Evolution (9 page)

"They're even prettier on you," he says, looking
into my eyes.

I deflect the rush of feeling with a comment I've been
waiting to make since I noticed last night.  "You did give me birds,
after all."  I lift my index finger and its crow ring.

He smiles dryly.  "Bird," he corrects. 
He takes a few steps backward, allowing my hand to slide slowly from his
grasp.   Then he turns and walks away.

I shake myself, and move in the opposite direction.  My
stomach clenches, and then my fists.  What the hell am I thinking? 
Matt is worming his way into my life, and I can't seem to stop him.  More
than that, I don't hate him, no matter how many times I remind myself that I
should.  More than more than that, I kinda like him.  I want to
scream.  I almost do it.

What stops me is Jonas.  His back, moving away from
me.  Striding quickly.  I know his walk, the way his shoulders
move.  Even hidden under a different jacket and hat than he's always worn,
he is plain to me.  He's like the sun against a field of grey.  Two
things; a leap of warmth and hope... and flat-out fear.  I feel all my
blood draining into my toes.  I think I might fall down.  Did he just
see Matt holding my hand?  Is that what he's walking away from so quickly?

Mortification, grief, and longing compete to claim me. 
And guilt.  A good measure of it.  I swallow down bile.  I start
to follow him, and then I have to stop and sit down because I think I really
might be sick.  I’m so confused.  Tears well up and cloud my
vision.  I duck my face to hide them.  That's when I realize, there's
no one to hide them from.  At least, not in my immediate
surroundings.  No Jacob.  No Taylor.  No one at all following
me.  I'm left blinking and looking around, half startled.  Two tears
drop from my eyes as I attempt to clear my vision.  Then I'm wiping my
face and laughing at Matt, and thinking
Holy hell I am really a goner
.

In a brief moment of clarity, I acknowledge my wildly
swinging emotions.  I'm able to see that Jonas does not, in fact, seem to
give a damn about me.  He has advised me through Miranda to stay
away.  He wouldn’t even speak to me when I tried to pound the door
in.  Apparently he’s forgotten the importance of our shared past. 
Forgotten how we once risked erasure to mark ourselves with each other’s names. 
And even if he did care in the slightest bit, it's likely that a good deal of
my feelings for him are a product of
Before
.  What’s more, the
chances of us ever being able to be together here in the Outpost are slim to
none.  This is all entirely convincing.

I'm also able to see that Matt will undoubtedly persist in
his efforts, and over time the chances of me resisting him are also slim to
none, despite the fact that he is clearly no good for me.  But I’m sharply
aware of the alarms going off in my mind at the thought, however exciting, of
being with Matt.  It might be inevitable, but for now the smartest choice
is to avoid both of them.  It's the only way to go.  Not that I know
how to avoid Matt.

But then, when I think of Jonas—even just remembering that
last glimpse of his back—my whole body feels like caving into the huge pit that
opens up in my heart.  I remind myself of those clear facts I so recently
discovered, and on second glance they don't seem clear at all.  Maybe I'm
wrong.  I get up and walk, and make myself think about Matt, instead of
Jonas, because I can at least reinforce the idea that my semi-evil overlord is
no good for me.  I think of some of the things he's said or done,
building up the acid.  I'm about a minute in, and instead of seething, I'm
laughing.  My suppressed anger seems to have gotten up and moved on.

This is the point when I realize I'm simply going to go
crazy.  Or maybe I already am.

I turn to a new tactic—denial.  I march to the
marketplace, refusing to think of anything but my project.  The building
is in order, supplies have been purchased and delivered.  Now I need to
get things going for real.  But before I find my friend, my eyes find
something I didn’t expect at all, crossing in front of me.  A woman—an old
woman with gnarled fingers twisted like tree roots.  I haven’t seen her in
so long.  I haven’t even thought of her.  Now, she’s in front of me
by coincidence and accident.  Her wide eyes register the realization of
her incredible misfortune.  Utter fear.

