got to his feet, repacked his blanket and chemlight, and gathered up the trash from his ration bars. It seemed strange to be worried about littering when all around him were ruins, but it felt even more wrong to leave anything behind. Both Three and Mama had always made a big deal about not leaving even footprints if you could help it. It was a hard habit to break, and maybe not a bad one to have anyway.

He took a final look around the debris-filled room that had been his one-night home. It looked pretty much the same as when he’d found it, but it felt completely different. Familiar and safe, rather than cold and threatening. Maybe it was just the daylight, but all his fear from the night before seemed silly to him now. If he ever got thrown out of the tower again, he knew he wouldn’t have to worry about finding another place to hide. He nodded to himself, slung his pack, and headed out to the landing.

There was, of course, still the matter of getting back down. The fall from the night before had made the problem seem bigger in his mind than it actually was; it turned out to be a lot easier than he’d been expecting. He just went down the steps to the lowest point that was still secure, climbed over the rail, and lowered himself from the frame. Hanging there, the drop was only five feet or so. He released his grip and dropped to the ground below. The impact hurt his heels a little, but otherwise it wasn’t too bad. He looked at the staircase one last time. If he ever had to get back up,
that
was going to be tricky.

From there, he headed back through the ruins towards the steel tower where Haiku and the old man were waiting. Wren had passed his first test, as far as he could tell. He’d earned himself the chance for an evaluation, whatever that was. The uncertainty of it all tried to go to work on his mind again, but whether he was still too pleased with himself for his little victory or just too exhausted to care, the anxiety didn’t come. There probably wasn’t much he could do about it now anyway.

When he reached the border where the buildings gave way to the dead plain that surrounded the tower, Wren paused for a moment and took a deep breath. As he was looking across the expanse, some movement caught his attention. It was hard to see for sure at that distance, but for just a moment Wren thought he could make out a figure by the base of the tower. Before he could be sure, he lost it. A swirl of ash in the wind, maybe. Or someone whose silhouette blended too well with the surroundings. Haiku.

Whether real or imagined, it occurred to Wren for the first time that Haiku might be outside waiting for him. Looking for him. Of course he would be. Wren hadn’t even considered what the man might be going through, having brought him all this way just to see him tossed back out in the night. He wondered if Haiku had slept at all himself.

That thought was enough to spur Wren on. He didn’t jog but he headed towards the tower at a good pace. He was pleased to discover his sense of direction hadn’t led him too far wrong; now that he knew where to look, he could make out the door they’d used the day before, which meant he was coming back in almost along the same path he’d taken on the way out. Not too bad, considering all the mostly aimless wandering he’d done the previous evening. Even at a hundred yards, though, he couldn’t see any sign of Haiku. But then again Haiku wouldn’t necessarily know that Wren would be coming in from this direction. Maybe he was walking the perimeter of the tower, keeping an eye out.

As Wren was approaching the door, he realized he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to let them know he was back. He was pretty sure knocking wasn’t going to be any use. It turned out not to matter. When he was maybe ten yards away, something stirred to his right and almost made him cry out in surprise. Mama had done a pretty good job of training him not to vocalize when he was startled, but he certainly flinched in spite of himself. Haiku was getting up from the ground not far from the door. Apparently he’d seen Wren’s approach and had sat down to wait.

Wren didn’t feel quite so bad about not having seen him sitting there; he was completely coated in the grey dust of the Strand. He was dressed differently than Wren had seen him before, too. He was wearing a heavy sort of tunic or vest over top of everything else. Pants, shirt, gloves, boots, hat; whether they were themselves actually grey or not, Wren couldn’t tell, but he thought they might be. He’d even wrapped a scarf or something around his face, so only his eyes were exposed. Wren wondered just how long Haiku had been out here looking for him.

“Good morning,” Haiku said, except his voice was all wrong, and not because it was muffled by the scarf. Because it wasn’t Haiku at all. He pulled the scarf down. The old man. “Did you sleep, boy?”

Wren was so surprised he didn’t answer immediately. The old man’s eyebrows went up and he leaned forward slightly.

“A little,” Wren said. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good. And how do you feel? Cold? Hungry? Tired?”

“Yes, sir.”

The old man smiled, and Wren was caught completely off guard by the change in the man’s personality. The previous day he’d seemed hard and distant. Now, he seemed almost happy to see Wren.

“How’s the chin?”

Wren had forgotten about that. He touched the bandage.

“It doesn’t hurt too much.”

The old man nodded. “I’ll have Haiku take a look at it,” he said.

“Where is he?” Wren asked.

“Upstairs,” the old man said. “Come inside, we’ll get you something hot to drink. And eat.” He walked over to the door and raised a hand, but just before he touched it, Wren heard the bolts retract and the seal decompress. The old man pushed the door open and stood back, making way for Wren to enter ahead of him. Wren went in and waited by the door while the old man closed it again, and then followed him wordlessly up the stairs.

