Blackjack Wayward

Chapter Fourteen

She was a true lightweight, falling asleep at the bar with her head cradled in her arms, her hair a mussed corona shooting off at wild angles from her scalp. I should’ve left right then, or maybe just broken her pretty little neck to make sure she wouldn’t cause me any more grief. But instead of grabbing whatever food and water I could scrounge and hitting the road, I sat there, watching her as I drained the bar of anything resembling alcohol. I don’t know what it was, but something about her gave me pause. It wasn’t her fragile features, which she had magically restored, or her pained expression when I had raged.

Pity was part of it: pity for her damaged soul.

And something made me want to find out what had driven her to such cruelty, what had ruined her. I wondered if I could make a difference, to fix her like Apogee had done for me.

More than that, I saw a kindred soul. Our circumstances were different, but I was drawn to her; I wanted to hold her, make her feel safe. I figured if she wasn’t worth saving, neither was I.

I picked up her feather-light body and carried her across the road to the small shack that was home to Rabbit Hill’s remaining inhabitants. A couple of motorhomes dotted the landscape nearby, torn-apart husks now inhospitable, so the shack would have to make do for tonight.

It was nothing more than a one-room hut, with a washbasin and mirror flanking the far a large iron-cast tub along the far wall. Bruce and his wife had kept the place clean and tidy, and the bed was made, but the rumpled comforter, still drawn over the length of the bed and the pillows, told me Claire had slept there earlier. I placed her on the same spot she had disturbed and moved to the mirror. I flipped a switch, and a complaining bulb, whose best days were long gone, clicked and whined to life. The faint illumination wheezed with the unsteady onrush of power to this remote outpost.

One look in the mirror made me wish for darkness.

My hair was long and ragged, shot through with gray, the ends drifting just above my shoulders. I had lost maybe thirty pounds, and my face was sallow, like a zombie; yellowed, bloodshot eyes radiated dark, tired rings; and cheekbones protruded over thin, pale skin and cracked lips covered with dried blood and dirt. In contrast to my deathly pall, my shoulders and arms had weathered a full day of heavy Australian Outback sun, and the skin had erupted into dozens of tiny bubbles, a warning to the painful sunburn that was to come.

I threw the long, straggly hair that covered my face aside and finally got a good look at the wound to my face. I had a bullet sticking out of my cheek, a round gash that had long ago ceased bleeding but trailed dry blood down my chest and neck. I grasped the inch-thick bullet and tore it off my face, releasing a torrent of crimson that spilled into the sink. I thought it strange, watching my blood spatter onto the white porcelain, because I felt nothing from the injury. I turned on the water and washed my face, feeling only a slight tingling sensation as I scrubbed off the dried blood, scabbed around the wound. In fact, the wound had been healing around the bullet, forming a thick ridge of hardened skin around where it had protruded from my face.

The water felt like a dip in a cold lake, refreshing and cleansing at once. I looked over to the bathtub and wondered if the dilapidated thing worked. Turning the dial made the pipes groan in complaint at first, then a brown-black fluid spurted from the faucet, staining the clean white tub as it drained, until finally giving way to relatively silt-free water. I stopped the drain with a rubber plug, hoping there would be hot water, but turning the hot water dial did nothing. I stripped off my dirt-caked boxers, threw them in a garbage bin and slipped into the frigid water, feeling the wonderful chill spread through my body.

I don’t know how long I slept, but a slamming door woke me with a start, water splashing all over the place. A figure moved outside the window, and snapping a glance at the bed, I noticed Claire was gone. She walked to a small wooden hut beside the shack, opening the door and going inside.

I tensed, half-expecting her to come back and attack me, but after half a minute inside she came back out and walked around the house, striding nonchalantly toward the door. She opened it and paused when she realized I was staring at her, and I could tell she felt my apprehension, not that I was doing much to mask it.

“Bathroom,” Claire explained with an apologetic shrug and returned to bed. She turned away from me and was soon fast asleep.

Pulling the plug to let the water drain, I stood, stiff and aching, and dried myself with a towel hanging on a nearby rack. I couldn’t see any clothes to wear, so I just wrapped the towel around my waist and moved to a small leather couch on the other side of the bed. It was too small to fit my full length, so I threw a leg over the side of the couch and eased myself as best as I could atop the dusty pillows. I raised my head once to see what she was doing, half-expecting her to pick that exact moment to strike. But Claire’s form was still, her breathing steady, and before I knew it I slipped into deep sleep.

