Prodigal (Maelstrom Chronicles) (14 page)

“I heard.” Claire faced Quentin, arms crossed. The past week hadn’t been kind to the man. His eyes were bloodshot, and several bruises decorated his face. He had one hell of a shiner. “What’s the problem, asshole?”

“Your whore deputy won’t suck my boner,” Quentin said with a cackle.

Tonya rolled her eyes, but Randall fondled his blaster band. They were a good team, except when Randall got overprotective of his female partner. He was kind of old-fashioned, so Claire enjoyed pairing him with females who could outshoot his ass.

“Get one of your friends to do it,” Claire recommended. “What else?”

Quentin seemed disappointed she didn’t take the bait. She wasn’t known for being easygoing, but she’d just vented to Adam, so she was feeling stable.

“You stole our weapons,” he tried next. “We have a right to those guns.”

She shook her head. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. “You know the rules, Quentin. You opted to stay in Chanute after you heard them. Your guns were added to the armory until you passed our competency tests. Gotta pass driving tests to drive, gotta pass weapons tests to shoot. You signed on the dotted line the day we saved your ass in Riverbend.”

He clenched the bars and bared his teeth. “A man has the right to protect himself, and you dykes in charge are trying to emasculate us.”

She couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Good God. Seriously? Emasculate? Who taught you that word?”

“Fuck you,” he said. “I’m not a sheep willing to live under your Nazi communist regime.”

She, Tonya, and Randall had other things to do, but here they were, spinning their wheels, because even in times of crisis, assholes like Jay Quentin wouldn’t cooperate. “Here’s some real deal. If you stay in our town, you go by our rules and you pay our tariffs. Or you get the hell out.”

Quentin spat on the ground. “Bet your pet Chosen One doesn’t have to pass gun tests and pay tariffs. You fucking him yet?”

“Who actually says crap like that outside of movie villains?” Adam said. “You can’t just—”

Claire interrupted him, holding up a finger. Adam’s outrage lightened hers enough that she might be able to wrap this up without killing anybody. “It’s cool, Adam. I mean, it’s not cool, but I’ve got a quick fix. Since good choices don’t seem to be part of Quentin’s repertoire, I’ll make this easy. He and his friend are leaving Chanute tomorrow.”

Unsurprisingly, Quentin didn’t respond well. “Fucking communists. I can live wherever I want.”

“You can live almost anywhere you want.” His actions in the next few minutes would determine if he left tomorrow in one piece with supplies, or if she airdropped him somewhere dangerous with a rude gesture. The trick was ensuring agitators like Quentin didn’t sneak back to eke revenge or whatever dumb shit they thought they needed.

“I can? Then I pick this whore’s room.” He pointed at Tonya, laughed, and rattled the bars.

Claire bit the inside of her cheek until it hurt. It was like he’d been prepped to push her hot buttons. Racism and misogyny were her Achilles’ heels of rage. And rape. And child abuse. And…

“I’ll give you some say in the matter, Quentin. Where do you want us to take you that’s at least two hundred miles from Chanute?” It was a lie—she’d be taking him wherever she wanted, but whatever. “I’ll schedule a transport tomorrow.”

“You don’t own this land.” His beady gaze flitted between her and Tonya, ignoring the men. Probably thought she and Tonya were the weak links because they had vaginas. “You can’t make us do whatever you want like some kind of Nazi tyrant.”

In her calmest voice, she said, “True, I could quit being a tyrant. I could let chaos reign…and lots of people will die, including you, because I’ll kill you first.”

“What?” he said, his big mouth gaping at her.

Claire moved swiftly, suddenly, and grabbed his gnarly, hairy throat through the bars. She may or may not have had the bars specially placed to allow female hands and arms through but not most men’s. She jerked forward, hard, and his face bashed against the iron.

Oh, yeah. That felt good.

She did it again.

“Claire, is this a good idea?” Adam asked. He’d seen her deal with all sorts of people this week. They’d discussed her challenges. Her temper. He’d thought he was being sly, offering tips for handling the mayor, joining various conversations that were veering toward heated and chilling them out. Since he had good ideas, she hadn’t called him on it.

