Song of Oestend (41 page)

He was safe, and he was strong, and he was cherished, and there was nothing wrong in

the world. He wrapped his arms around Deacon’s neck and smiled up at him.

“I love you, too.”

They finally dressed and walked downstairs, where Frances waited. The sun was falling low in the sky. It would be time to start the generator soon.

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“I should go.” Frances held out his hand to Deacon. “Thank you,” he said, then he

seemed to stumble. His cheeks turned an alarming shade of red. “Not for
this
. I mean, for before. For everything.”

Deacon laughed as he shook Frances’ hand. “Sorry about your nose.”

Frances touched the tiny bend in it. He smiled. “I’m not.” He turned to Aren, stepping up close to him, but then he stopped short, glancing over Aren’s shoulder at Deacon.

“Don’t mind me,” Deacon said.

Frances smiled. He put his arms around Aren’s waist, and he kissed him. It was soft,

and hesitant. It was pleasant, but it was nothing like when Deacon kissed him. It didn’t trigger arousal in him the way Deacon’s kisses did. Frances parted his lips, leaning in to deepen the kiss, and Aren was about to pull away when a familiar, solid presence leaned against his back. Aren felt Deacon’s lips on the back of his neck. One of Deacon’s hands slid down Aren’s stomach, cupping his groin. Deacon wrapped his other arm around them both, pulling Frances tighter against Aren’s body.

Suddenly, every nerve in Aren’s body was on fire. Deacon was against his back,

nibbling on his neck and caressing him, and Frances was at his front, kissing him urgently, and Aren’s knees suddenly felt as if they wouldn’t hold him anymore. He heard himself moan.

Frances suddenly broke their kiss. He was breathless, his cheeks flushed, his lips moist.

He glanced over Aren’s shoulder at Deacon. “Another night?” he asked.

“Definitely,” Deacon said. “Next time, we’ll make Aren scream.”

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“Son of a bitch!”

Aren awoke with a start. There was something terribly, terribly wrong. Aren knew it.

He sensed it. His heart began to race, and yet his sleep-addled brain couldn’t quite focus on what it was.

Next to him, Deacon was sitting straight up in bed. “
Son of a bitch!
” Deacon swore again. He jumped out of bed and pulled on his pants. “It can’t be,” he said. “I checked it. It was fine! It was only last week. It can’t—”

“What’s going on?” Aren asked.

“The generator,” Deacon said as he pulled a shirt on over his head.

Then it hit Aren what was wrong—the low, chronic whine of the generator was gone.

There was only the wind outside, and a strange, eerie silence. Aren’s heart began to pound in his chest.

“What do we do?” he asked, getting out of bed and reaching for his own clothes.

“‘We’ don’t do anything. You stay here. I’m going to check on it.”

“But you’ll have to go outside—”

“Aren, if Olsa’s right, they won’t take me. Whatever’s wrong with it, I should be able to fix fast. You stay here.” He grabbed Aren’s shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. “Keep the door closed,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

But Aren heard the tremor in his voice. He saw the hint of panic in Deacon’s eyes before he turned away.

No matter how brave he tried to sound, Deacon was scared—and that frightened Aren

more than the wraiths.

Deacon left, closing the bedroom door behind him, and Aren paced. His heart pounded

as he waited for the sound of the generator starting again, but it never came. What if Olsa was wrong? What if the wraiths could take Deacon? What if they had taken him already?

Aren paced some more, wishing he had his pocket watch. He had no idea how much

time had passed. It felt like hours but might have been only minutes.

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He paced the length of the small room again and again, growing more nervous with

each step. He began to count seconds. When he reached sixty, he started again. By his seventh time through, he was beginning to panic. When he reached nine, he grabbed his pants, pulling them on as quickly as he could.

Something was wrong. Something had happened. He had to find Deacon.

He was reaching for the doorknob when Deacon burst into the room. He slammed the

door shut and leaned against it, breathing hard. He leaned over and put his hands on his knees, and Aren could see that he was shaking.

The generator still wasn’t running.