They returned to the same room from the day before. Haiku was sitting there at the table, but he rose when he saw Wren.

“Here he is,” the old man said, though Wren wasn’t sure if he was talking to him or to Haiku. He busied himself in the small kitchen for a few moments, setting water on to boil and preparing a pot of tea.

“Wren, how are you?” Haiku asked.

“I’m fine,” Wren said. And reflexively he added, “How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you.”

“Haiku, handle the water, if you would please,” the old man said, “while I show Wren where he can get cleaned up.”

“Certainly, Father,” Haiku said. “Good to see you, Wren.”

Wren nodded.

“Come along, boy,” said the old man, moving to the door by the kitchen. Wren followed obediently. The old man led him down a short hall, past three doors on the right and two on the left. The doors were similar in design to the one that led outside; oval in shape, flat grey metal, though these interior doors looked lighter than the exterior ones. They took a right at an intersecting hall, and then stopped at a door on the left, which the old man opened.

There was a small bedroom beyond. Possibly the smallest he’d ever seen. Wren guessed it was maybe six feet by six feet. A bed was shoved against the right wall, and the foot of it was only three or four inches from blocking the opening of the door. Maybe bedroom was the wrong word. It looked more like a cell.

The old man didn’t enter but backed away from the entrance.

“Washroom is on the left,” he said. “Join us in the sitting room when you’re ready.”

“Yes, sir,” Wren said. “Thank you.”

Wren stepped in to the little room and the old man closed the door behind him. There was indeed a washroom just to his left, about the size of a small closet. Wren switched on the light. Sink on the left, toilet on the back wall, shower to the right, and no counters at all. The door retracted into the frame. The washroom was bright and clean, and more economical than even the most well-thought-out wayhouses he’d been in. There was absolutely no wasted space.

He set his pack down by the bed and dug out one of his two changes of clothes. He hadn’t realized how much his feet were hurting until he took his boots off and felt all the tension roll out. The floor was a rubberized texture, durable and slightly springy. His socks were damp when he pulled them off, and he stood for a few seconds just squishing his toes into the floor covering.

He got undressed and stepped into the shower. There was only a single control for it, a large white push-button in the center of the wall beneath the shower head. He pushed it in and a green ring lit up around it with a pleasant chirp. A moment later a flow of warm water cascaded over him, like divine rays of healing. He stood under the shower stream with his eyes closed for a long while, letting the water wash away the dirt, and the cold, and the bone-deep weariness. Wren smiled in spite of himself. Even knowing all he’d been through and
not
knowing what yet awaited him, for that moment, just being clean and warm was enough.

The button chirped at him twice and when he opened his eyes the green ring had turned yellow. A warning; he was about to use up the water ration. The bandage on his chin was soggy and growing heavy. He peeled it off, winced as it tugged at the skin around the wound. It was stained through. The water ran down the sides of his face and dripped from his chin, sending fire through his jaw. Wren leaned back out of the water stream and tested the wound gently with his thumb. The gash wasn’t wide, just barely wider than the tip of his thumb, but it felt deep. When he drew his thumb away and looked at it, traces of bright red quickly rained away to his palm. If Mouse had been around, he probably would have used some of his weird-smelling gel to seal the wound up. As it was, Wren wasn’t sure if there was anything he could do about it.

Three more chirps sounded, and the yellow light switched to red. Wren managed to finish getting clean just a few seconds before the water shut itself off. The air rushed in cold immediately afterward, and motivated him to get dry and dressed quickly.

When he returned to the sitting room, he felt like a different person. Haiku and the old man were both at the table talking quietly. The old man had also changed and appeared to be wearing the same clothes he’d had on the day before. They stopped speaking when he entered. Wren hovered by the door, uncertain, but the old man poured a cup of tea and placed it at one of the empty chairs around the table.

“Have a seat,” he said.

Wren went to the appointed place and sat down. In addition to the tea, Haiku pushed a small bowl over to Wren. It was filled with what looked like some kind of dark soup, with a milky texture. The steam rising from it had a spiced aroma that Wren didn’t recognize but that made his mouth water anyway. He looked up at his hosts.

“Please,” the old man said with a slight nod.

“Thank you,” Wren said. He sipped the tea first, and then tried the soup. The flavor was strong; herbal and slightly sweet, with a peppery aftertaste. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever had before, but the more he tasted it, the more he liked it. It was surprisingly filling, too. The others sat in silence until he’d finished. They didn’t have to wait long.

“Would you care for more?” the old man asked.

“No, thank you,” Wren said. In fact, he would have loved more, but he didn’t feel comfortable asking for it. And really, he was fairly full. He just enjoyed the taste so much, he knew he could keep eating even if he shouldn’t. There was another matter as well; he was ready to get on with things. “Are we going to start the evaluation now?”