He was so charming, he could connect with people determined to hate him and turn them into fans. But Adam hadn’t seen her cut down someone like Quentin. Was he shocked? Disappointed?

Adam slid his hand around her shoulder. A thumb found her bare neck and rubbed.

Claire stilled. Every nerve ending in her body was suddenly focused on her neck.

He hadn’t touched her all week. She’d kept her distance physically, but whenever she looked at him, a tiny part of her wished he’d kiss her senseless like he did the love interests in his movies. Just grab her up and let her know how badly he wanted her. God.

“I have another idea,” Adam said conversationally, as if one touch of his finger wasn’t converting her anger into misplaced lust. “Why don’t we use blaster bands to stun them? Then nobody has to listen to them until we’re ready to cart them off.”

She let Quentin go and admitted, “I didn’t think of that.” Because it wouldn’t have been as satisfying.

“Newcome won’t let you banish us,” Quentin coughed out, rubbing his throat. “She appreciated the evidence I gave her.”

Newcome, of course, had already told Claire everything Quentin had said. The mayor might be as much of a control freak as Claire, but they had enough shared goals that their partnership worked. “I don’t know if I want to wait until tomorrow to get rid of you. Hell, let’s do it tonight. I’ll call in a shuttle, and we’ll drop your stank ass in California.”

“California’s overrun,” one of Quentin’s fellow jackholes protested. “That would be murder.”

“Like you guys tried to murder Adam?” she asked. “Yeah, idiots, I know about that. Keep in mind I’m not Shipborn. I don’t particularly want to preserve some examples of sentient life.”

Quentin simmered with rage. His hot, angry eyes bored a hole through her, as if he’d finally found the one person in the world he hated more than the Chosen One. “You’re so high and mighty, but you can’t see how stupid you are. You’re sheep. Stupid sheep. He’s the devil’s spawn.” He pointed through the bars at Adam. “That’s why he survived. There’s more people in this town who think the way I do than you realize, and news is getting around.”

It was time to stun Quentin and be done with it. “On that, you’re wrong. Because I’m a fucking communist Nazi dictator, anybody who doesn’t like the way we do things around here leaves.”

“Whore,” Quentin repeated. This time he spat far enough that it landed on Claire’s boot. “You do anything to me and Parks’ll come after you. I’m one of his spotters.”

“Parks?” Claire regarded Quentin with annoyance. “The warlord?”

The warlords employed spotters to scout areas ripe for the picking. They’d caught a few of the lowlifes in Chanute’s radius, but so far their trouble with the warlords seemed proximity-related, not treachery-related.

“Scared now, huh?” he gloated. “Your shit-ass town is high on his list.”

She wasn’t sure she believed his claim. Even if it were true, Quentin had been sent to Riverbend, not Chanute. Parks might not even know where the guy was.

“If they keep giving you trouble,” she told Tonya and Randall, “you have my permission to use the blaster band on them. Trouble, by the way, includes references to genitalia, rude gestures, and, I don’t know, looking at you funny.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tonya said with a smirk.

Randall simply nodded. But as Claire and Adam walked away, his hand companionably on her shoulder now, she could hear the sizzle of blaster bands and the thuds of bodies hitting the ground.

Chapter Twelve

Over the next few hours, Adam found himself standing beside Claire instead of behind her as she dealt with panicked outwallers, frustrated residents, overworked patrollers, and everyone who came to her with problems to solve. He didn’t touch her again, but he offered comments, ideas, compromises, and she didn’t bite his head off. In fact, she started pausing when she was barking out orders to give him a chance to chime in.

Sometimes when he was doing his thing, reassuring frightened people that Camp Chanute’s leadership was 100 percent committed to protecting them, he’d catch her watching him with this almost smile on her face. Was that approval? Or was she waiting until they were alone to rip him a new one for interfering?