“Deacon?” Aren asked, willing his heart to stop pounding, willing his voice to sound

normal instead of squeaky and scared. “What’s wrong?”

“Somebody did this, Aren,” Deacon said. “Somebody sawed through the cable. I

checked it just last week, and it was fine. There’s no way it could have worn through in that amount of time. They must’ve sawed most of the way through and left just enough that it would run for a bit but would wear through quick.”

“You’re saying somebody sabotaged it?”

Deacon looked up at him. “That ain’t all. The ward on the cellar door’s ruined, too.

Whoever it was must have used a shovel or a hoe or an axe and scraped some of the paint away.”

“I just checked it the other night,” Aren said.

“Me, too.” Deacon stood up finally, looking gravely at Aren.

The wind battered against the windows. Aren felt himself shiver. The gravity of their situation was beginning to become mind-numbingly clear. “Is there any way to fix it?” he asked.

Deacon shook his head. “Not without a new cable.”

“Coal?” Aren asked. “There’s a bucket outside, under the porch to stay dry—”

But Deacon was already shaking his head. “Not the windmill that’s busted. Cable runs

the engine. Coal or wind, I can’t make it work without another one.”

“Is there one anywhere on the ranch?”

“Only in the other generators, and they’re bigger. Even if we could get over there to take one, it wouldn’t work.”

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Aren hugged his arms around himself. He took a deep breath. Panic wouldn’t help

them. He needed to be calm.

“Should we try to make it to the house?”

Deacon shook his head. “We’d never make it.”

“What do we do?” Aren asked again.

“Best bet is to keep the doors closed,” Deacon said. “Hope the wards will hold. Hope

for the best.” He crossed over to Aren and pulled him into his arms, holding him tight.

“We’ll be fine,” he said. “Just have to get through until morning.”

They were brave words, but even Deacon didn’t sound like he believed them.

Deacon took the comforter off the bed and settled on the floor, leaning back against the bed so they could see the door, although Aren wasn’t sure what they were watching for.

Wraiths couldn’t be seen.

Deacon reached up and took Aren’s hand, pulling him to the floor. Aren settled

between Deacon’s legs. He leant back against him, and Deacon wrapped the blanket around them both. With his lover’s broad chest behind him and his strong arms holding him tight, it was hard to believe anything could touch him.

“I have to tell you about my parents,” Deacon said quietly into his ear. “I should have told you sooner.”

“You weren’t ready.”

“I was being a fool. I put you in danger.”

“How?”

“Listen,” Deacon said. He shifted his weight, allowing Aren to cuddle closer. “You’ve heard Jeremiah mention Ezriel?”

“Yes. He says he was your father.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. Ezriel was the eldest brother. More than ten years older than Jeremiah actually, and by a different wife. He was supposed to inherit this ranch. He’s the one who built this house.”

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There was a screech outside—the wind, maybe, or something more, and Aren shivered.

Deacon wrapped the blanket more tightly around them. “He got married young, and he and his wife lived out here for ten years, but she never got with child. Jeremiah was getting to the age where he was getting offers of dowries from other families. And that was bad for Ezriel.”

“Why?”

“Old Man Pane decided that instead of splitting his ranch in two, he’d give it to

whichever son had an heir first.”

“Why?” Aren asked again.

Behind him, he felt Deacon shrug. “Olsa says he was starting to see that Ezriel was lazy, and Jeremiah wasn’t. Or maybe he wanted to light a fire under Ezriel’s ass. Maybe he thought it made more sense to pass it to somebody who already had an heir of his own. I can’t say. But about that time, Jeremiah got married, and Ezriel knew it was only a matter of time before that wife of his had a baby. So he went to town, and he got himself a new wife.”

“Wasn’t he already married?”

“He was, but guess he didn’t love her too much, and the feeling must have been

mutual, ‘cause as soon as he came home with his new woman, his first wife packed up and left.”

“And his new wife was your mother?”

It took Deacon a moment to answer. It was cold in the room. Aren wondered if the fire in the downstairs hearth had gone out. He huddled closer to Deacon, trying to steal his warmth.

