Fires of Man Read online

  “For fuck’s sake,” she said. She crumpled the note in her fist. Then, carefully, tenderly, she unfolded it.

  Because she still loved him.

  She put the note down on her desk, collapsed into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

  The next day went by in a blur. Kay was so distracted that she felt like she was sleepwalking. Her thoughts ricocheted from her brother to Nyne and back again. She tried to keep control of her mind as she’d been taught, but it was as if she was suffering from some mental vertigo, unable to maintain her balance, constantly off-kilter.

  At 1700 that evening, she showered, then dressed casually: jeans and a comfortable V-neck T-shirt. She wanted him to understand that this wasn’t a date; there were no romantic connotations here. If he wanted to talk, or make peace, or whatever, that was fine. But he needed to know it wasn’t going any further than that. She tried to imagine how their conversation would go, but every fantasy ended with her shouting at him in the middle of a crowded restaurant. She wanted to strike the right balance between “Sorry I’ve been a bitch” and “Back off,” but the words always felt too apologetic, or too angry.

  The truth was that part of her yearned to be comforted. But she’d learned over the long years since Tibe disappeared that she couldn’t depend on anyone but herself. Not her parents. Not her friends. Not even Nyne. She knew some of her anger at him was misplaced, and she wished that made her less upset with him, but it didn’t. His sympathy was an agonizing reminder that, deep down, she was ready to crumble.

  She went back into the bathroom, brushed on some light makeup for a natural feel. She examined herself in the mirror. She looked like she had herself together. Mostly. Maybe it was her imagination, but she felt like if she stared really, really hard, she could see the cracks in her façade.

  Minutes later, she emerged on the ground floor of the Psi Corps installation—an assembly of imposing sandstone buildings behind barbed-wire fences. There were offices and conference rooms and training facilities, along with a parade ground out back. Kay passed through the checkpoint and stepped onto the sidewalk. Hearth was a thirty-minute walk.

  She set out through the streets. Above ground, the evening air was pleasantly cool. The concrete still radiated the heat of the day, but it was far better than the desert at noon. The sun’s ruddy halo smoldered against the line of Grisham’s towering walls. What sky was visible was cast in gold and auburn, with a smattering of purplish hues that spoke of encroaching twilight.

  As she strolled, she people-watched. Grisham brought in all kinds: tanned Cotinos, ebony Rakharans, small-boned men and women from Far East Isai, and more. The streets bustled with suited businessmen; young couples arm-in-arm; and schoolchildren ready for play after whatever extracurricular activities had kept them to this late hour. They all looked so preoccupied with their lives, their expressions joyful, or serious, or pensive—lost in thought.

  She passed through Hennessy Park, and was greeted by the colors of spring in full bloom. One season in Grisham differed little from another, but the parks department always kept the flowerbeds stocked with violets and tulips and apple blossoms and bluebells.

  At last, she reached Hearth, a rustic, welcoming place with a wood-finished façade. Mouth-watering scents of garlic and spices and well-charred meat drifted out to her. Within, it was bustling, the tables filled, the bar awash with patrons. The place was dimly lit to heighten the mood, with dark wood everywhere to match the exterior, and a great brick fireplace off to the side.

  She spotted Nyne at a table in the back. He didn’t notice her, and when she slid into the chair across from him, he looked up in surprise. “Wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.

  “You’re picking up the check.” She forced herself to smile.

  “Want a drink?”

  “Several,” she said, “and strong.”

  They left it at that for a time, talking little, enjoying each other’s company. Nyne had clearly knocked back a few before her arrival, but Kay had no trouble catching up to him. She was a beer sort of girl; beer was one of the first things they’d bonded over, though where he was partial to hoppy pale ales, she preferred dark, heady stouts and porters. She asked for her usual: an Aldsley Imperial Black, ten percent alcohol, with a rich flavor and a hint of coffee in the finish.

  They ordered food.

