The Deadly Nightshade (9 page)

Chapter 18

About two months have passed since I first met Connor, and I can honestly say I’m beginning not to mind his presence. By now I have grown used to his constant company, and though his relentless chatter still gets on my nerves, I’ve learned to drown him out without a problem. It’s strange, really—I used to think he would be this parasite, sinking his teeth into me and not letting go until he had drained me of everything I had, but he has proven his ability to provide for himself and then some. Thanks to my daily lessons, his hunting skills have improved tenfold, so we have yet to go to sleep hungry even once. I have a feeling this is the first time in several years that he has been able to eat regular meals.

And with each meal he eats, Connor seems to be growing bigger and stronger. Within just these past two months, I have watched him transform into a healthier version of himself. His previously emaciated body has become lean and fit, and his ribs are no longer quite as visible. His skin, once an ashen, bloodless gray, now has a ruddy complexion. His dark hair is still messy and unkempt, but with nourishment and more frequent bathing it has developed a healthy sheen. And his eyes—his eyes still shine that brilliant blue, but they are not the only beautiful thing about him anymore. He no longer looks like the helpless, sickly boy I found wandering on his own. He is beginning to look like a survivor.

I have grown used to his incessant questions, too. Although I strongly prefer him when he is silent, I understand he is curious and has a right to want to get to know me. He talks about his brother Alex a lot, and what life was like before the War. Sometimes I tell him more about my father, about how I lost him, about what I’ve been doing for the past four years without him. But I never speak about my past, about my life before the War, because as far as I’m concerned I
had
no life before the War. That was before Nightshade ever existed, so none of it matters.

Still, although I remain guarded, I realize I have missed this—this human connection—and it has taken me until now to notice how alone I was before Connor came along. But he will die someday—I know that—and that someday is probably going to arrive sooner rather than later. My mother died, my father died, Ivy and Oliver and Angelica died, and Connor too will die—these are all indisputable facts. So although I have begun to let Connor in, I always make sure to keep him at an arm’s length away. It’s better for both of us that way.

It is obvious Connor knows he will die too. I can tell by the way he carries himself, by the way he admires everything as if it’s the last time he will see it. But he wants to survive, to fight the inevitable—I guess that’s what we’re all doing, really, just fighting the inevitable. Every evening after we have eaten dinner and set up camp, the two of us train like my father and I used to do, except this time I am the mentor and Connor is the sad excuse for a student. Though he has a decent height and weight advantage on me, he doesn’t know how to use either of them to his benefit. He is clumsy and awkward and graceless, but I can tell he has potential. If he continues to bulk up at the rate he has been growing, he will make a formidable fighter one day—
if
he doesn’t get himself killed first.

“Let’s go again,” I say as he pushes himself off the ground and brushes the dirt from his jacket.

“I can’t. I—I need to catch my breath,” he groans. “Please, Nightshade, give me a minute to rest.”

“Again!” I shout, urging him to get up.

“Just one minute,
please
. One minute. That’s all I need.”

“Do you think someone out there is going to give you a minute to catch your breath? Do you think they’re going to wait for you to be ready to fight? No, they’re going to kill you when you’re weak and you can’t defend yourself, which is why we’re going to
keep going
. Now get up!”

Grumbling, he grudgingly prepares for my attack, but this time I decide to try something different and give him the first move. When he realizes I am waiting for him, he lunges at me with a furious grunt, grabbing hold of my waist and going straight for the tackle, but I twist and push him down and it is he who goes crashing to the ground. Before he has time to come at me again, I place my foot against his throat and press down, choking him. He struggles to remove my boot from his windpipe, but the feeling of suffocation is too much for him. He taps on my leg three times in surrender, prompting me to release the pressure.

“What was your mistake there?” I ask as he gasps violently to fill his lungs with the air my foot deprived him of.

“Not having a windpipe made of steel?” he croaks.

“Your mistake was that you got angry. Passion has no place in a fight, Connor. Emotions make you stupid and being stupid gets you killed. Come on, we’re going again.”

“Well how do you expect me not to get angry?” he snaps. “I mean, I’ve spent the last half hour being thrown around without a break. Just give me a few minutes to breathe, okay?”

“Do you really think other people are going to give you a break? Let me tell you something, Connor: they’re not. Nobody gave
me
a break. The man who killed my father didn’t care that I was only fifteen years old. He tried to strangle me to death, and he probably would’ve done it, too, if I hadn’t known how to fight back. It’s kill or be killed out there, so you better learn to control your anger before we’re faced with some real danger. And believe me, it’s coming.” I think back to those other hunters’ snares and the food we accidentally stole. We haven’t run into them yet, and we probably never will, but people kill for much less these days. “Again, Connor. And this time try to control yourself.”

He gets up and wipes the sweat from his reddened face, his chest heaving with pent-up rage. I have never seen him like this. I’ve grown so used to calm, laid-back Connor that angry Connor is a bit of a shock.

Feeling generous, I allow him a minute to relax, and soon his color is back to normal and he seems to have regained a bit of his composure. But I know what I need to do, and he is going to hate me for it.

We both prepare to spar again, and again I give him the first move. Connor paces back and forth, looking me up and down as if trying to pinpoint my weakness, but before he can attack, I hiss a single word:
Alex.

“What did you say?”

“That was your brother’s name, wasn’t it? The one who shot himself?”

Realizing what I am doing, Connor clenches his jaw. “Don’t,” he says through gritted teeth.

“He thought you were going to go with him, didn’t he? You abandoned him,” I jeer. “He couldn’t take it anymore and he thought he was finally going to be at peace. And you were supposed to join him, but you couldn’t do it, could you?”