It would be foolish not to use him when he could help her. When he could share her burdens. When he could put that almost smile on her face on a night when nobody was smiling.

Didn’t matter if she was killing shades, laying down the law to criminals, or trying to get her kid to eat carrots. He’d help her however he could.

At last, all outwallers were accounted for. They found one more shade hit, a couple who lived forty miles to the north—bringing the death tally to thirteen. Claire announced to her staff that they were turning in for a few hours to get some sleep—the two of them—and nobody batted an eyelash when they left together.

The barracks were huge and the rooms small, but relatively soundproofed. Most single rooms belonged to families or people with health problems, while larger rooms were communal bunks. Families with children took precedence in assigning private rooms. And, of course, a number of citizens opted to live in different areas in town and outside the walls.

Tonight, the hallways were packed with temporary guests. The Riverbenders who’d remained—and who weren’t assholes—had been assigned permanent bunks, but the outwallers were another story. Most slept on cots and bedrolls wherever there was space; it was more practical to cram the heated building full than pitch tents in the snow when the temperature dropped below freezing at night.

The few citizens still awake fretted about livestock, farms left untended, and shades showing up randomly in the middle of town. From what Adam overheard, not everyone had been willing to come in. In some cases, Claire’s people had had to be forceful.

The less the shades were fed, the better.

As they reached the hallways instead of the upper rooms, they began to be noticed. He heard whispers, comments. With the expression on Claire’s face, nobody dared to delay them. She nodded stiffly when greeted, but he couldn’t help but notice that most eyes were on him.

The Chosen One
. The Chosen One who’d returned and was now apparently the right hand of Camp Chanute’s sheriff. The Chosen One who’d shown up right before the shade attacks had gone off the charts.

He wasn’t afraid of confronting his critics, but he’d like a break from it tonight. Maybe, for a change, he could actually sleep. He was that exhausted. He longed to nestle his head on that thin pillow and crank out some snores. It would be a novel experience, because his anxiety about who he used to be and what he’d done crept up on him in the dead of night. That is, when he wasn’t fantasizing about Claire in an attempt to fall asleep.

And once he did sleep, his rest was disturbed by nightmarish images of icy cold shade pools, the lurch of hunger, the scent of death. His shade touch during Riverbend and his suppressed memories of his nexus dive seemed determined to haunt him whenever he wasn’t conscious.

It seemed like he was going to get lucky tonight and not have to sweet talk his way out of anyone’s resentment—or downplay anyone’s fannish enthusiasm—until they reached the lowest hallway. Outside Claire’s room, a large group of citizens waited for them.

They definitely weren’t asleep.

Adam tensed, fearing another Jay Quentin incident. Many of the people held burning candles as if maintaining a vigil. The warm lighting flickered on the walls, giving the hallway the appearance of a cave instead of a shabby barracks.

“There he is.” A gaunt man rose from a cross-legged seated position. Adam recognized him from Riverbend. “The Chosen One.”

He’d interacted with several Riverbenders this week as well as people from Camp Chanute. Folks inclined to be friendly called him Adam. Folks inclined to be hostile called him the Chosen One. Usually with a sneer.

While he usually managed to defuse the situation with a combination of active listening, jokes, and empathy, he’d been on his best behavior, as had Claire, for the past several hours. They were both tired and ready for bed.

Well, Claire was tired and ready for bed. He was tired and ready for some mental lusting followed by nightmares that disrupted his sleep.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he told them, raising his hands in the classic gesture of someone unarmed. Too late he realized he was wearing a blaster band.

Claire halted beside him, also unwilling to wade into the throng. “There’s only going to be trouble if you folks keep me from going to bed. What are you doing down here at this hour? It’s two in the morning. Go to your rooms.”

“We’re here to see the Chosen One.” The man from Riverbend, Obadiah Gentry, helped an old woman Adam also recognized to her feet. Bitty. He’d carried her to safety and ridden beside her back to Camp Chanute. “To honor him.”

“You’ve already thanked me for Riverbend.” Adam ducked his head. “I was doing the same thing anyone would have done.”