  Appetizers came and went. They split a dried fruit and arugula salad with goat cheese and honeyed pecans, and a plate of seared scallops. The silence was comfortable. Kay began to think this might actually be pleasant.

  It was only after Kay’s second beer that Nyne cleared his throat, a preamble to the inevitable discussion. Kay was not ready for it. She wanted to savor the peace between them a little longer.

  “I have to use the bathroom,” she said, and excused herself. The bathroom had a short line, and when she reached the stall she sat for a few minutes and put her thoughts in order.

  When she returned, Nyne had fresh beers set out for the both of them. His cheeks were flushed and he swayed slightly in his chair, as if a stiff breeze would topple him. “Kay . . .”

  “You’re drunk,” she said.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m just a little, you know.” He reached for his beer, then stopped. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Never a good sign,” she said.

  “Come on, be serious.”

  “Do I have to?” She leaned back in her chair, putting distance between them, as if that might somehow save her.

  “I should’ve left you alone yesterday. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “And . . . I shouldn’t have twisted your wrist. That was uncalled for.” Feeling awkward, she took a sip of her beer. “How is it, by the way? The wrist.”

  “I’ll live,” he said.

  “Well . . . I’m sorry, too.”

  “Thanks.” He brushed a hand across the back of his hair, like he always did when he was stressed. “I just wanted to help somehow.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “You holding up okay?” he asked.

  “I’ll live,” she said.

  He chuckled, and shook his head. “Always gotta be strong. That’s the Kay way.”

  She winced, as if slapped. “The hell that mean?” she asked.

  “Whoa, relax,” he said. “It was a compliment. It’s . . . something I admire about you.”

  “Oh.” She looked away from him, feeling like a complete asshole.

  “But if there’s anything I can do—”

  “Nyne, don’t,” she interjected.

  “—you’ll let me know. Right?”

  “My brother’s out there, somewhere,” she said, “doing God knows what for God knows what reasons. And we’re here. So what, exactly, do you think you can do about that?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said.

  “I know what you meant,” she said. She dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter. “This isn’t going anywhere good. Maybe we should quit while we’re ahead.”

  “All I ever wanted was to make things better for you,” he said.

  Kay’s nails dug into her palms. He made her so fucking angry! He didn’t understand her at all! “You can’t fix me,” she snapped. “I’m not broken. I’m just fucked up.”

  “You’re not,” he said.

  “You don’t fucking know me,” she said.

  “That’s because you never let me,” he countered.

  She stared at him across the table. A slow flush crept up her neck, her face. The alcohol was doing its work. She knew she should go before she said something she regretted, but she just couldn’t stand that accusing look on his face.

  “You want to know me?” she asked. “Fine. You wanna know how my mom became an alcoholic after my brother disappeared? How my dad started fucking everything with two legs and a pair of tits? How neither of them gave a shit about me?”

  “Kay, I didn’t . . .”

  “No, you wanted to know, and now you’re gonna let
me finish.” She took a large gulp of her beer, some of it dribbling down her chin, fizzing against her skin. “I did a bunch of drugs in high school and college. Weed, coke, dropped a lot of acid. And I fucked a lot of guys.”

  “Stop,” Nyne said.

  She knew she was just being cruel now. Yet she couldn’t restrain herself. This had been pent up for too long. And she’d wanted to tell him all of it, every single thing. But he had always acted like she was so wonderful. When they were together, she’d been terrified that if she confided in him, she’d shatter his perfect image of her, and he’d leave her like everyone else in her life had.

  “Don’t you wanna know how I used to cut myself?” she demanded, her voice rising uncontrollably. “On my upper thigh, so no one would ever see. I pierced my tongue. My belly. My nipples. Bet you would’ve liked to see those.”

  “You’ve had too much to drink,” Nyne said. “I’ll get the check, and we’ll go.”

  “You don’t know what’s best for me!” she shouted. She smacked the table. People were looking at her now. “The only person who knows what’s best for me . . . is me.”

  Nyne was silent. He breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling.

