The Arrivals

Chapter 17

When Jack returned to camp that morning and announced that Chloe was a helluva shot, Kitty wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or alarmed. No one knew how the Arrivals were picked, but on occasion, people with no fighting skills whatsoever did arrive. No one was quite sure what to do with them, but the group worked together to train them up right. On the other hand, those who arrived with skills in violence were either trouble or the sort of assets Ajani would try even harder to lure away. Any fighting aptitude Chloe had would be useful, but it alarmed Kitty a little that she was adept enough with firearms to impress Jack.

“There are monks in Gallows. Gear up if you’re coming,” Jack announced. Before Kitty could answer, he added, “Drink first, Katherine. You and Edgar both, or stay here. I left some with him already.”

Then Jack walked away, calling for Francis, Hector, and Melody as he went. Chloe followed after him like everyone else in camp did, sheep following their shepherd blindly. Admittedly, the newest sheep looked a bit more bedraggled than she had earlier, but she was still trotting along behind Jack.

Kitty stared after them, briefly envisioning slapping her brother up alongside the head. She was perfectly capable of dealing with monks—or even Ajani—without drinking Verrot. She’d fought at Jack’s side for twenty-six goddamn years, and she’d done so with competence and determination. Sure, she’d died here and there, but she did so far less frequently these days.

Strong hands came down on her shoulders. “He’s serious, Kit.”

“I hate Verrot,” she told Edgar as she turned to face him. He stood in his shirtsleeves and trousers, a concession to the desert heat that she always appreciated. There was nothing wrong with his suit jackets, but she enjoyed the sight of his slightly more relaxed attire too.

“If it helps, I won’t drink it until you’re feeling clearheaded,” Edgar offered. “I can keep you from doing anything reckless, Kit, and Jack wouldn’t ask me to stay behind if you go. He knows better.”

Mutely, she turned away from him and walked to Edgar’s tent. She pushed the door flap aside and went into the dark enclosure. The scent of the slightly bitter soap he favored greeted her, and without thinking, she took a deep breath. It was foolishness, but being here, among his things and surrounded by the scent she associated with him, eased her nerves like few things could. Her glance darted over the wooden contraption that held his trousers so they wouldn’t wrinkle and the bed with the covers neatly straightened. Familiar longing filled her at the sight of that bed, and she turned her head away abruptly. It was dangerous being here.

She walked to the small table and two chairs near the door. On the table sat two clay mugs full of Verrot. “You drink it. I’m safe enough at camp.” Kitty picked up a mug of the Verrot. “Here.”

“Kit . . .” Edgar accepted the mug and promptly set it down untouched. “You can’t expect me to believe you’re going to stay behind instead of going after the monks who killed Mary.”

Kitty walked away from Edgar. Jack would insist that Edgar stay if she didn’t drink. That would leave the rest of the Arrivals vulnerable. Refusing to drink the Verrot meant depriving the team of two of the three best fighters, and both Jack and Edgar knew it.

“I won’t stay dead even if I get killed,” she grumbled. “You’re at far more risk than I am.”

For a moment Edgar stared at her with a small smile on his lips, and then he said what they both knew: “If you don’t drink, I’m not going into Gallows either. Jack won’t leave you here alone because you’d follow him.”

“My brother’s an ass.”

“Maybe.” Edgar carried the mug to her. “And he’s worse than the most vicious shooters I knew at home every time you get dead.” He held out the mug. “Come on, Kit.”

She took it, looked at the Verrot, and made a decision that she probably should have made years ago. She stared at the noxious stuff and said, “I trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone in my life. More than Jack.” She looked up to find Edgar staring at her. “It’s different for me. When I drink it, I don’t have the same . . . reactions.”

Edgar waited. His expression gave nothing away, but she knew him well enough to tell that he was caught between hurt and angry.

“Every time I drink I can hear Garuda in my head, talking to me like we’re in the same room,” she continued. “He can see through me like he sees through the members of his pack. That’s why I stay away from everyone when I’ve had to drink it . . . or when I pretend I’ve drunk it.” She held the mug, neither drinking it nor setting it down. “Jack doesn’t know.”

“How long?”

Kitty didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She wished she could; she hadn’t told Edgar at first because she was embarrassed by her reaction to Verrot, hated the idea that she was wrong somehow. Later, she didn’t tell him because she had hidden it already. She forced herself to hold Edgar’s gaze as she admitted, “Always.”

“You lied to me.”

“Not really. I just didn’t t—”

“You lied, Kit.” Edgar pressed his lips together as if he were trying to keep from speaking.

When she said nothing, Edgar asked, “How long have I loved you?”

The rush of pleasure she felt at hearing the words from him again made her voice softer than she liked, but all she said was, “A while.”

“Half of your life,” he corrected. “If you can’t trust me—”

“I do trust you.” She paced away from him, not wanting to see his injured expression. She never wanted to hurt him, even though she often had. She sat on the edge of his bed. It was foolish, but being there made her relax a little. She lifted her gaze to look up at him. “I don’t want to be different from everyone else. The magic thing is already enough. Melody is scared of me; Francis acts like I’m a saint because of it.”

“Melody’s an imbecile. So’s Francis, for that matter.” Edgar pulled out one of the chairs at the table on which the other mug of Verrot was sitting, pointedly not coming to her. “Do I treat you special because of it?”

When she shook her head, he asked, “Then why would I this time?”

He stretched his legs out in front of him, folded his hands together, and watched her. “I killed back home, kill here. I die and wake back up. I’m going to drink this”—he tilted his head toward the Verrot—“because it’ll make me a better killer. At home, I’m not sure my bosses knew I could speak. They ordered; I did.” He fixed his attention on her. “Everyone who gets pulled into the Wasteland is just like me. Maybe they killed for money or a cause or something else, but at the core, they’re no different than you and me. You use magic. Hector throws his little knives. A monster or Wastelander is the same amount of dead either way.”

Outside of the tent, Kitty could hear voices and knew that the others were getting ready to go into Gallows. She glanced at the closed tent flap. “I do trust you. I know I should’ve told you, but then I didn’t, and then I couldn’t.” She kept her gaze away from him as she admitted, “I still love you. Just because we’re not . . . what we were, that part hasn’t changed.”

“I know.” He waited until she looked at him before continuing. “But you’re still not going into Gallows unless you drink the Verrot.”

“We could let Jack think I had,” she suggested. “There’s no way he’d know.”

Edgar didn’t even acknowledge that idea with words. He simply frowned and waited.

Resigned, Kitty sighed. “I don’t want to tell Jack what it does to me.” It was embarrassing, but there it was: she still hated that she was aberrant. “Please?”

Edgar gave her an assessing look before saying, “I’ll keep your secret unless it endangers you or Jack.” He retrieved the second mug and carried it to her. “Does it make you stronger like it does us?”

She nodded.

“Then drink with me, Kit. Jack and I will fight better knowing you’re stronger.” He stood in front of her, lifted his mug to his lips, and waited.

Mutely, she matched his movement, and together they drank.