“You remember the platform in town?” Deacon finally asked, his voice low.

“Yes. You said they used it to auction off slaves.”

“That’s where he found my mother.”

“You mean…?”

“He bought her. I guess someone had found a shack of Ainuai hiding in the mountains,

and they killed the men—or so they thought—and dragged the women into town to sell.”

“Holy Saints,” Aren said, shivering again. “That’s awful.”

“If you ask Olsa, she’ll say it ain’t much different from dowries, but that’s neither here nor there. Ezriel brought her back here. And it caused a stir, because this was right at the end SONG OF OESTEND

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of the slave trade, and some people thought it was wrong. I think Olsa had a right fit. But Old Man Pane didn’t much mind, so Ezriel kept her here.”

“In this house?”

“Yes,” Deacon said, his voice shaking. “Jeremiah told me later that he locked her in the cellar at first, until she agreed not to run away. After that, I guess she was compliant enough.

Her family was dead. She didn’t have anywhere else to go. And Olsa was here, so I guess she settled in. And whether she was allowing Ezriel what he thought was his, or whether he was just taking, I don’t know. But it seemed Ezriel was happy enough, bragging that he was bound to be a daddy soon.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“I know it. About that time, they had a new hand show up, too. His name was Uly, and

he was dark like me.”

“Ainuai?”

“Right. And Old Man Pane thought that was lucky, ‘cause he didn’t have to pay him

too much. Ainuai couldn’t ask for full wages. They figured they were lucky not to be up on that auction block like my ma had been. So things here at the BarChi went back to normal until about a year later, when I was born.”

“Olsa said she knew as soon as she saw you that you weren’t Ezriel’s son.”

“Apparently that’s what Ezriel thought, too. He walked right out of the room. Grabbed his gun on the way. Walked right up to Uly and shot him dead.”

“Holy Saints,” Aren whispered again. He couldn’t believe how cold the room was

getting. He couldn’t stop shivering.

“This was before the generators,” Deacon said. “It was right as the wards were starting to fail. That night, after Ezriel was asleep, my ma put me in my crib. She went downstairs and opened all the doors. Then she went down to that cellar. She took the gun Ezriel had used on Uly, and she used it to kill herself.”

“The wraiths took Ezriel?”

“They did. But that’s not the end of the story. Or it is, but there’s part that I left out. See, once my ma and Uly were dead, Olsa sang their death songs, but she said she knew it didn’t take. That was when she thought to check for marks. And she found two on each of them.

They had each others’ marks on their arms. Olsa said those scars were old.”

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“What does that mean?”

“Means they were married, before my ma was sold. Probably he followed her here to be

with her. The other sign—Uly’s had been there a while, but my ma’s was fresh, carved into her chest just before she died.”

“What sign?”

“The sign to keep her from passing into the sacred land.”

“She became a wraith?” He wished he could just get warm. He wished they could go

downstairs and sit by the fire.

“She did, but she did it wrong. She should have been outside. That way, she’d have

been out there with the others. She did it inside walls, and maybe she sang the song wrong, too. I don’t know. But now she’s trapped.” He was quiet for a minute, then said, his voice quieter, “That’s her down in your cellar. She’s been stuck there since she died.”

“Your m—m—mom?” He was shivering so hard now, it was hard to talk. “M—m—

maybe you should try reasoning with her?”

It was a bad attempt at a joke, and Deacon snorted. “It don’t really work like that,” he said. “There ain’t that much of her left. The longer they’re wraiths, the more they forget.”

Aren thought about that, shivering harder. Something wasn’t adding up, although it

took him a moment to put his finger on it. “W—w—wait,” he said, fighting to keep his teeth from chattering. “But if she’s a wr—wraith, she should only have c—c—caused trouble at n—night.”

“She did only cause trouble at night. That’s what I’m trying to explain. All that other stuff—your paintings, and things being broken when you were gone—it had to be somebody else.”

Who?
That was what Aren tried to ask, but he couldn’t make himself speak.

“Aren?” Deacon asked.

So cold
, Aren thought. He was going numb. He felt like he couldn’t quite breathe.