Each Separate Dying Ember - XV

Daneel

I slept right through the day after the Discipline of Capacity, 'til the late afternoon. When I came down Kran wasn't there, but he left a note saying that the Broads had called, North wouldn't be there most of this week.
Kran didn't come back that night, or the next day.
The door opening woke me up at four in the morning on the third day. The washing machine went on, then the shower. We only get about forty minutes' worth of hot water, but it went on for way longer than that. I stayed up until it turned off. There's bandages and the leftover surgical tape from when Nnamdi broke his leg in the cupboard, above the towels - it's right next to my room. The cupboard opened, the towels were shovelled onto the floor, and there was the thump of someone sitting heavily against the wall. The sharp intakes of breath of someone in pain went on for about ten minutes. Me and Nnamdi used to share a room, but when he got older he wouldn't share with me any more, so he bunks with Kran; when Pa got killed, they moved out of the tiny room downstairs and Mma moved down there, 'cos she says there's only one of her and the boys need their space - they still get on each other's nerves, but Nnamdi knows not to ask anything any more. The noises had stopped by about half five, but I couldn't sleep again. I didn't have anything to do, so I just lay there. I wished I had something to think about, but I didn't.
Longs aren't nosy, so it wasn't for that reason that I looked out of the window when I did get up at half six to make some tea. I just... Looked. No-one'd call the Enforcement 'round here, but they take patrols through Long turf anyway - now, they're down in the landing square below, a load of officers blocking off the field with striped tape and privacy boards. It's early enough that everything is still kind of grey, but blood's distinctive, red on green.
We were out of milk again, but I didn't go to get some.
That was yesterday. Kran didn't come out of his and Nnamdi's room until this morning. Mma ta-tad him half-heartedly for being lazy and not getting up for a decent day's work, but she didn't say 'alt else about it. She doesn't when she sees the bandages on his arm, either. Or when she has to get the clothes out of the washing machine and not all the blood's gone.
Nnamdi's out with some of the Youngers, and Kran's talking on his phone in the hallway. Mma has the block's vacuum cleaner today, so she's running it 'round loudly. I offered to do it but she said she wanted to feel useful, and then laughed like looking after the flat's her only role in life any more. I didn't say 'alt, but I was kind of thinking the same thing. Not about her, though. I been thinking a lot about that kind of thing - I think it's Atarah. She makes me think. I'd never met a Short woman before - don't think I'd ever even seen one. She said that usually they stay indoors and just give sex to the men when they want it, and that they don't really care if they're even pretty. I think that's kinda' harsh 'cos at least a Long woman has a proper role - we know what we're doing, at least. We hang with our brothers so we know all our brothers' associates(you can't really say 'friends' for a long) and then one of them'll want us, and he'll ask after us and if our brother's or our pa's okay with it then he'll take us. Oh, and we have to be okay with it too. And Mma and women like Mma, they was pretty when they was young I think, so they can have kids and raise 'em and look after the house, and some are like Jala and they're smart too and so they go for Elders like Kran and help 'em with business and that. But we got a place. Me and Atarah don't always need to say everything to each other - or she says what I was thinking like she just wants to check she was right even though she already knew she was. So she said, Yeah, that's why I didn't want to be a Short woman like the others. And I get that. And I didn't think I'd get it 'cos I'm a Long woman - or girl - and I get that that's cool, but that made me wonder the fact that I understood how she'd want to be something... More. And I don't know if I want to be something more. I like hanging with Kran and Nnamdi and flinching just a tiny bit so that they can cover me with their wings if I see a Short in the street and I like that there's no pressure, 'cos Kran does well for himself and he said - he told me - that he'd never make me get with any man just 'cos he needed an alliance or something.
But I liked the Disciplines too. I was in the middle of all those Shorts and I wasn't scared - like I went right through terrified and out the other side. I liked flying so high. Liked Nnamdi and Kran cheering for me and even Jala who touched my shoulder and smiled and said it was impressive. Liked being... More.
And sitting here, I'm not something more.
Just then, Kran comes back into the room. He goes and puts on the kettle and leans on the counter, glancing at me sat at the table. "Where Nnamdi at?" he asks when the vacuum cleaner's stopped.
I shrug. "Youngers."