There is nowhere for her to run.  She knows that. 
Now that she’s come to my attention, she must face my wrath.  I have the
power to crush her, and her face is written with the horror of that
knowledge.  She stands frozen, unable to react.

A torrent of feeling rushes through me.  Once, this
woman blackmailed me.  Threatened my life, my safety.  She stole my
hard-earned coins.  Took food from my mouth when I was starving and
injured.  She was the embodiment of evil.  The harbinger of misery
and pain.  I should strike her down.  Make her pay for her crimes
tenfold.  My mind touches all these thoughts, skims over the possibility
of all the horrible things I could do to her.  But as I open my mouth to
react, I realize that even my anger toward
her
has faded a little. 
More than that, I’m so sick of all the misery.  I just want this taint of
darkness to fade away.

I bite down the automatic need to strike out, clamping my
jaw, taking a few deep breaths through my nose.  I level one finger at
her, and say in an incredibly calm voice, “No more blackmail.  Earn your
own living.  I’ll be watching.”

Trembling, she nods vehement agreement.  Her wrinkled
face is awash in disbelief and relief.  “Anything you say,” she
stammers.  “No blackmail.  None.”

I narrow my eyes on her face, holding her under my gaze
until I am convinced she is sincere.  “Merry Christmas,” I say pointedly,
then move past her, dismissing her from my life for good.

I feel lighter as I move onward.  Like I’ve let go of
some baggage.  I’m able to turn back to my original purpose with new determination. 
I find Neveah.

Grabbing firmly onto our task of building the sickhouse, we
pack up her herbs and head to the converted warehouse.  As we walk, I
notice there is a lightness in her steps.  Her face looks like it has lost
some of the incredible sadness.  This task will be good for her in so many
ways.  It is possibly what Neveah has always been intended to do. 
Her eagerness and excitement reflect through me, as well, and I find myself
newly excited about what we’re trying to do.

Over the past few days, I've had someone build a central
fireplace in the main room, and two more in the back rooms.  I’ve
purchased cots and bedding, and the beggars I recruited the first day have
stayed on to set everything up.  At nights, they’ve been sleeping here,
where it is warmer and no one bothers them.  I’ve sent food to reward them
for their work, and they are more eager than ever to be helpful.  We've
gathered a stock of cloth for bandages and had it washed and cut into
strips.  I’ve purchased the goods we need, and added a cabinet along the
back wall that is now full of things like scissors, knives, tweezers, and
needles.  One guy is working on cutting wood to size for splints, and
another is working on canes.

Neveah takes it all in and nods approvingly.  She even
smiles a little, but it is her eyes that really glow.

I introduce her to the others and make it clear that she is
in charge.  "Whatever she needs or wants," I say, "get
it."

"Whatever she says," they agree as I leave. 
I don't make it all the way out the door before a collective and enthusiastic
"Merry Christmas" hits me in the back.

"Merry Christmas," I grumble back at them, and
pick up my pace in the street.  The reminder of Matt sends me into a dark
mood.  Christmas.  Really.  But as much as I want to blame the
mood on Matt, I know the truth of the matter.  The sickhouse is almost
ready.  We have almost everything we need, with Neveah’s herbs and
expertise.  But there is one incredibly important component that is
missing.  I cannot avoid what I must do now.  I’ve waited too long,
already.  So, like it or not, it’s time to suck it up and get on with the
unpleasant deed.

I collect a few of Sawyer’s thugs along the way, snapping my
fingers and gesturing for them to come along.  They fall into stride behind
me without so much as a question.  I ignore them, and as I stalk through
the Outpost, I try to make myself think of other things—not what lies ahead of
us.  But since I am in such a foul state already, my mind turns to more
unpleasantness.  I start second-guessing myself for letting that old hag
off so easily.  Maybe I should have dealt with her more harshly—kept her
from hurting others.  Was I a coward?  The whole thing comes back to
me now—barely scraping by on the streets.  I could have died because of
her.  I haven’t thought of this in months, and now it feels so
fresh.  I toss it away, trying not to let it have power over me now. 
But my mood is even darker by the time we get where we’re going.

