Reign of Shadows (Reign of Shadows, #1)(39)

He growled low, and I felt a surge of satisfaction. “Fine. You stay here. I’ll check him.”

His boots thudded on the wood floor as he advanced cautiously. The floor creaked beneath him as he squatted. I hovered close behind. Clothing rustled and I presumed he was searching the man for weapons. His ministrations must not have been gentle enough. The man groaned and Fowler hushed him softly. “Quiet now. We don’t want any unwelcome visitors, do we?”

“I look bad.” The man coughed and gurgled blood. “But you should see the other one. It won’t be going back underground.” He laughed, and the sound sputtered and twisted into violent hacking.

“He’s unarmed,” Fowler said to me as if there was still some doubt.

This man didn’t want to hurt anyone. He was the hurt one. He just wanted the pain to stop.

I hastened forward and dropped down beside Fowler. I stretched out my hand to touch the stranger, but Fowler’s hand on my wrist stopped me.

I turned my face in his direction. “Something wrong?”

“He’s . . .”

“What?” I asked.

“He’s missing some of his face.”

“Oh.” The word expelled from me in a horrified rush.

“I went out at midlight,” the stranger wheezed. “Thought I could get back in time . . . so stupid. I went too far. It was just one dweller, but I didn’t see him until he was on me.”

Fowler spoke into my ear. “There’s toxin all over his wounds.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Amose.”

“Amose?” I moistened lips that felt suddenly dry. “Can I hold your hand? Would that be all right with you?” I had barely finished asking the question before he seized my hand, squeezing it tightly as if staying connected to me somehow helped him bear the agony.

“I had a daughter once. She had small hands like yours.” He paused on a pained gasp. “She married. Moved away to Cydon . . . maybe she’s still there. . . .”

“It’s a big village. I am sure she is there and thriving.” I had no idea if the village still stood, but I would say anything to him in that moment that could provide comfort.

Fowler tensed beside me and I could read his thoughts. His judgment. No one thrived.

“I’m so . . . thirsty,” Amose rasped.

I reached for my water. Instantly, Fowler closed his fingers around my hand, each finger a biting imprint on my cold skin.

“He’s thirsty,” I explained as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

“We have a precious amount of supplies.”

“Then take this out of my share,” I said tightly.

He cursed. “Damn it, Luna. We’ll need every bit of that. This man is going to be dead soon. I know it’s hard, but surviving means making hard choices.”

His words were a splash of cold reality. He was right and I resented him for it. I turned my face toward the man wheezing for air on the ground. He was alone in this world. With half his face missing and his blood soaking into the floor of the hut, his only thoughts were for his child. I couldn’t refuse him this relief.

Fowler’s hand squeezed mine. “Be strong, Luna.”

Anger spiked through me and I jerked my hand free. “Not in this. If turning my back on him makes me strong, then so be it. I’m weak.” I slipped a hand under Amose’s head, lifting him up so his mouth could find the rim of my flask. He slurped greedily. “Easy,” I advised when he broke into a sputtering cough.

“Thank you,” he huffed.

I lowered him gingerly back down, plugged my flask shut, and claimed his hand again.

Fowler made a sound of disgust deep in his throat and I squared my shoulders, pretending that I didn’t care what he thought of me.

“I suppose we’re staying,” he grumbled.

I tossed the words over my shoulder in a rushed whisper: “I doubt this will take long.”

He said nothing. After a while, he moved away, his boots thudding a hard line to the door to stand watch. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to witness this.

I settled on the cold floor, resting Amose’s head in my lap, careful to touch only his hair and not the toxin-soaked wounds of his face. “Tell me about your daughter. What’s her name?”

“Nessa.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Yes. She was . . . is beautiful. Like her mother. Like you.”

He touched me then, pressing one finger directly over my heart. “You have it in here.” He coughed violently, his hand dropping away from me. “It’s a beauty that nothing can take away. Not this world or its monsters.” His voice faded. His breath grew too labored for him to talk anymore, just a heavy cadence of puffs and wheezes.

I stopped asking questions and just talked, about everything and nothing, swatting away the bloated gnats and flies that circled him, hungry for their next meal. Conscious of Fowler standing vigil at the door, I whispered a steady stream of words. Stories. We had a few books in the tower left by my parents. Perla often read aloud to me. One of them was a collection of love poems. It was my favorite. I would hold the rich leather-bound volume in my hands, caressing the pages, stroking where the words rested, imagining my mother holding the book, reading from it. It was my connection to her. I had most of the poems memorized and I recited them now, pausing at the scuff of Fowler’s boot on the ground, mortified that he was listening to me share words that were so personal, that spoke of longings etched so deeply in my soul. “And in your arms, I find truth . . . the burn of an unbroken light.”