He shakes his head, exhaling through his nose. "My li'l brudder dun't need rep. He ain't a Younger."
I shrug again, looking at the table. "Ever'one's a Younger." Kran glances at me, head tilted slightly. "Ever'one Nnamdi's age is a Younger. Name one kid you know who ain't."
"Nnam--"
"'zactly. If he didn't hang wit' Youngers, he wouldn't hang a' all."
The kettle boils and Kran pours out tea. He sits opposite me drinking it; he's right-handed but he holds the mug awkwardly in his left hand, so that the arm with the bandage and the little bit of blood doesn't take any strain. The bruise where Nnamdi hit him's faded now.
Just as Kran finishes his tea and starts to stand up, his phone goes off. He glances down, brow furrowed slightly, then pulls it out and opens it - the tiniest guilty flush twists my chest when I remember that I looked at it when he went to get milk last week. Did he ever realise he got a message and someone else opened it? Part of me prays he didn't so that he doesn't think I'd sneak into his jacket like that. Part of me feels worse for knowing that I hope that. As he reads it, though, he just sighs through his nose.
"Broads want you," he says, lips turned obviously down. Then he puts the phone away and stands up. "Come on."


North

"I-I-I'm sorry. I hav- I have to go back today."
"Can you at least--"
"What's up?" Bay interjects coolly, stepping up to Clay and I. I stare at my shoes and don't say anything, cheeks tinted pink - though most of my face is still flushed and blotchy from the funeral.
Clay exhales through his nose, tilting his head back and running one hand through his hair. I can't help but look up and watch him out of the corner of my eye - the way the sun glows on the lightly tanned skin of his neck, the shadow in his throat, his nose and jaw and lips. But when he speaks my eyes flick guiltily back down again. "North wants to meet the Longs this afternoon," he states. That's what it is: a statement. My brow furrows slightly, and I shift my feet on the grass, hands stuffed in the jacket pockets, shoulders hunched. It's too bright for a funeral - but at least it's not raining.
Bay glances between us. I don't say anything.
Bay's tall and lean, as healthily filled-out as he is athletic, with a jaw that despite is strength curves in a natural arc down his neck, and strong shoulders built down to long, powerful arms. He twitches his brows at me, and my eyes flicker down again.
I don't like you, I whisper pettily in my head. But I can't help it; it's true.
Pike would've understood.
With no-one adding to the conversation, Clay snorts slightly, then reaches into his inside pocket - then curses when he remembers that he didn't bring any cigarettes. His foot scuffs the ground as if in frustration, and he runs his hand through his hair again, sniffing deeply and sighing. I swallow hard, and turn slightly so that I'm facing him directly, cutting off Bay behind my shoulder.
"Can we talk about this?" I almost whisper, neck prickling as if Bay is glaring at the back of my head, rather than standing easily just behind me. Clay glances at me, brow twitching. I clear my throat again. It's hard to whisper and maintain the informative and explanatory image I want to put across at the same time. "I read that most problems arise from miscommunication. We need to discuss things properly - I'm sorry I didn't breach this sooner, but it didn't seem appropriate. Can we... Talk about it? Properly?"
Clay makes another sound in his throat and goes to pinch the bridge of his nose - but just then a long black lace dress flows into the group, and the three of us glance up in unison.
"Brooke," Bay greets warmly, taking his fiancée by the waist and kissing her - on the lips. Clay looks down at his shoes again, one hand still fidgeting around his face, and with my hands fisted in my pockets I mimic him, unable to think of anywhere else to put my eyes. "How are you doing?"
"Oh, fine," Brooke gushes, wiping her dry cheeks with a handkerchief and subtly checking her mascara at the same time; "Leif really was a wonderful boy."
Boy? He's the same age as your fiancé. Was. Was the same age.
But that's it; before the thought's even completed, she's moved on. With one arm around Bay's waist, she uses the other to wave around, reaching across to pull on Clay's lapel, giving it a sharp tug as she smiles at him. "Oh do come meet my friends, Clay - and, ahh, your friend, too, um..."
"North," I mumble, gaze still intent on my shoes. When she touched Clay's jacket, mine and Bay's eyes both locked onto her hand - but now I'm back to as I was before, and Bay is smiling far too warmly and pulling her closer to him, and Clay laughs lightly like she didn't just forget the name of his partner of two years.