I march up to Isaiah Bones' shack with my teeth clenched, a
handful of brawny men at my back.  I shove the door open.  The
mortified look on the face of the woman inside and Bones’ obvious annoyance at
the interruption don't help matters either.

"You," I say, jabbing one finger toward him,
"pack all this up."  I wave my hand to encompass the many vials
lining the shelves of his shop, as well as the array of equipment he uses to
make his potions.

Last time I interacted with him, he was piss drunk. 
This time, not at all.  He scowls at me.  "Like hell.  This
is my place.  I'm not moving."

"I guess I wasn't clear," I say as Sawyer’s men
file through the doorway and collect in a pool around me.  "You're
not moving.  You're donating.  You're going to take all of this to
the new sickhouse, and then you're going to teach my team how to make your
medicines, and you're going to continue to help them."

His eyes widen as if I've grown a new head, darting around
the collection of intimidating faces around me.  Fear is suddenly
smothered by his inherent dogmatic nastiness.  "Like hell," he
barks again, spittle flying from his mouth.  “This is my place.  My
stuff!  How dare you little whore come in here and try to tell me what to
do!”

I narrow my eyes at him, crossing my arms.  My men are
already moving across the room, their gazes heavily upon him.  "We
can do it the hard way if you want.  You've heard of the chair, haven't
you?"

Next to Isaiah, the woman is frozen, eyes as wide as his,
her face turning white.  But beneath it is the beginning of delight.

Isaiah Bones stutters, his eyes darting between the men who
have now taken him by the arms.  He tries to pull away, but can’t. 
They shove him forward.  He struggles, flopping against them, and finally
shrieks, “OK!  OK!  Let me go, goddamn it!”  Panting, eyes
rolling, he retracts in on himself as I nod and they release him.

Ignoring him, I turn to the woman.  "Take the
medicine that you need.  There’s no charge.”

She nods with dawning relief and quickly snatches a vial off
the shelf.  Then she shuffles past me out the door with a grateful look
and a whispered “Merry Christmas.”

“These guys will make sure that you do everything as I’ve
instructed,” I tell Bones.  Then I turn and march out, certain that my
bidding will be done.  But I cannot leave that place fast enough.  My
skin is crawling.  Again, I feel the urge to throw up, but even so, I have
the satisfaction of knowing that I am about to achieve something that will
change the Outpost forever.

The day has not progressed that far, but the stress of what
I’ve just done has exhausted me.  I’m far more tired than I should
be.  Holding my coat tight against the bite of the winter wind, I head
toward home.  I squeeze into my chair next to Valentine, soaking up the
warmth of the fire.  Absently, I pet her head.  She grunts at me.

"He's right, you know," I murmur as I stroke her
pink skin.  "You really are a pain in the ass."

The way she looks at me, I imagine her thinking,
yeah, so
are you
.

It's late afternoon when Miranda storms in.  As soon as
I see her face, I know something's wrong.  I sit up straight as she moves
toward me, shaking her head.

"Oh, Eden."  She regards me with pity and an
underlying note of caution.

"What?" I ask.  "What happened?  Is
it Jonas?  Is he OK?"

Her eyes widen disbelievingly.  She plops down on the
ottoman in front of me, frowning.  "Seriously?  You really don't
know?"

I frown back.  "Know what?"

She closes her eyes and groans.

"What's going on?" I growl at her, clenching my
teeth.

She sighs.  Then she takes a deep breath and says,
"Matthew is furious."

Now my eyebrows go down.  "With who?  About
what?"

"You, you idiot," she snaps.  Apparently
catching herself, she lifts her chin and says calmly, "You have every
minor boss in the Outpost barking down his throat about this whole pay-for-the-sickhouse
thing.  Except for Ren Sawyer, whose falling-apart operation is suddenly
solid as rock, and strangely supportive of your weird little efforts… not to
mention the fact that it was
his
thugs that helped you threaten Isaiah
Bones.  Interesting, that.  But seriously.  Reneging on Matt’s
deal?  Threatening Bones with the chair?  For god’s sake, what were
you thinking?"

