The Arrivals

Chapter 10

When Kitty returned to her tent, she found Francis waiting. Much to her relief, he’d replaced Melody as nursemaid to the still-resting new Arrival. Chloe was safe enough with Melody; tending the injured was something she took to quite well. Conversations with her, on the other hand, were sometimes trying, and Kitty wasn’t up to dealing with her craziness tonight.

“She’s due to wake soon.” Francis stood and stretched, seeming oddly equine in his movements as he extended his spindly legs and arms. “The fever’s gone, though.”

“Vomiting?”

“None tonight. I think the worst of the transition is past.” He hugged Kitty. “I’m glad you’re not dead or hurt.”

With a small smile, Kitty shooed him toward the tent flap. “You knew I’d be fine.”

Francis followed her to the exit. “I also knew to tell Jack to go after you when I saw him.”

“You’re a good friend.” Kitty opened the flap of the tent. “Now, go make yourself scarce before Edgar gets off shift. I haven’t talked to him about my little adventure yet, but he’s bound to know by now.”

“You owe me.” Francis ducked out of the tent, but paused. “If he’s furious . . .”

“You know I’ll talk to him, and yes, I do owe you.” She gave him an affectionate smile. If she were able to have children, she’d want one a lot like Francis. He was curious, but he was kind and constant, trustworthy in a way few people were, and brought out a protective streak in her.

A noise from inside drew her attention. Kitty told Francis, “Go on. I need to look after Chloe.”

The transition process was exhausting enough that Chloe wasn’t truly awake. Odds were that she’d remember very little of her first couple days, but the body still had needs even when the mind was too feverish to remember. Kitty gave a woozy Chloe a cup of water with some of Francis’ vitamin mix stirred into it. Then she helped her to the facilities, washed the sweat from her face, and tucked her back into the cot that had last belonged to Mary. It wasn’t as if the process was rote, but after a couple dozen people, it was predictable.

Kitty wasn’t a hypocrite, so she wouldn’t be holding Chloe’s murderous past against her. Every one of the Arrivals was a killer; it was the one thing they all shared. Whether or not they knew why or who Chloe had slain, they knew she had. She wouldn’t have arrived in the Wasteland if she hadn’t taken a life. Back in California, Kitty herself had needed to put down a customer who’d gotten a bit too rough and, in another instance, a man who’d drawn on her over a card dispute. Sometimes, a man simply needed killing.

Once the new girl was again sleeping soundly on the dead girl’s bed, Kitty had to make the unhappy choice between talking to Edgar and taking the coward’s way out a little longer. Neither option was particularly appealing. She didn’t think herself weak, but telling Edgar things he wouldn’t like was never fun. Hurting him was one of the few things that made her feel guilt.

She stalled on the inevitable, busying herself with sorting through the clothes she had on hand to find a few things for Chloe to choose from the next day. She examined the skirt she’d ruined earlier. She spent a bit of time with as much of a wash as she could manage with the basin and cloth inside her tent. Finally, she fastened one of her modified bone-lined corsets and pulled on a blouse and a pair of trousers. She couldn’t imagine wearing ones as revealing as Chloe’s had been, but she did admit that trousers weren’t completely abhorrent to her. She was a lot more comfortable in them than she’d been when she’d first arrived here, but they still made her feel half naked even after years wearing them. She didn’t have any short enough for Chloe, but she could hem a pair of Mary’s easier than if she’d had to lengthen them. Kitty closed her eyes against a sudden memory of doing just that for Mary when she’d arrived, of sitting at bedside after bedside preparing to help each new Arrival in the years before Mary.

With effort, Kitty stared at Chloe. Those women were all dead. Chloe wasn’t.

“Maudlin thoughts never help,” Kitty chastised herself. She went to one of her trunks and withdrew a sheet of thick native paper and a series of pencils. Then she distracted herself by drawing a portrait of Chloe. At some point early on, she’d taken to doing portraits of all of the Arrivals. She never knew how long they’d be around. A few didn’t wake up after their first death, and others were with the team for years. She hadn’t been able to find a pattern to it. More important, neither had Jack, and he’d always spent a lot of time studying every possible aspect of their situation.

When Kitty finished the portrait, she added it to the stack of images she’d kept in a polished wooden box. Sometimes she lingered over the images, but the loss of Mary was too raw still. She closed and locked the box, returned it to its hidden place, and returned her precious pencils to the trunk where she stored them. After that, she couldn’t devise any other activities that would enable her to stay in her tent without disturbing the sleeping woman on the cot, so she gave in to the inescapable: she slipped out of the tent, letting the flap drop closed behind her with a soft wump.

The desert was still warm, but the harsh heat of the day had dulled. The moons offered enough light that she could see almost bluish shadows. Briefly, she was tempted to go back inside and fuss with her hair, to paint her face, to find a proper skirt to wear. It was foolishness. Edgar had seen her when she’d been gutted by a rabid boar. He’d seen her when she was blood-soaked and barely upright after a fight with a bloedzuiger. He’d seen her die a few times. There was no reason to try to pretty herself up for him, but she still did so far too often.