I woke with the dawn’s first stabbing rays beating through the mangled shutters. Claire still slept, wrapped in the blankets as the night’s cold had settled in. I guess I’d been so sore and tired that I’d just slept through the cold night despite wearing only a towel. I stood and stretched to a chorus of complaints from every muscle, tendon, and bone, yet I still felt a million times better than the night before.

I stole a quick glance at the mirror and wished I hadn’t. A massive scab had formed where the bullet was embedded in my face. Despite my bath last night, I still had stubble almost two weeks old and was covered with reddish grime streaking down my long, oily hair. I opened the faucet and dipped my head into the sink, rinsing off as much of the gunk as I could.

Wiping my face, I left a bloody smear on the towel and rummaged through a tiny corner closet for anything that would fit me. There, I found a pair of weather-beaten overalls that belonged to someone almost as tall as I was. Bruce had to be a big fellow, because the waist area gave me ample room. I threw on some dusty leather slippers and walked outside, taking a moment to get accustomed to the wide flaps on either side of my waist, which was more than 10 inches smaller than Bruce’s. It took a while to get used to walking around without underwear. I was a few inches taller than the overalls’ previous owner; the bottom hem rode up against my crotch. But this wasn’t a beauty pageant. I was lucky to be alive.

I crossed the dirt path to check for food at the roadhouse. All was as I had left it the night before, including the nearly drained bottle of whiskey sitting at the bar. I had to resist the temptation to have a shot for breakfast, stoppering the bottle and sliding it to its slot among the rest of the liquor. A door led out of the back of the bar which opened into a small kitchen and storage, but a quick check of the fridge and cupboard showed little to eat. I did find some unsliced bread and some butter. I took the loaf and tore off a piece, stuffing it in my mouth and chewing slowly. Then I heard the distinct clucking sound of breakfast.

I walked outside and saw a small pen full of chickens approaching me fearlessly for their morning grain. A sack of their feed hung from a peg next to the door. I threw a handful at them and moved past the ravenous birds to their raised pens. Each pen was individually slotted but empty save for one, wherein lay a massive chicken, bigger than the others. I smiled, knowing what I was going to have for breakfast. I gathered a dozen eggs and went to the stove. With the butter and bread I made a banquet.

Normal food entered my system for the first time since that egg salad sandwich at my trial, and the shock made me gag, almost heaving it back onto the plate. My body rejected the solid food, used to the slimy fluid they had given me at Utopia. I fought the urge to puke, not wanting to waste the food. It took a shot of whiskey to settle my stomach. I took another shot and gathered Claire a few eggs, fried them, and served them with the remainder of the bread.

I took the meal across the way and stepped inside the shack, but she was gone. She appeared behind me, returning from the outhouse again.

“I love the costume,” she said as she moved past me, turning around as she caught scent of the food.

“Is that for me?”

I nodded and handed her the plate and fork, and she sat on the bed, placing the dish on her lap and picking at her food like the chickens.

“You should have told me you were hungry,” she said.

“I didn’t know if you’d be around.”

She smiled. “Where else would I go?”

I shrugged, sitting on the couch. “Figured with your magic skills, you could go anywhere.”

“I have nowhere to go, Blackjack,” Claire said as she dug a piece of bread into an egg yolk and brought the whole dripping mess to her mouth. A trail of yellow fluid spilled from her luscious lips, trailing down her neck. She used her free hand to stop the running yolk. I grabbed a dirty rag from the sink and tossed it to her.

“Thanks,” she said, wiping her chin and neck.

“So how long are you going to stay here?”

She licked her fingers. “You have to understand, cheri. I am not one of you newcomer superpower men. I have lingered for an eternity. I have seen the world and I am tired of it. I have nowhere to go,” she repeated.

I scratched my stubble, “Looks like we have a lot in common.”

I fell asleep watching her eat, half-afraid that her newfound benevolence would fade and her murderous nature would return. It was like falling asleep in the lion’s cage, but after that huge meal, nothing could keep me awake. The last thing I remembered was wondering if the previous tenants had any coffee or a way to make it.

I knew I was dreaming, but I have to admit there was more than a little bit of doubt, because I returned to Shard World, to the Contessa’s ship, to Drovani’s gull-winged vessel. I marshaled the Vershani armies, leading them into battle against their enemies, going from victory to victory. I lived inside a Frazetta painting, swashbuckling amongst the heroes and villains of a Robert Howard novel, always close to getting the girl, but never actually achieving it.