“Shut up, Nightshade,” he says, his face flushing. “Stop. I mean it.”

“You were his brother, you were supposed to go with him.” I continue relentlessly, feeding on his growing anger. “But instead he’s gone and you’re not because you were too afraid to pull the trigger. If you couldn’t save him, the least you could’ve done was make sure he wasn’t alone in death.”

“Stop. Don’t say that. Don’t,” he hisses, his watery eyes narrowing to slits.

“Does it hurt, knowing you couldn’t save him? I mean, you must’ve seen the signs—you were with him twenty-four hours a day, for God’s sake. You had to have realized
something
was wrong, but you did
nothing.
I bet he cried out to you for help in a thousand different ways. It’s your fault Alex is dead, Connor. You could have stopped him, but you were too stupid to realize.”

“Shut the fuck up!” he screams.

He charges at me, and again I try to dodge him, but this time he grabs me in a death grip and flings me to the ground. I land on my back with a thud, the wind knocked out of me, and manage to quickly kick his feet out from under him in retaliation, sending him crashing down beside me. Not missing a beat, he grabs hold of one of my legs and yanks me toward him. The two of us begin to grapple, twisting and tumbling in a violent heap, each trying to hold the other down. I elbow him in the face a few times, hoping the blows will stun him into submission, but each strike I land only makes him angrier. Pushing my elbow away with a furious screech, he grabs me by the throat with both hands and bashes my head against the ground. I struggle to get free of his grasp, but he removes his hands from my neck and uses them to pin my arms down. I writhe and squirm and fight against him, but as desperately as I thrash I find myself unable to escape his iron hold. Finally realizing I am beat, I allow myself to go limp.

Connor’s entire body trembles as he stares down at me with wild eyes almost as crazed as the ones of the man who murdered my father, a string of saliva hanging from his bottom lip and the veins in his neck and forehead bulging. His fingernails have begun to dig painfully into my skin, and his grip on my arms continues to grow tighter with each passing second. For a moment we just stare at each other, both of us wondering what he is about to do.

Connor releases me, still shaking, but no longer with rage. It takes me a while to wrap my mind around what just happened. I don’t understand. He won. All that anger and he won. It doesn’t make sense. Connor turns to look at me with fear in his eyes, not of me or of what I might do to him in retaliation, but of himself and what he is capable of.

“You got lucky that time,” I choke out as I try to regain my breath. “
Really
lucky. But, I’ll admit, you’re improving. Good work.”

His expression changes from one of fear to surprise to pride in a matter of seconds. I watch as a small smile spreads across his face, pleased to see the return of the Connor I am used to. Rising to his feet, he offers a hand to help me up, and I take it gratefully.

After we have brushed the dirt from our hair and clothes, the two of us decide we have done enough sparring tonight and settle down for some much needed rest.             

Chapter 19

Connor and I wake up the following day at dawn as usual and begin our normal routine. While I cook up a breakfast of roasted raccoon on a stick, he boils some water from the stream nearby and fills our bottles with it. We eat and drink our fill, and when we are finished I stomp out our pathetic fire and scatter the burnt kindling as best as I can so as not to leave a trail. When that is done, we leave our makeshift camp behind and begin our search for our next meal.

We both remain quiet as we walk, unsure of what to say to each other after yesterday’s events. It is only after an hour or so of uncomfortable silence passes that Connor finally speaks.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks.

“What, for getting angry? No, Connor, of course not. I provoked you to get that exact reaction. I wanted to see how far I could push you before you snapped.” Then, realizing how heartless this sounds, I add, “I hope you know I didn’t mean anything I said. It was just meant to make you mad.”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“Do you?”

He nods. “Of course.”

For the second time today, a long silence interrupts our conversation. A week ago I would have killed to get the kid to shut up for once, but now I would do just about anything to get him to talk to me. What I said, what I did yesterday was a dick move. A
huge
dick move. Maybe the epitome of dick moves. If the roles had been reversed and he had told me my father’s death was my fault—which, if we’re going to be honest with ourselves, it was—I probably would’ve cut the guy in half. I’m beginning to think all these years of being alone have really impacted my social skills.

I turn to look at Connor, hoping maybe I’ll find the right words to shatter the wall of silence between us, when I notice he is studying the handgun that rests on my left hip with particular interest. “Hey, Nightshade, do you think I could have one of your guns?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I mean, do you really need two? I feel like it would be good for me to have one, you know, for protection.”

I suppose he does have a point. After all, if I were him I wouldn’t want to rely on just the little knife and the machete I allowed him to hold onto for my survival. It makes sense for him to have his own gun.

“Look, Connor, I can’t give you either of these. One is mine and one belonged to my dad. But we could try to find you one of your own, if you want. Do you even know how to shoot?”

He shrugs. “I used to go to this outdoor shooting range with my family sometimes—you know, before all of this happened. I was pretty decent with a rifle. I figure a handgun can’t be much different.”

“Yeah, well, you’d be surprised.”

“So what’s it like?” he asks softly, as if afraid to know the answer. “To kill a person, I mean.”

I think for a moment, wondering if there is some way I can put the answer as gently as he asked the question, but there is no delicate way to respond. “It’s just like killing animals, really; it’s necessary for survival. The only difference is that the animals are usually innocent.”

Connor sighs. “I don’t know if I could ever do it.”

“It seems a lot worse than it is,” I say. “But when it’s your life or theirs, you won’t have a problem. Trust me, you’ll get used to it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I want to.”