The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(63)

I also knew I had another task. “I’ll leave the gate open for five minutes, and then I’m shutting it. Please take that time to decide.”

Then I strode off, back to where the dead were waiting.

Two hours later Violet found me. I had collected the corpses and carefully carried them to an empty spot fifty feet away from the road, close to the wall. For the rest of the time, I had been digging.

I was tired and my arms were sore, but the motion was robotic at this point. The sound of the shovel hitting the earth was like a heartbeat in my ears, rhythmic and soothing. I didn’t want to think—didn’t want to feel—and the shovel was my sole focus. The hot, impotent fury that coursed through my veins was what raised the shovel up and down, up and down, and if I exhausted myself with it, I could make it up to them. I could make things right again. I could…

People moved back and forth around me. Some of the refugees came out of the house and found their dead loved ones, touched them, knelt next to them. Anguished sobbing accompanied my digging for a long while. I kept digging. Some of the people cursed at me. A few thanked me. But they all let me dig.

It threw me off completely when I felt hands press against the small of my back. I froze, swaying slightly, my breathing ragged and harsh in my own ears. Swallowing, I looked down as arms encircled my waist, and felt the press of a familiar feminine body against my back, a soft cheek resting against my shoulder.

My precious Violet. I tried to shake her off, muttering something even I couldn’t understand, but she persisted. Eventually I gave in, my chest heaving from exertion. I knelt, and she lowered herself with me. She held me for a long time—long enough for the rage that was searing through me to settle down, just a little, into a long, flat ocean of sadness. I felt my muscles un-clenching, the robotic determination fading.

Violet didn’t say anything, just let me grieve for those eight unknown men and women, killed by Ashabee’s prejudice. If I had been faster, or paid more attention, I would have been able to stop him. But it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t…

After a while, I felt my control returning. I pulled away from Violet, and she let me go, her eyes brimming with empathy. I couldn’t find anything to say, so I cupped her cheek, pleased when she pressed into my caress, and then slowly climbed to my feet, using the shovel to help me up.

She climbed up too, taking the hand I offered and pulling herself up, and then picked up her own shovel from the grass next to the shallow hole I was working on. I stared, surprised to see it, but she didn’t seem to notice. In spite of her injured hand, she just pushed the shovel into the ground and withdrew a mound of black earth, tossing it onto the pile.

I stood there for a long moment, grateful, now, that she wasn’t letting me do this alone. Then I dug in as well, aware that the dead had been watching the entire time, hoping that I could do them justice, if just in this one small thing.





23





Violet





I sat in the dark security room, staring at the monitors. Viggo and I had finished burying the dead just as the sun began to rise. I knew this had hit him hard, because he hadn’t put up a fight at all when I had encouraged him to have a shower. Nor did he argue when I told him to get some rest while I covered the rest of the watch. I sat with him a while, my left hand holding his, until he finally succumbed to sleep. I’d been close to dozing off, too, but the horror of the night didn’t change the fact that somebody needed to watch those monitors… to prevent something like this from happening again.

It hurt seeing him like that, my brave and noble Viggo. I also knew that nothing I could say would reach him right now. He was probably winding his rage and sadness into knots inside his head, and I knew that feeling. I knew that all I had to do was be there. Even if it took him time to recover his good cheer, I would be with him every step of the way, reminding him that he wasn’t responsible.

No. Ashabee was. I drummed my fingers over the desk, waiting for him to arrive. Well, waiting for him to be conscious again so he could arrive.

Viggo hadn’t seen it in his fury, but Jay had decked Ashabee as Viggo was rushing out. Not only had he hit him, he had hit him hard, his anger fueling him. It was what had delayed me in catching up with Viggo—I was worried Jay had killed the man. He’d been knocked out instantly, his body crashing backwards into a bookcase, taking out several shelves, the books falling down onto his unmoving form.

I was also certain that Jay would’ve killed him if Jeff and I hadn’t intervened. The young man was seething, his blue eyes tearing up, his face red with anger. I’d had to step between him and Ashabee’s unconscious form to stop him from continuing his attack, but it had barely worked. Even now, I was concerned.

Not that I blamed Jay. He had just been moments faster than me at delivering his punch. However, I didn’t want Ashabee’s death on his hands.

Or on Viggo’s, for that matter. Which was why I had let him sleep, choosing to deal with this alone. I didn’t feel the crushing fury that Viggo did—just a well of sadness that went down too far to even look for the bottom. Sadness and weariness. And a cold determination to make sure that justice was done.

So here I was, waiting, weighing the decision on behalf of all my companions, and wondering what I should do about it.

Someone knocked on the door, jolting me out of deep thought. “Ashabee has regained consciousness,” Henrik said quietly, walking through the door. “He’ll be down soon.”