Then I faced Apogee and Shard World was gone, replaced with the dark, cramped hotel room from our brief interlude. She was changing her clothes after a long, hot shower, putting on one of my black t-shirts, which made her look like a child wearing her daddy’s clothes, despite her curvaceous figure. Madelyne was beautiful nonetheless, her long, elegant legs peering out from beneath my XXXL shirt, her rounded bottom caressing the fabric, her firm breasts pressing against where my chest would normally be.

We were still enemies in those days, becoming more accustomed to each other. Yet I recalled that moment so vividly, I wondered if I was still attached to the machine as it randomly attempted to find a new paradigm for me to fulfill, this time having me relive the past. But her figure overwhelmed any curiosity I might have, the fresh warmness of her recent shower assaulting my senses. She smiled at that moment, aware of my intoxication, knowing that I was in her thrall. Apogee was my master, and I would do anything to satisfy her.

She knew it, too.

Reaching her bed, she arched her back as she sat on the stiff mattress, making her small nipples press through the fabric, arousing me further. I was helpless in her grasp, and she wielded me like a master puppeteer. As she shook her head back, freeing her hair from the towel she had used to dry it, I could feel myself drawn in, much like the gut-churning effect of Zundergrub’s mental power.

She leaned back, taking great care to keep the shirt taut against her upper body. Lying down only stretched the shirt further, accentuating every curve. As she adjusted her head on the pillow and closed her eyes, I noticed her fussing with the lowest edge of the shirt hem, making sure it rode over her crotch. Her light purple panties were visible; the soft cotton material stretched across her pubic mound, revealing a trimmed mass of hair straining against the fabric just above the split of her greater labia.

“Do you want me?” she asked, and my eyes flashed at her face, placid and wanting.

I nodded, feeling a hard throbbing between my legs.

“Then why don’t you take me?”

I moved closer, rubbing my crotch as I came to life. I stood over her as she raised her shirt across her rippled stomach....

Then I coughed, gagged, and woke.

I sat up, realizing I was still in the Outback shack, and Claire was there, having finished her breakfast, still watching me.

“You snore loud,” she said.

“Sorry,” was my first reaction, wiping some drool from the corner of my mouth. I stood and went toward the sink, but felt a tight pressure against my crotch. I paused and adjusted myself, noticing that my erection was pressing out against the leather overalls.

“Were you dreaming of me?” she asked, resting her face on one hand, her elbows against the mattress. Behind, her leg danced playfully.

I eased my member down along the hem and ran the water on the sink, splashing it on my face. I was pale and pasty, eyes dark and sunken, and the skin had a coating of sweat; I must’ve been suffering from a fever. The stubble was uneven, patchy, and my skin was layered with thick, oily grime that water alone could not rinse off. My hair was greasy and long, always in my face, stringy like that of a homeless person.

And I still had a blood-crusted bullet hole in my cheek.

I laughed and buried my head into the sink, but there was nothing funny about my condition.

“You look like a crazy person,” Claire said.

“I should be dead,” I said, looking at her through the reflection in the mirror. “Hell, maybe I am.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, getting off the bed and walking over to me. “I will make you handsome again.”

“Not sure how you’re going to do that,” I said, scratching my heavy stubble.

“Turn around,” she said, placing her hands on my shoulder and using them to spin me around.

I hadn’t noticed it until that moment, but her face was pristine, no longer marred by the vicious injury that she sported through our exodus from Utopia prison. She was all the more beautiful, her features immaculate, brown eyes holding me like a mother would a child. She was a tiny, delicate creature beside me, thin and slight, and I couldn’t help but hunch over, dwarfing her.

Her hand rose and took my cheek with a gentle caress.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said and closed her eyes.

“Trwy nerth y benglog llwyd,” she said, her voice deep and powerful, stronger than I could have envisioned coming from her thin frame. A soft, greenish glow began to emanate from her hands, at first encompassing only my face but soon spreading through the room, casting a deathly pall.

“A gan y bydd y henafiaid,” Claire continued, and a cold gust of wind swept through the room, whipping up to gale force. The only thing keeping me from soaring off was her hold on me. Everything in the room was caught up in the heavy winds, but instead of being smashed into the walls, her dinner plate, the sheets and pillows, odd knick-knacks, even picture frames danced about the room, carried by the gusts, as if lending their witness to Claire’s magical spell.