I blink at her, mouth open.  "Matt had a deal with
Bones," I say quietly.

"Uh, yeah," she says.  "And a lot of
other people.  Who all now think that he's not good for his word. 
Because of you."

I thwack myself in the face with my palm, my fingers curling
and digging into my forehead and temples.  I groan.

Miranda gets up and starts pacing.

I focus on breathing.  Crap.

"Idunno if Jonas and Apollon have heard yet,"
Miranda says, her pitch a little too high, and her words coming at twice their
normal speed.  "Oh my god, they're going to freak out. 
OK.  OK.  We have to keep calm."

I remove my hand from my face and squint at her. 
Miranda is anything but calm.  Beside me, Valentine wriggles like she
might actually get up.

"Yes, we do," I say.  "You're upsetting
the pig."

Miranda freezes and looks at me.  Two heartbeats later,
she shrieks, "I don't care about the pig!"

Valentine gets her patched-up hind end beneath her and flees
the chair.

I raise my eyebrows at Miranda pointedly.

She gesticulates at me with open palms and flexed
fingers.  "What is wrong with you?  Don't you see what you've
done?"

I sag backward into the chair, groaning again.  I close
my eyes.  "It was all going to happen eventually," I
mutter.  I feel strangely apathetic.  "Did you really think I
was going to survive a whole lifetime with Matt?"  I open my eyes and
give her a look.  "Seriously?  Me?"

Now she narrows her eyes at me.  "You have a
point."

Our normal interplay of thinly-veiled insults seems to have
buoyed her.  I give her more ammo.  "I mean, he already declared
me a pain in the ass, and that was when he was... how did you put it...? 
Courting me?"  I wriggle my fingers at her.

If the ammo didn't do the trick, the rings did.  She
sits on the ottoman and leans in to look at them, her mouth forming a little
'o' to match her eyes.  "Is that gold?" she whispers.

I flash her a grin.  "Maybe I could buy him off
with it, huh?"

She narrows her eyes at me in exasperation.  But she's
still focused on the rings.  "Did you sleep with him?" she asks
flat out.

"No, I didn't!" I proclaim, sitting up from my
slouch.

Now she gives me a look and a nod of the head. 
"Well, maybe if you did, he would let you live," she suggests.

"I'm not sleeping with him."

She gets to her feet and moves away.  "There are
worse things," she says, from across the room.  "You know you
want to, anyway."

She has wisely placed some distance between us, and looks
ready to bolt if I move.  "Bitch," I say calmly, instead of
trying to go after her.

She gives me a smug look that, if nothing else, confirms my
assessment of her character.

I look around and find nothing to throw.  So I cross my
arms and look away from her, chewing on my lip.  "You're not
helping," I finally say.  "So why don't you leave me to it, and
if I survive, I'll see you tomorrow."

Now she rolls her eyes, drags herself back to my ottoman,
and flounces down on it.  Brave of her.  "I can't just let him
kill you," she says.  "What kind of friend would I be?"

I narrow just one eye at her, wondering if she really said
that.  "Um," I start, but she waves me off before I can say
something appropriately sardonic.

"I'll stay with you," she says quietly.  "He'll
have to go through me first."

Sometimes, Miranda is surprising.  But I can't manage
gratitude right now without breaking.  So I say, "All ten pounds of
you.  That'll take him, what?  Five seconds?"

"Clearly, you've never seen me truly pissed off,"
she declares haughtily.

"Actually, I have."  I think about it for a
minute.  I love pissed-off Miranda.  It makes me feel all warm and
fuzzy.  I almost want to hug her.

We look at each other for a moment, and her lips twitch in
amusement.  Then she waves me off again and climbs to her feet.  She
stands by the fire, hugging herself like she's cold.  Neither of us speak
for a long time.

