Jan is stalling on his project. He paces around with a sour, irritated look on his face while his friends are busy. His tall, reedy frame seems brittle, as if it might crack in pieces should someone call him and he had to turn quickly. I wonder whether he’s come up with any project at all. My theory is that he has brain damage, more than my brother ever suffered. I’ve heard it can make a person unpredictable and violent. Blane told me that Jan stumbled around in the desert longer than anyone else here. He hiked all the way from the deep south—a place that used to be called Alabama—and lived on selling wire he stole from some depot down there. I saw two long scars on Jan’s back one time he bent over while he was playing soccer. Blane said it was from a stranger’s knife attack.
Nevada has decided Thorn and I can stay. After all, Thorn saved the plants from blight. I pointed out to her the few remaining puckers to prove the point. No doubt she wants to keep him around in case she needs a human weathervane again. She’s still incredulous every time she looks at the tallest Fireseed that spirals up and up through the tent to kiss the sun. She even starts petting the stalks in her glee like I do.
As far as George Axiom’s deadly arsenal, Armonk says he’s not interested. He still uses his bow and arrow, which, inevitably inspires more ridicule. Jan, Vesper and Blane call him Indian and Tomahawk and names that make no sense to me. Bea and Radius stay out of it.
The cache of weapons seems kind of silly anyway, now that we know the real so-called intruder was Thorn.
Nevertheless, Nevada assigns guardsmen to walk the perimeter of the field—Blane in the morning, Radius and Jan alternating afternoons, and Armonk—the most adept at night vision—after dark. The girls are spared, which is fine with me because I hate the cold feel of a gun in my hands and the field is so vast now, it intimidates me to be out there in it.
One late afternoon I’m working alone on my newest elixir up in the project room on third tier. I’m absorbed in my task, my soiled, greasy smock thrown over me, and my hands gooey with fixer oils. I’ve mixed in a pinch of Spatter venom and a dose of Fireseed’s red powder, the first I’ve collected since the attack. I’m hoping to test it on my scars. I don’t really care about fixing mine, but if it works on that, I’ll fix Thorn’s face.
Nevada’s gone with Vesper and Bea to Skull’s Wrath Depot, and Jan is on guard duty. Armonk is playing one of Nevada’s crusty old card games with Thorn in Armonk’s room on second tier. I’m not sure where Blane is. Last time I saw him he was sleeping in the parlor, his head thrown back on my favorite armchair. Seeing him there, I had an odd urge to adjust his head to a less awkward angle. But I left him there, spittle glittering on his lip.
I hear the dull thwack of the front door closing downstairs and figure Nevada’s come back. After that, I hear raised voices, men’s voices and rough laughter. It’s probably Jan and Blane, cracking sleazy jokes so I pay it no mind.
Skimming the extra oil off the surface of my elixir, I wipe it on a rag. Too little oil and it won’t sink in. Too much oil and the formula will slide right off a person’s face.
The footsteps get louder and I realize that whoever it is, is headed upstairs. So, I hunch over my experiment. That way, prying eyes can’t so easily see what I’m making.
“Here she is,” says Jan. I swerve around to see a heavyset man who looks incredibly familiar. He’s got a saggy potbelly and long stringy hair that needs a vigorous scrub. Oh, hellfire! It’s Depot Man from that first night.
“Why are you here?” I blurt. A pit in my belly expands to a doughy, nauseous lump.
Guilty hesitation shadows Depot Man’s face. “He made me tell him where I dropped you off.”
“You didn’t have to tell anyo—”
“He bribed me with money,” he adds sheepishly.
“Who?” And then I see.
Right behind him is a grizzled Stiles with a malicious grin slimed over his face at the sight of me. “You wicked, wicked wench!” he bellows, “How dare you try to poison me?”
I forgot how wizened he looked and how whiny his voice was. Like a spoiled child who gets everything he wants. Well, he won’t get me. Thankfully, he has no gun, no apparent weapon in his hands.
“You thought you’d get away with escaping? Think again.” He steps past Depot Man and lunges for me. Grabbing one of my arms, he twists it, hard. He may look like a crotchety old man and sound like a spoiled child but he’s got furious adult strength in his sinewy arms.
“How could you let him up here!” I shout at Jan, who shrugs as he leans against the wall.
Depot Man, on the other hand, has already beaten a hasty exit.
Jan’s frown is as bitter as Stiles’. “You brought nothing to the equation,” he sneers. “Blane told you that. He warned you. So did Nevada. You never listen. You just give us guys your seductive looks, thinking you can charm any of us to do your bidding. And then you act superior.”
Superior? What’s Jan talking about? The way he sees me is so warped. But the seductive looks, guilty as charged. That’s how I was taught to communicate with men. Must be a better way. Right now though I need to escape Stiles’ grip.
Jan is watching Stiles twist my other arm now, and position them both behind my back. “Back stairway’s down this way,” Jan instructs Stiles. “That’s the fastest way out.”