"North has to go and meet his friends," Bay smiles smoothly, at once pushing Brooke with his hip so that she's steered back toward her friends, and putting himself between her and us. I open my mouth, not sure what I was going to say - They're not my friends or No, it's okay, I don't need to go for a while - but Bay cuts me off with a sharp head jerk and a widening of the eyes. So I turn the beginning of the sentence into a stumbling cough, and by the time I've looked back up Brooke has attached herself and Bay to another group of mourners - Leif's father and his second wife. Just what they needed an hour after their son was buried - though admittedly the wife, from what I saw of her this morning, is pretty much Brooke plus thirty years.
And it's only when they've gone that I suddenly think, What did Bay think I was going to say? Even I didn't know when I opened my mouth, but what did he think?
In other words, did he want to stop me mentioning the Disciplines to Brooke, or stop me finding an excuse to stay at the wake any longer?
I clear my throat, shuffle my feet, and glance back up at Clay. I can feel how wide my eyes are, how pleading my expression and vulnerable my face.
He glances around, almost as if to make sure that no-one is looking in the direction of two solitary mourners at the far side of a post-funeral meet-and-greet, and then takes my hand. Then he pulls me close and hugs me.
I know that if I start to cry I won't be able to stop, for how long who knows, so I just take a deep breath and cling onto his shoulders until I stop shaking.
It's quite a long walk back to Hazelcrest Road. We have to walk through some mutual land, where Shorts and Longs stand on either side of the street and everyone is quieter, and that's the only time he lets go of my hand. When we're back in Broad-only turf he doesn't reach out to take mine, but he doesn't pull away when I take his. We get changed quickly - I think I mutter at one point that he can go back to the wake if he wants, but he just makes a little sound in his throat(he does that a lot) and then squeezes my hand. That's answer enough, so I don't bring it up again and when the suits are back on the pegs and Clay is in his usual shirt and jeans and I'm in the freer t-shirt and combats Atarah told me to wear he phones Daneel's brother and then walks me up to the warehouse. When we get there at just after three it's deserted. Clay had a smoke as soon as we got home, and he lights up again now, leaning against the warehouse door and looking out - and again, I just watch him for a minute. His silhouette. His hair. His shadow. He turns back at one point, elbow resting in the palm of his other hand, and glances in at me sat awkwardly on a pile of old crates near the edge of the building. He laughs a little through his nose when he sees how uncomfortable I look, and I smile and look down and fidget with my hands in my lap; when I look back up again, his face has gone serious - but he's smiling, too. It's a strange smile, or maybe I just think so because Clay doesn't smile very often.
And the whole thing makes me kind of breathless.
And I think, This is the moment when someone usually turns up. And I keep expecting it, waiting for it, to happen, keep anticipating the footsteps from outside, keep glancing up and almost being surprised that we're still alone.
And Clay finishes his cigarette and stamps down the stub with two precise twists of his boot, and he stands for a minute still looking out. He chews gum for about ten seconds, and I wait for something to happen. That's like what the stages of my life seem to be built on - waiting for something to happen, for something to change, for someone to do something that will instigate the next part. Clay goes to spit the gum onto the tarmac - then pulls out a tissue and puts it in that instead, remembering that I hate gum on the pavement - and I wait for Daneel to land suddenly just behind him. He turns back into the warehouse, using his shoulders to lever himself off the door frame, and I wait for Jedekiah to appear at his shoulder and start yelling. He moves toward me across the empty space, and I wait for his phone to ring with an urgent message from Bay or a call from a business associate.
And then he's right in front of me and nothing else happens, no-one else interrupts, and he reaches down and takes my chin and tilts it up. My heart is skittering so much I can barely breathe, my eyes wide, my mouth slightly open, terrified that something is going to interrupt, terrified that nothing is.
His hands go around my neck, fingers knotting at the back of my head, and then he wraps his legs around mine and sits, literally putting his weight into my lap so that I have to lean back to keep us from toppling to the floor.
And then my hands are on his waist and I don't even remember that happening. And as he ripples his body so that his hips push against me, his lips brush my cheek and then his teeth graze my ear, and he breathes, "I told them quarter to four."