After what seems to be decades tapping my finger nervously
on the arm of my chair, I curl my fingers into a fist to stop myself. 
"You should go," I sigh.  "Really.  I don't want you
to be in trouble along with me."

She starts to shake her head.

"I can talk him down.”  I'm not nearly as
confident as I sound.  I remind myself that I've gotten away with a lot of
things that, as Matt himself put it, he should have killed me for.  What's
a little discrediting him to all his potential enemies compared to that? 
My stomach turns over, but I manage to smile at Miranda.  "You'll
just piss him off more.  You're good at that."

She rolls her eyes, but she seems strangely convinced. 
Probably because her self-preservation instinct is screaming at her not to put
herself between Matt and me right now.  And then, she's always easily
convinced.  Mental note, don't try to get Miranda to go away if I ever
really need her help.  When she looks away, I swallow.  I'm not
really sure I don't need her.  But then I'm grinning at her reassuringly
as she moves to the door.  I am an idiot.

"I'll just be upstairs," she says
uncertainly.  "If you need me."  Then she turns and hauls
it up the stairs.  Her door thuds shut behind her.

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.  I try to
remain calm.  I consider Sawyer’s men, and discard any idea of involving
them.  There’s no way they’ll back me against Matt, and ultimately, trying
to oppose Matt will just make him madder.  The only way is to
apologize.  Try to smooth things over.  I rehearse a million
different versions of the same speech.  In one version, I actually hand
Matt the crow ring, and say, 'Clearly you were wrong about this one.' 
Maybe he was.  Idiot.  Idiot.  Idiot.

An eternity passes before he comes home.

I hear the front door, and I'm on my feet, turning toward
it, but I freeze before I can go anywhere.  As he appears in the parlor
doorway, I realize I'm shaking.  And Miranda was right.  He's pissed.

I open my mouth and nothing comes out.

Something flashes in his eyes.  He strides toward me,
pulls me roughly to him, and kisses me.  My legs buckle, but I have no
clue if it’s from terror or from the insane rush of desire that comes with the
intensity of his kiss.  His mouth is hard on mine, his arms crushing me
into his body.  I’m a helpless, molten puddle, bending to meet the curve
of his will.  When he finally pulls away just to where the tips of our noses
are touching, and gazes down at me, I'm breathless and still shaking as though
every nerve is exposed.  Wordlessly, I stare into his eyes, and god they
are pretty.

"Quick thinking," he murmurs, sounding as
breathless as I feel.

I’m completely lost.  I make a small noise of
confusion.

"A kiss like that can fix a lot of things,” he says
softly, as if he is pondering the words as he speaks them.  There’s a
sudden wicked spark in his eyes.  “Have you been planning it the entire
time you were waiting for me?"

Seriously?  Did he just kiss me like that and then
accuse me of plotting it?  I blink up at him in disbelief, entirely too
aware of the sensation of his arm around my waist, of being pressed against his
muscular body.

A slow, mischievous smile slinks across his face. 
"I like your train of thought," he adds in a sultry whisper.

My awe breaks suddenly into laughter.  When we part,
it's because we're both laughing and I'm doubled over.  My belly
hurts.  I'm shedding tears.  Relief and warmth swarm through me,
along with a whole lot of other peripheral things whose discomforting presence
I attempt to ignore.  Finally, wiping one eye with the back of my hand, I
manage to quell the laughter and stand still.  I sigh, and shake my head
at him, and start in on my speech.  "Matt," I say, "I'm so
sor—"

"Shhh," is all he says, touching one finger to my
lips.  "I don't want to talk about it right now."

The touch makes shivers travel from my lips down through
every nerve in my body.  As he takes his hand away, I swallow, wondering
how I'm going to deflect what comes next.  His eyes on me are filled with
so much tenderness.  Part of me doesn't want to disappoint him.  I’m
hyper-aware of the curve of his lips, of how warm and tantalizing they felt on
mine.

