Not scare you?
“No. If I thought you were going to hurt me, I would have punched you in the face.”
He hangs his head, impressively remorseful, as usual.
“It’s really no big deal. You’re not very old, are you?”
Speak, he signs with a question hand.
“I mean, you’re not a man, quite. You’re young, like me. Just a boy. Right?” He’s always seemed young to me, and so like the boys I know, in some ways. Why else would he throw dirty dishes off the balcony?
He shrugs and nods, evidence, if there ever was, that’s he’s a teenager, who doesn’t know and knows at the same time.
“Well, anyway, boys do stuff like that all the time. It’s not exactly accepted behavior, but it’s not the end of the world either. Boys are jerks sometimes. They need to grow up.” I have to suppress a smile, thinking of Tucker’s first fumbling move on me, uninvited and pretty clueless but not exactly unwelcome. And the time Xander tried to pinch my ass and ended up on the floor of the dojo with my knee on his neck. And Topher, that time the night we arrived at the base. But that wasn’t so funny.
I don’t know whether I can laugh at August having his hand on me like that either. I don’t think such a gesture is just raging hormones or showing off for him. Who would he be showing off for anyway?
The worst part about this, the part that makes me bite back my smile, turn away to the frozen horizon, my heart skipping in my throat, is that I feel like if he tried to touch me again, I might let him.
AUGUST
Night falls, but we walk on. I guide her gently, with a little pressure on her shoulder, letting her walk in front, but leading the way myself as she begins to meander. It grows colder and colder; she hunches over as the wind rises and walks with her eyes closed, asleep on her feet almost. Finally, she simply falls. One step lands true and straight, leaving a small, sure footprint; the next crumples beneath her. I catch her, one arm wrapped around her chest, and lift her. She mumbles something but doesn’t resist as I tuck her head onto my shoulder and press her frozen hands onto my chest between us.
Her trembling reminds me of how sick she was, how she nearly died, and me along with her. She whimpers in my arms, and I realize she has fallen asleep. I make myself as warm as I can and hold her close, stepping forward, searching the dark for the high, rocky hills she has described, the entrance to the haven she seeks.
My mind is coming apart again. I want to stop now, turn off the road, and leave with her, to the high mountains, to hide away from the humans and from my people.
Step forward, still stepping forward.
The human boy is the goal. The promise.
One foot in front of the other.
The night cold dissolves the clouds, stars peek out, and the wide, icy landscape turns silver in the moonlight. I look down at her sleeping face, resting on my shoulder. Unable to resist, I lean over, breathing deeply, inhaling her drowsy warmth. She smells of . . . something . . . fragile and impermanent, like a spiderweb or a snowflake. Like a human, a forgiving human girl.
I can carry her forever and keep her from freezing indefinitely. I would do it. But her food will run out soon if we don’t find something. The last town we passed was hours back. I could turn around, take her back there, but I promised her I would find the human boy. I promised.
Dizzy with having her in my arms again, I try not to stumble. I try to focus on the journey, on the road ahead of us, not on the smell of her, her frozen eyelashes, try to ignore the perplexing, tantalizing images that her closeness draws into my half-drowned brain.
I try to forget that the end of this journey is also the end of us.
RAVEN
I wake in the dark, bathed in warmth, curled up, my hands and face resting on something that radiates heat. So comfortable that I don’t want to move. I’m warmer than I feel like I have been in weeks, months, since we left the base to go on our ill-fated mission back to Calgary. I enjoy a brief delusion that I have somehow arrived back at the base before I come to realize that I’m actually curled up in August’s lap.
He’s sitting, cross-legged, in a windbreak dug in the snow, his arms slung over me, my head resting on one of his thighs, my own legs drawn up with my feet tucked under his other thigh. In the moonlight I see his face above me, his head hanging. I watch for a moment as his shoulders rise and fall with his breaths. It’s mesmerizing, staring at him like this. The moon behind him creates a kind of blue halo where it reflects on the few shiny parts of his armor. His breathing is rattling and slow. In between his breaths, in the silent stillness, I hear something else, a kind of low tapping noise. Shocked, I move my head slightly, careful not to disturb him, and press my ear onto his abdomen.
His heart. I can hear his heart beating.
He has a heart.
For a tiny second I’m tempted by the rhythm of it, tempted to surrender myself to the comfort of his warmth, his selfless devotion, to give up my fragile humanity in exchange for his monstrous security, for the safety of his arms. He could protect me in this terrifying new world. Maybe he’s the only one who could really protect me.
“August,” I whisper. He takes a breath and turns his head to look at me. “Were you asleep?”
Think, he signs. Then points off into the distance.
“Your thoughts were far away? What were you thinking about?”
He lifts his arms from me and rests them on his knees. After a moment he raises his left hand and suspends it in the air for a few seconds before letting it fall again. I slide out of his lap and face him.
“I’ve never seen you sitting before.”
Feel broken, he signs, awkwardly pulling himself to his knees. He taps the armor over his hip.
“It hurts to sit? Because of your armor?” He nods a little, then looks away. “Thank you, then, for keeping me warm.”
Happy.
But he doesn’t look happy. He looks miserable and defeated, his shoulders sagging as he turns his head and looks off to the side. I follow his gaze and make out dark, craggy shadows to the north of us. They have the flat, hacked-off tops I remember. “I think those are the hills.”
He nods slowly. His left hand drifts up for a second and then falls again. He’s thinking of her.
“How did she die?” I ask. “The girl you loved. What happened to her?”
Topher, he signs after a second ticks by.
Somewhere under all my clothes and sweaters and coats, I feel a little prickle. “Topher? In the city, where you found me? Topher killed her?”
August shakes his head. I watch him inhale and exhale slowly.
Repeat, Topher, he signs.
He uses repeat to mean “the same” sometimes. Alike. Someone like Topher.
I imagine I hear a rumble, an avalanche gathering in the cliffs above us.
“He looked like Topher?” I whisper. I can’t seem to get my vocal cords to work. My voice comes out like paper rustling in a bottom drawer. “Someone who looked like Topher killed her?”