  Kay couldn’t read his expression. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or sad or just plain drunk. She almost hoped he was angry. Then, at least, she would’ve finally managed to make him see who she really was.

  Finally, he said, “You’re right. I don’t know what’s best for you. But I always wanted to find out. I wanted you to tell me, Kay! That’s all I ever fucking wanted!”

  She inhaled sharply. He never cursed at her.

  “I think . . . that I fell in love with you the moment I first saw you,” he said. “You came riding in on your bike, giving your guys hell like you always do, and I thought . . . wow! That’s an amazing woman right there. Someone who can hold her own. Someone with passion. Someone, I knew right then, that I would never get tired of. Someone I’d always want to be around.” His eyes grew red, watery. His words became labored. “You told me . . . on top of that Ferris wheel, nine months ago . . . that you loved me. And then you cut me out. Was that just a lie? Something to humor me? Make me not feel like an idiot? Because if it was . . . I wish you’d never said it.”

  Kay felt a pang in her chest. Somewhere deep inside, a voice screamed at her to tell him that yes, she’d meant it! If she could bring herself to say it again, she would still mean it! How could he still say all those nice, incredible, beautiful things about her after she’d shown him the ugliness lurking within her? How could he be so amazing? How could she possibly explain the reasons for what she’d done?

  She hid her face in her hand, so desperate to maintain that veneer of strength he admired. He didn’t know it was all a lie, a front. She wept silently, thinking of that day she’d finally told him what was in her heart. They’d both managed to secure leave for her birthday, and he’d taken her to New Axom City, to the Antico Island Fair. It was the very same place she’d gone for her tenth birthday—the last before her brother had disappeared. Nyne hadn’t known that part. She’d just told him it had been her favorite birthday, during one of those dumb question-and-answer sessions new couples always did.

  That day with Nyne had been so blissful. She remembered how he’d spent fifty marks on the ring toss, trying to earn her a giant pink elephant. When she’d told him he could order one off the Internet, he’d replied that all the fun was in seeing her face light up every time he lost and tried again. Hearing that, she had almost said the three magic words right then.

  Almost.

  And then came the Ferris wheel.

  They’d gone up and up and stopped near the top. Nyne had looked at her the entire time; he’d had no eyes for the vista. He had eyes only for her. That had made her feel special and important in a way she hadn’t felt since Tibe was still around.

  Then, he had taken out a black jewelry box.

  She’d been so caught up in the moment that she hadn’t realized it was the wrong size for a ring. She had been stupid enough to believe that . . .

  Kay felt Nyne’s hand on hers, snapping her back to the present. She pulled away from him. “I thought . . . I thought . . .” she said. “I thought you were going to propose.”

  Nyne gaped at her. “You . . . what?”

  “I thought you were . . . going to ask me to marry you,” she said. She grabbed her napkin and wiped at her face, though it did nothing to stem the tide of her tears. There was no way she could make him understand. In one brief, shining moment, she had been ready to abandon her defenses, all the tragedies of her life, and embrace something new and happy, embrace the belief that she could hold on to someone she loved.

  And when he’d opened that box, shown her not a ring, but a bracelet inside a little velvet pouch, she had realized what a lie she’d been telling herself. Everyone she ever loved had abandoned her. Tibe had. Her parents had. All her friends eventually had. And if she allowed herself to accept her love for Nyne, she knew that when he inevitably left her, it would kill her.

  So she had decided, then and there, that if their relationship was destined to end, it would be on her terms. She had accepted his gift, and told him, truthfully, that she loved him. For her, it had been the first step to letting him go.

  “Why?” Nyne asked. “Why would you think that?”

  “Why?” she echoed. If his questioning her love had felt like the stab of a knife, this felt like being drawn and quartered. “Oh, fuck. Fuck. I’m so fucking stupid.” She’d been right all along. He was always going to leave her, whether he knew it or not. If his love had been the real thing, if he’d really meant what he’d said before—that she was someone he’d never get tired of, always want to be around—then he wouldn’t have to ask “why.”