After a scan of the area to assure herself that none of the others were around, she walked over to the guard station. Edgar undoubtedly expected her to come to see him, had expected her for some time, but he didn’t take his eyes off the vast expanse of shadowed desert. She studied him as she approached the guard station. It wasn’t a difficult thing to look at Edgar. Sometimes when they were at a camp, he wore simple black trousers, simple black shirts, and well-worn boots. In town or for negotiations, he often donned a jacket too. Rare flashes of color came in a necktie or a carefully folded pocket square. Despite his lingering adherence to the attire of the world he knew when he lived in Chicago, he claimed he had no desire to go back there. His big concession to life in the Wasteland was that he now openly draped himself in weapons, much as some women did with baubles.

Kitty knew that she could stand in the dark and watch him all night and he’d never glance her way. He wouldn’t shirk his duties to look for her. He’d simply wait, and if she didn’t come to him during his shift, he’d come to her tent tomorrow. There was no way to avoid the conversation.

Whoever was on guard duty was all that stood between the Arrivals and the creatures that roamed in the dark. All of their campsites were surrounded by blessed, mixed-metal fences, as well as spells. That meant there was only one way in or out, and that access point was guarded at all times. In a few towns, they’d take rooms in one of the inns, but when what they hunted was more troublesome than usual, Jack insisted they stay outside town. Many a monster needed putting down, but that didn’t mean that the monsters were animals. They were as wise as men—more so, too often—and smart enough to use the townsfolk as pawns or spies.

Aside from the monsters and the man in front of her, being in the desert reminded her of the boomtown where she’d lived in the 1870s, not that it was home, but it was a simpler life than the one she had been living since coming to the Wasteland. There, she’d danced and relieved fools of their money in exchange for a few minutes of sloppy groping or a little bit of creative card playing. Here, the illusory peace of the desert was broken too often by the growls, shrieks, and inhuman cries of the things that lived out there.

“Edgar,” she started.

“You exhaust me sometimes, Kit.” He didn’t mince words; he never had. “What were you thinking going into town alone so late in the day? You know what sort of things are out there at night.”

“I was hoping to stay till morning,” she said quietly.

That earned her a look that made her want to flinch. Instead, she lifted her chin. Edgar wasn’t her husband; he had no right to look at her like she’d stepped out on him. She didn’t say that, though, not to Edgar or to anyone else.

He looked back out at the desert. “With someone in particular? Daniel?”

She sighed. “No. I just wanted to . . . get away from here, from all of this. Don’t you ever want to just escape?”

Edgar shrugged. “I get to kill things, and sometimes I get you. Why would I want anything different? The dying always hurts, and the waking back up does too, but it’s not so bad.”

“So what does it matter if I’m out there alone?” She wanted to step in front of him, make him look at her, but neither of them would allow their conflicts to endanger the camp. “I’d heal. Whatever they do to me, I heal.”

“Tell that to Mary or Patrick or Des—”

“They weren’t first,” she interrupted. Her temper stirred. “Me and Jack? Nothing kills us. Everyone else comes and then one day you all die on me. Me? I’m left alive in this hell.”

“I haven’t died, Kit. You may be just as mortal as I am, or maybe I’m just as immortal as you. Until either of us dies for real, there’s no way to know.” Edgar reached out and caught her hand. “You should tell Jack next time you want to go out on your own, if you’re not going to tell me.”

“I know.” She paused, wanting to pull her hand from his almost as much as she hoped he’d pull her closer. “Please don’t be mad at Francis. He told Jack as soon as he returned from patrol.”

“He could’ve told me,” Edgar said.

She shook her head. “You intimidate him.”

“Good.” Edgar released her hand and held out a holster. “If you’re standing guard with me, might as well gear up.”

“About Daniel—”

“No.” Edgar glanced her way for only a heartbeat. “If he comes back here, I won’t stay. I won’t work for Ajani like he did, but I won’t stay here and watch you be with him.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“I’m patient, Kit, more than I want to be, but you and I both know where you belong.”

“I can’t.”

He laughed without any actual humor. “Yes, you can. You didn’t stop loving me because we’re sleeping apart.”

Kitty couldn’t lie to him, so she said nothing.

“Stay away from Daniel, Kit,” Edgar said. “I’ll forgive a lot, but there are limits.”

Shakily, she admitted, “That’s why I said no.” She hesitated and then added, “I don’t want you to leave.”

“That’s a start,” Edgar murmured.

And at that, they both lapsed into silence. They did fine when they didn’t talk. Conversation led to arguments. When they fought whatever monster they hunted, when they patrolled, when they did most anything but talk, they were fine.

Edgar had been on the shady side of the law before he came to the Wasteland, a truth she would’ve known even if he hadn’t told her about his life. He’d been employed by an organization that made its money from gambling, clubs, and alcohol. When he’d told her that the U.S. government had outlawed alcohol in his time, she wondered if he and she were really from the same world, but other Arrivals verified that there was a brief, odd period when the transportation and distribution of alcohol was illegal.