“Not for that, young man.” Bitty used her cane to hobble forward, stopping in front of Adam and Claire. “For your resurrection.”

“Oh. That.” He glanced at Claire, who wore a disbelieving expression. “I don’t know about resurrected. Took a lot longer than three days, and I don’t see any Easter bunnies.”

“Don’t mock our savior Lord Jesus,” Bitty said sternly. “Your situation is different, but no less worthy of honor. Jesus saved our souls, but our bodies are ours to protect. It’s as clear as the nose on my face you’re here to help us do that.”

He’d already had that burden placed on him once. He just didn’t remember it. How had he felt about it then? Right now, it seemed farfetched.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my goal is to follow Sheriff Lawson’s orders and protect Camp Chanute’s territory.” He shrugged. “I think one failure to save the world is enough, don’t you?”

“Nonsense.” Bitty grabbed his hand, palm up.

He’d seen her a few times around Chanute, often paired with Elizabeth Newcome, ordering all the whippersnappers around. She’d been appointed as the undersecretary of telling young people to get busy or something. “Are you going to read my lifeline?”

“Nonsense again. This is a capable hand. It’s a hand that isn’t done working, Adam Alsing. It needs more calluses.” She patted him, her fingertips bent with age. “Don’t worry about Jay Quentin and his big mouth. He doesn’t have as many supporters as he thinks.”

“I’ve already taken care of it,” Claire said. “He’s in jail and I’m banishing him tomorrow.”

“You only got five of them,” Obadiah warned her. “They caused trouble in Riverbend after they showed up there, too. We can give you the names.”

Claire raised her eyebrows. “Awesome. More dregs of humanity calling themselves survivalists, I bet. We should drop them in Chicago and see how long they last with the warlords.”

“Some of us thought Quentin was a spotter, but the warlords must have decided nothing in Riverbend was worth taking.” Obadiah helped Bitty into a camp chair where a middle-aged woman—her daughter—handed her a candle. “After we found out what Quentin tried to do, we’ll be guarding the Chosen One from here on out.”

“You think I can’t handle a protection detail?” Claire surveyed the crowd, though she wasn’t confrontational. “Some of you have rooms, and you should go back to them. Those of you who are outwallers need to relocate to the H wing where it’s warmer. It’s barely fifty degrees in the basement, and look”—she pointed at the spot in the wall where Adam’s fist had nearly bashed Quentin’s head—“it’s falling apart. Huh. When did that happen?”

“Sheriff, ma’am, even you need to sleep. We’re going to take shifts while you get some rest.” Obadiah squared his thin shoulders. “To prevent any mischief.”

Claire sighed and dragged her parka off. Adam wasn’t sure if she was preparing to fight or preparing to slump into an exhausted heap. “Return to your quarters or I’ll have my people move you. You can’t block the corridor. It’s a fire hazard.”

“There’s another way out,” a man said, pointing down the hallway at the escape route.

“You know, I’m not blind to the fact that some idiots would like to hurt Adam,” Claire said. “I had the old tunnel sealed up.”

“When did you do that?” Adam asked.

“After I found out Quentin used it to sneak up on you.” And after they’d used it to try to dodge Ditmer Sieders. “Now I don’t need to set a guard on it.”

“You won’t have to set a guard anyway, because we’ll be here,” Obadiah said, as if he and Claire had reached an agreement.

“It’s a fire hazard for you to block this corridor,” she repeated. “It’s too narrow.” Adam could tell her patience was not only wearing thin, but about to disappear.

“They could set up a post at the top of the stairs in the common room,” he suggested. “It’s warmer, and there are couches. We appreciate you making sure that Claire and I can get enough sleep, but you have to sleep, too. We all have work to do tomorrow.”

“Excellent compromise,” Obadiah said before Claire could nix the idea. “Mr. Alsing…”

“Please call me Adam. Mr. Alsing was my dad,” he said. “So I’m told. I’m a little fuzzy on the details.”