  She stood, too quickly, and her chair fell backward, making a racket as it hit the ground. Every single eye in the restaurant was on her now.

  Nyne stood as well. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “This is over,” she said. “No more. I can’t do this again.”

  “What do you mean, over?”

  “We’re not friends anymore. We’re not anything. I meant what I said on that Ferris wheel.” Another sob wracked her, the spasm clenching her throat. “I’m leaving now. Please don’t follow me. Goodbye.”

  11

  AARON

  Aaron sat cross-legged on the floor, clothed only in workout pants. Perspiration slicked his body. He kept his eyes firmly shut.

  John Black paced the room, though he made no sound except to speak in a soft rasp. The only way Aaron could tell Black was moving was by the shifting direction of his voice, now here, now there.

  Aaron didn’t know how much time had passed since he’d entered this room, except that it was a long while. John Black had told him that he needed to learn serenity, whatever that meant.

  “Your mind is a river,” Black told him. “Your thoughts are debris. Observe them, and let them pass. Form no attachment.”

  Aaron sat perfectly still—back straight, breathing deeply—and focused on an image of a river. John Black heaped on distraction after distraction. Aaron heard loud noises, felt strong breezes, suffered pinpricks across his skin. If he ever faltered or fidgeted, a sharp pain seared his skin, as if he’d been struck by his father’s belt.

  Soon, Aaron’s middle ached with the strain of keeping himself upright and unmoving. He was used to activity, not inertness.

  Occasionally his focus deepened and expanded into something more profound. In those moments he thought he could actually sense John Black’s position. A handful of times, he probed for the strange voice that had spoken to him in the jail cell. No answer came, but he received a punishing sting for his lapse.

  When the day’s practice was finished, Aaron heard John Black say, “We’re done. Open your eyes.”

  Aaron did so.

  Black was nowhere to be seen.

  Outside the room, a soldier waited to escort Aaron back
to his chambers. They headed through dimly lit corridors with dark-tiled floors, and down thick granite staircases. On the floor where Aaron resided, there were woven wall hangings with medieval battle scenes; paintings of long-dead chamberlains; and hand-drawn maps set behind glass. Since arriving at this strange mansion, Aaron had reasoned out that he was still in Calchis, though his window’s view of wealthy estates with immaculate gardens told him he was far from home.

  A minute later, Aaron entered his quarters. The space was pleasant enough: wood floors covered with woolen throw rugs; ruddy burgundy wallpaper; aged copper light fixtures. A desk with a pen, pad, and laptop occupied one corner of the room. Aaron had fiddled with the laptop, but there was no Internet access. He had left it untouched thereafter.

  A large dresser was set against one wall, filled with clothing in his size. There were T-shirts, sweaters, jeans, khakis, and workout clothes. In the closet were sneakers and dress shoes and three pressed suits. Aaron had never owned a suit; he had never needed one except for when “Tilly” Tildon from the next farm over had gotten married. He still remembered the rented sport coat had been ill-fitting and furiously itchy. These suits fit perfectly and felt soft against his skin.

  Aaron’s only entertainment came from the library on the floor below, where mahogany bookshelves reached from ground to the vaulted ceiling, and suspended lamps with green stained-glass lampshades provided a soft, warm glow. Aaron had spent hours perusing the shelves, and had taken three volumes back to his room. One was historical fiction; another a book on tactics and warfare; and the third a text called Lives of the Prophets—an analysis of the religious prophets from a scholar’s perspective.

  He lay down atop his freshly made bed and considered reading, but a yawn overtook him.

  Sleep came soon after.

  He was in an unfamiliar stone chamber. The room was square, and archways on each side led out into the night. Yellow flames flickered from iron braziers in the corners, making shadows writhe on the nearby walls.

  How in the world had he gotten here?

  It was only then that Aaron noticed the man kneeling in the center of the room, as if in prayer. The man wore robes the color of blood. A cowl was pulled over his face, hiding his features.