No interruptions.


Jedekiah

I wake up in Stretby. I'm in the house, on a bed on the upper floor. Atarah is next to me on the narrow bed, curled against the wall, asleep; Ezek is on the floor. I can feel Atarah's heart beating through her back against my chest, just out of time to mine, but when I roll over I stare at Ezek for a few long seconds until I see him draw a small, shallow breath. Then I exhale and sit upright, shaking life back into limbs gone numb and covering my mouth to muffle the thick, wet cough that chokes up. Atarah stirs, but doesn't wake. Ezek is silent and unmoving.
It's so cold I'm shivering. The curtains are closed, but outside the light is low and bright - morning, a little after dawn. I sneeze, eyes watering slightly, and stand - my legs are kind of numb, so I stand very still until I can feel my feet again, tingling and aching, then with a shuffling of feathers slip out the door.
I glance behind me as I close it. Both of them are still sleeping.
There's grunting and gasping from the room across the hall. With another small sniff, I wipe my eyes and turn automatically right - but the layout of this place is different to what it was in Flixton, so I kind of stand there confused for a minute until I work it out, and go left toward the stairs. With the feeling in my legs comes pain. What was it, two weeks ago now that I did my legs in? Week and a half. Depends how long it's been. Last I remember clearly is after the café with Atarah - we went to the Bridge together, another Prelim... I find the phone on the sofa downstairs, and check it - that was two days ago. No new scars, can't remember if the clothes are the same or different.
I'm still cold. Can barely breathe. There's a jacket on the floor - I start to search the pockets, then realise that it's mine. Gear's gone.
I drop it, then pick it up again and put it on. Still cold.
Fucking hell.
As I start toward the door, I glance over my shoulder at the stairs. No-one comes down. Nothing moves. I open the door and step out into the morning and close it and run and find steps up to the top of a block and take them and leap from the edge, up to a taller building, then another of the same height, then jump down to a lower one.
My eyes are on the ground.
It burns in my shoulders, in my stomach.
I was once in a Prelim where I didn't have a weapon. It was a fluke, a coding mistake; none spawned. Or rather, one spawned - directly in front of my opponent. It was a Long: he opened his eyes and snatched the knife just as I leapt for it, and I scrambled back and tried to reach for one for myself, but there was none. So I ran, even though he mocked me with silent dark eyes, in a wide loop, spanning out and out and searching the ground for anything - a knife, a machete, a gun, a blackjack, a hammer, a stone, anything I could use to inflict the damage I needed to. But he was a Long and he was faster and I knew I couldn't run so I turned and I kicked and bit and scratched and punched. And even though he hacked at my chest and pierced straight through my left lung, with the knife in my body I bit his hand and tore flesh so that he let go of the handle, and then I tripped him and I kicked him and kicked him in the head until the Prelim landscape disintegrated and I sunk back to life gasping for air. And after that I made a point of not taking a weapon sometimes, of relying on my gut and teeth and fists. So when I remember to check my back pocket and find that there's nothing there, I don't sweat it.
I go all the way to Long turf. I have to; no Shorts go on their own, or hardly any, and it's not worth the risk. I slink low along the rooftops, wings out to balance myself and still shivering slightly in the cutting wind; the sun is hot on my skin, but it can't penetrate, keeping me cold despite the atmosphere. Like there's a pulsing core of cold in my heart that works its ice through my blood and muscles. Like a corpse.
I know the stance when I see it: I look down, standing up straighter to look over the edge of the rooftop without having to lean conspicuously into view, and catch sight of him on the other side of the street. His hood is up so that his face is completely hidden, his hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets, and despite the forced-casual way he leans against the edge of the building his shoulders are tense and he looks continually back and forth to each side.
I take a deep, drawing breath, flaring my nostrils and tilting my head back. Long, but I could see that; been there for a couple of hours; and in his pocket, what I was after, the badly-disguised scent that makes my blood roar so suddenly that my whole body practically judders.
He flinches and looks up as I bound overhead, but when his gaze reaches the sky I'm gone.
Then I pounce.