He got some smiles for that. Everyone knew about his memory loss. So far, nobody from his old life had applied for permission to come to Chanute, and Dr. Sieders might not have approved it anyway.

Did he want his memories jogged? Did he want to remember his past? It couldn’t give him anything he needed now, unless it answered the question of where he’d gone and why.

He feared the answer might not be a good one.

His volunteer sentries parted to let them into Claire’s room. She nodded at everyone, ushered Adam into the room, and locked it behind them. Now that they were alone, her expression was harder to read.

“I’ve been meaning to yell at you about Quentin,” she said, hanging her parka on its hook. “You should have told me. I know what made that hole in the wall.”

Adam froze in the process of shedding his own coat. “You do?”

“They tried to kill you with a crowbar or something, didn’t they? The people who told me about it heard they’d only had knives.” She yanked off her armor with pent up frustration. Now there was no mistaking her emotions about the topic. “You could have been killed right outside our room. Jesus. What is wrong with people?”

“I didn’t want to bother you with everything else going on, so I handled it.” He pointed at his eye. “The thing with trouble is seeing it coming and greeting it with a fist.”

He recognized it as a quote halfway through but forged ahead regardless.

Claire rolled her eyes. “I guess that means you remember how to fight.” The armor clinked as she hung it. “Karate? Judo? Boxing?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I ducked a lot when they tried to hit me and shoved them away when I could get my hands on them. They did make me mad enough to throw a few punches.” He fondled his fist, the one that had been scraped by the bricks. “Hurt my hand.”

She cocked her head, looking him up and down. “You’re fit, but I wouldn’t have pegged you as a scrapper. How’d you hold your own against several guys with weapons?”

She was taking the fact that he’d hidden the truth about Quentin well. He hated lying to her, and his possible superstrength had been bugging him anyway. “I need to tell you something.”

She sank onto her bed. “I’m listening.”

“My enhancements aren’t dormant.” He rubbed one of his upper arms, checking the muscles. While his arm was hardly soft, it wasn’t weightlifter bulky. “The healing machines work, the blaster bands work, and I’m unusually strong.”

“Are you sure you’re not just surprised you can do your own stunts?” she asked with a small smile. “I don’t remember anything about the Chosen One being more powerful than a locomotive.”

He sat on his bed, a short ninety-degree angle from her; the headboards faced the same corner, where they shared a nightstand. “What would you do if I proved to you that I’m stronger than I should be?”

She bent over and unlaced her boots, giving him a view down her shirt that he admired for about two seconds. Four. Ten. When she started talking again, he wrenched his gaze away.

“You’re overthinking this.” Her shoelaces whipped out of eyelets until her boots were loose. “You’ve got amnesia. You don’t know what your body should and shouldn’t do. Hell, sometimes in the morning, it seems like you don’t remember how to walk.”

“I wake up slow,” he agreed, “but that’s not what I’m talking about.” Her casual disregard for the possibility of his enhanced strength worried him. Should he push the issue? Crumple a canteen?

“Tell me what you are talking about, then.”

He’d be better off investigating his enhancements himself so he could decide what to do about the information. “You said I went to the gym so I’d look good, not so I could actually fight. Apparently I can fight.”

“I tell people all kinds of shitty things I probably shouldn’t.” Claire’s gaze connected with his across the small distance between them, and she wasn’t smiling. “I don’t hate the idea of you being able to protect yourself. Quentin could have killed you.”

“I told you, I handled it.”

She stood and stared down her nose at him. “Adam, please. He could have. And I thought you were dead today.” She licked her lips. “It was not my favorite day.”

She had an odd way of admitting she’d been afraid for him, and it came as no surprise that she was bad at it. She had no issues being affectionate with Frances, but Adam wasn’t her baby. He was her roommate. Her mystery.

He wanted to be her something else. “It wasn’t my favorite day, either.”

“Then it’s settled. You’re a scrapper. It’s all good.” Claire kicked off her boots and unselfconsciously stripped off her dirty pants, which she flung into the laundry basket in the corner.