"Right now," he says softly, taking my hand,
"I have something to show you."

He pulls me toward the front door, where my coat is hanging
on a hook.  He holds it while I stuff my arms in, then pulls it closed by
hugging me from behind.  He places a little kiss above my ear, then takes
up my hand and draws me outside.

As we step out, I register someone running down the street
toward us.  Someone big.  And blonde.  He sees us at the same
time that we see him.  He skids to a stop, his feet sliding on small
chunks of pavement.  Apollon and I blink at each other from the
distance.  His eyes are wide in the moonlight.  Panic-stricken. 
They scan my calm face, move to my hand clasped gently in Matt's.  Apollon
turns around and starts walking in the other direction.

Matt gives me a sideways look, but doesn't comment.  He
tugs me forward.

We walk into the night, and I try to get a handle on my
wildly running emotions.  The cold air on my face is refreshing, helping
ever-so-slightly with the feeling of drunkenness that came along with Matt's
kiss.  I breathe deeply, steadying myself.  The smell of snow is in
the air, sweet and fresh.  We've had all this cold, and no snow.  Not
for a long while.

"Are you taking me to some more birds?" I ask
suspiciously after a moment.

He laughs and shakes his head.  "No," he
says.  But then, uncertainly, glancing back the way we came, "We can
do the birds later."

My laughter feels light on the chilled air. 
"Seriously?" I ask.  "There are more birds?"

He just grins at me as we walk.

"This song of yours is truly strange," I
say.  "I mean, birds, birds, birds, birds,
golden rings
... and
then more birds?  Who came up with that?"

"Just you wait," he says.  "It gets
better."

I meet his gaze, and then we're both laughing.

"I don't think I want to know," I say. 
"What does it all mean?  It has to mean something."

He shrugs, his face still bathed in the light of his
smile.  "Christmas is complicated," he says.  "Who
understands it?"

We fall silent for a moment.

"Are they noisy?" I ask, glancing back over my
shoulder.

He hesitates, then says, "They honk."

"Honk?"

"Yeah, they're noisy."  He flashes me a
hopeful smile.  "They lay eggs."

"As opposed to rocks.  So you've witnessed this
egg-laying firsthand, then?"

"I wasn't there for the actual event, if that's what you
mean.  But when you go away, come back, and an egg magically appears
beneath the bird, I think it's safe to assume...."

He trails off because I grab his forearm and stop in my
tracks, staring off ahead.  "Matt...." I whisper.

He doesn't answer.  When I look at him, his eyes are
wandering over my face, taking in my reaction.

"That's....  That's your tree," I finally
manage.

"Our tree," he says.  He reclaims my hand and
pulls me forward.

I watch in awe as the sparkling, blue-shimmering top of it
waves over the buildings.  We finally come around the corner onto the main
street, and the whole thing stands before me.  At least half the Outpost
is gathered at its base, more people coming every minute.  There is utter
silence.

Matt and I wander toward the giant tree.  The crowd
makes room for us.  We stand amongst the other Outposters, staring up at
the tower of light and sparkle.  I don't believe in magic, but this thing
has cast its spell on all of us.  Arrayed in thousands of shards of broken
glass, its branches hung from top to bottom with blue-glowing aether lanterns,
it’s like nothing we've ever seen before.  It has no point.  It
doesn't do anything.  It's just...

"Beautiful," I whisper, so lightly that I don't
expect anyone to hear me.  But Matt's eyes move to me, then back to the
tree.  He steps closer to me, sliding his arms around me from
behind.  He tucks his chin onto my shoulder.

Snowflakes float down from the sky in front of me.  I
hold out my hand and catch one.  The snow makes me think of Oscar. 
Of how he would have loved to see this.  Through a film of tears I try to
see it for him, then close my eyes and wish the vision to find him.  I
urge this Christmas magic to float away on the wind to wherever Oscar is; for
it to take my love to him, to let him know, to make him somehow safe and OK.