My boots kick his shoulders, and he drops forward with a grunt - his instincts are sharp because he's already going for the knife in his pocket by the time his chest smacks into the ground, his other arm under him to try and break his fall. My wings wrap around us both, balancing me as I fall with him, dropping my knees onto his shoulders and throwing away his knife before he can reach it. There's the audible sound of breaking bone as I crush his fragile Long wings beneath my weight, but even as he tilts his head back to scream - for help or in pain I don't wait to know - I bring my elbow sharply into the side of his head, the point jabbing into his temple.
He blacks out immediately, head hitting the pavement with a sick crack. His yellowish eyes, open, roll back in his head.
I bring up his hand and carefully bend back the little finger until it snaps; he doesn't even flinch. He's out cold all right. Now that I'm certain, I step off, glancing up and down the street once each way, then roll him over and turn out his pockets. A wallet with a couple of hundred quid in one - he just got paid - and two small clear packets in the other. I take it all, stuffing the loot into my own pockets, and take a deep sniff. The blood behind my ears and the animal rawness in my chest is telling me to kick his head in while I have him here, finish a job, give myself some low, thrumming satisfaction - but my eyes are watering worse than ever, my nose is running, and my head is pounding white and loud. So with a quiet curse I just jump over him, use the windowsill to scramble back up the side of the building, then cast off quickly back the way I came.
I'm so distracted that I land on top of a building in Flixton, and am about to jump down before I remember. I can't be assed to take off again, so I just jog along the low flat roofs and jump with some assistance from my wings when I need to, then drop down to street level so I can find my way back through the still-unfamiliar maze of Stretby. There's a couple of Stretby Shorts a few blocks away from the house - they stop their conversation and watch me, biting their tongues antagonistically and hissing, but I just give them my middle finger and hurry on. When I shoulder open the door, Micah and Ezek are downstairs. Micah is sat on the counter next to the hob smoking, feathers ruffled and hair unkempt. Ezek is on the floor, leaning back against the sofa and shifting uncomfortably, one hand on his knees and the other fiddling distractedly with his hair, face, clothes, throat. I click my tongue with two sharp notes as I enter, and Ezek looks up and tries to stand, answering with one. Micah's eyes are distant and tired; he doesn't respond, and I take out one packet and the wallet. The wallet I drop on the floor, there for whoever needs it; the packet I throw to Ezek. He catches it clumsily in two hands, expression growing intense and eyes filling with the animal intensity I faced the Long with. He doesn't even try to stand this time, just scrambles on all fours to a kit in the corner, then leans against the wall and starts to measure out. Even frantic as he is, Ezek still measures. Micah doesn't stir as I pound past him, up the stairs. I go to the room I woke up in - Atarah's still there, stretched out now, her face turned toward me and quiet now that it's in sleep. Soft and warm and home.
"I like it better when you're here."
Why did I say that? 'Cos it's the truth? 'Cos I do? 'Cos Atarah's the only one who tells anyone to eat, sleep properly, tells them when they've taken too much and helps them get back down - who tells me to?
I fall against the wall, rolling up one sleeve with a shaking hand and scrabbling on the ground for the needle I trod on earlier.
"Why is it that if I tell you to put the shit down I end up sounding like your mother?"
I stop and sit back, resting my head on the wall and closing my eyes.
"'Cos I didn't have a pissing mother."
I can sense Atarah nodding, though she's silent for a second. "Probably. We're just good at being fucked-up, I guess."
"The best."
She gets up and leaves - I watch her go: she's only wearing underwear.
I realise that I'm leaning slightly out of the door to watch her at the top of the stairs, and jolt back upright with a small cough.
I dropped the needle. I pick it back up again and play with it. I wipe my eyes from the wet and sniff deeply, then take out the packet and drop it on the floor. I prick the edge of my thumb with the needle's point - it stings. A lot. The pain makes me exhale slowly; I have to open my mouth because my nose is so blocked and thick. I'm still cold.
When I get downstairs a minute later, Atarah's sat cross-legged on the sofa. She has the phone in her hands. Ezek and Micah are both passed out where I left them. As I step from the bottom of the stairs she glances up, then back down again with no change in expression - but even if she didn't show it obviously, I think her eyes are smiling when she goes back to the phone.
"Broads and Longs are at the docks," she says, brows twitching as she reads a message. "Ask if you want to come down." She smirks as she looks back up, pink lips twisting. "I said you did."