With Edgar, there were no illusions. He had no qualms about who he was or what he’d done—in Chicago or in the Wasteland. He had been a hired gun there, and he’d transferred his loyalty to Jack when he’d woken up here. The only times he ever ran into trouble were because of her.

A few hours later, when Jack relieved them, they were together in their usual comfortable silence—a detail Jack acknowledged with a relieved smile. “I can finish guard.”

Edgar nodded and divested himself of a few of the weapons that stayed with the guard post. “Post’s all yours.”

Kitty offered, “I’ll stay here with—”

“No,” they both said.

Jack softened the refusal by adding, “I’d like a little quiet. I need to think.”

Edgar, on the other hand, simply looked at her in that way of his that made her feel like she wasn’t wearing anything at all. The ease they’d shared when he was on duty evaporated when he zeroed in on her.

She turned away, but she’d only made it a few steps before he was at her side.

“Kit.” He stopped her with both hands on her waist, holding her steady but not forcing her to turn to him or pulling her against him.

She could move away if she wanted to, but she really didn’t want to.

“It wasn’t your fault Mary died.” Edgar didn’t force her to turn around. “Sometimes people just die. We’re alive; she’s not, and it’s horrible, and it hurts, and you want to do something reckless because of it.”

She turned around then. “I don’t want her to be dead.”

“Being careless isn’t going to change that. Pushing me further away isn’t either.” Edgar had kept his hands on her waist, and even though it seemed foolish that such a small touch could comfort her, it did. It did other things too; it sparked needs that she wasn’t going to admit to having.

“You’re alive, Kit.” Edgar stayed motionless, waiting for her. “The rest of us are too. I’m sorry that Mary’s gone. I’m sorry you’re hurting, but we are still alive. Don’t forget that.”

What he didn’t say—or force Kitty to say—was that they were more alive together than either of them was alone. She was standing in the shadows with the man she loved. It didn’t undo the hurt she felt at Mary’s passing, but for a moment the pure joy she also felt with Edgar was enough to chase all the bad away. She wasn’t going to let herself slip into the depression that threatened to engulf her every time one of the Arrivals died for good. Edgar gave her the strength to handle that. The nagging reminder that she counted on him, that he was the only one who could keep that depression at bay, was followed by the chilling memory of when he had died. He was vulnerable too.

She stared into his eyes and admitted, “You always know what to say.”

“I try.” He brushed her hair back on both sides so he was cupping her face.

Before he could do the next logical thing—the very thing she wanted too damn much—Kitty pulled away from him. He frowned as she moved away, but she’d seen that frown on his face so often the past year that it didn’t hurt her quite as much as it once had.

She folded her arms across her chest to keep from reaching out to him. “Chloe will die too. How do I help her learn how to live in this world? How do I keep doing this?”

“You just do.” He wasn’t being cruel. It was simply the way Edgar’s mind worked: he dealt with what was, played the hand he had, and didn’t see any other way to live.

Kitty felt tears trickle from her eyes.

“They come, they stay, and sometimes they don’t survive,” Edgar told her. “I don’t know why some of us do, but I do know it’s not your fault—or Jack’s.”

Kitty closed her eyes. She didn’t know if she agreed, but she didn’t know if she could argue either. As much as she wanted him to comfort her, to tell her whatever lies he could, she’d watched people die before and after Edgar arrived. She couldn’t let herself count on him to help her through her grief now because all she could think every time one of the Arrivals died permanently was please don’t let it be Jack or Edgar next time.

She opened her eyes and stepped farther away. “I’m going to check on Chloe.”

“Melody can watch her, so we can go to my—”

“No.”

“So you were going to spend the night with someone else, considered fucking Daniel, but you’ll reject me?” His voice had an angry edge to it, and Kitty couldn’t even deny that she deserved his anger.

“I’m sorry.”

“My patience will run out too,” Edgar added.

A foolish part of her wanted to ask him how much longer that would take, but he’d hear the words as the invitation they were. If she wasn’t going to warm Daniel’s sheets out of awareness that it would hurt him, she certainly wasn’t going to use the man she actually loved. If she did, they’d be right back where they’d started when she’d realized she needed to step away.

Finally, he said only, “Sleep well, Kit.”

“You too,” she said. She wasn’t about to admit that she never slept well when he wasn’t beside her. Everything felt wrong without him, but she hadn’t slept next to him since the last time he recovered from dying. When he died a little over a year ago, she’d spent six terrifying days praying to every god, monster, and devil she could think of. When he woke up, they’d locked themselves away for six more days. On the seventh day, she’d returned to her own bed alone and tried her damnedest to exorcise him from her heart.

Like every other night when she’d left him, she felt him watching her as she walked back to her tent. She told herself it was better this way, but that didn’t make it any easier—or true.