“Plygwch y pwerau tywyll i fy ewyllys,” she said then began to shake, the greenish aura reflecting off me, unable to take hold. Claire pressed her hold over the magic, but it had a will of its own and lashed against her, spiraling out of control.

“What’s wrong?”

She released my face, and that instant the winds died, the anima faded, and all the floating items crashed to the floor. She dropped her hands in frustration, a film of perspiration forming on her brow. Shaking her head, I could see that she knew what was troubling her, as if it was some inside joke.

“J’emploie le forme fausse de magie,” she said, her eyes still closed.

“Huh?”

“Wrong kind of magic,” she translated with a forced smile to conceal her failure. I could sense the raw fear coursing through her shaking body as she steadied herself and tried once more.

Again she placed her hand on my cheek, but this time, when she spoke her magical incantation, a blue-white aura formed around her hands and the words had a softer edge. With this new magic, her skin turned violently red, splitting into boils and pustules, her body visibly rippled in agony. I tried to reach for her, but she shook her head, wincing to hide her pain.

“Don’t interrupt me,” she snapped.

“D-dduwiau llesiannol o natur a bywyd,” Claire began, struggling through the words.

“Gwrando fy ngweddi ar gyfer y dyn da.” The energy that came so easily to her before was now an uphill struggle, and the forces barely responded other than lashing at her. I wanted to stop it all, but she had asked me to trust her.

“Wella ei glwyfau a thrwsio ei enaid,” she continued, now exerting her will upon the magic. It was like trying to corral someone else’s unruly child in the playground, the mother nowhere in sight. The tendrils of raw energy surrounded me, bathing me in the aquamarine glow, and I felt a comfort and warmth settle over me, in particular in and around my wounds, but her pain seemed to intensify.

“Ac ar gyfer pob drwg ei fod wedi dioddef yn fy llaw.”

What had been a howling wind that threatened to tear the shack from its foundations was now a calm breeze, healing my face, chest, and knees. I felt the bones and ligaments in my right hand popping as my injuries from Hashima Island mended themselves. Throughout my body, every old wound and scar healed, leaving almost no trace, and across my face and cheek I could feel the skin inching back over the horrible wound, closing the hole and leaving me as I had been before the gunshot.

“Efallai y byddaf yn colli blwyddyn o fy mywyd yn talu,” she finished, exhausted and struggling over the last words. She let go of me, unable to control her weeping and cradling her burning hands toward the sink.

“What did you do?”

She shook her head, opening up the faucet gingerly and pouring cold water over her wounds. It didn’t help much, the sting of water mixing with blood and making her cringe.

“Tell me, dammit!” I yelled, turning her to face me. The flow of tears was unabated, the pain too much for her to bear, but she managed to whisper a reply.

“I cleansed you,” she said, bringing her elbows in to shield herself from me.

“Why is this happening to you?”

She lay back against the wall, and slid to the floor, curling in a ball. The injuries on her hands were getting worse, her skin was becoming necrotic, and the dark charring was spreading up her fingers and toward her wrists. In a few minutes, her fingers would be dried and desiccated.

I knelt beside her, exasperated. “Tell me what is happening.”

“Go, please. I don’t want you to see me!” she cried, but I wasn’t going to leave her like this. I looked around the room for anything I could use to help. Maybe Bruce had a knife I could use to cut off the limbs, keep the gangrene from spreading. I ransacked the place but found nothing.

“I beg you to go,” Claire said, but I returned to her side.

“I’m not going anywhere. You understand? Not until you explain to me.”

Her eyes blinked away the tears, and she steeled herself against the pain. “I used a healing spell on you.”

I nodded, “Okay. What’s so wrong with that?”

She grew impatient, biting her lip as a wave of pain coursed through her.

“I am not allowed that kind of magic,” she said.

“Why the hell not? Isn’t that what you used to heal yourself? You looked like shit the other day and now you’re perfect.”

“Healing, is the magic of life. It is magic I cannot access without paying a heavy price.”

“This is the price for healing my face?” I said, bewildered. “Then take it back. I don’t give a shit about having a few scars.”

“I can’t. I offered to pay a price for daring to use it and whomever I negotiated with has a sense of humor. I gave a year of my life to heal you, Blackjack, and it seems that this was the last year of my life.”

“No,” I said growing angrier by the minute. “No.”

She nodded, crying again. The rotting was now growing across her arms; her fingers were corpse-like, and they cracked and split when she moved the dried digits.

“Why is this happening to you? This makes no sense.”

She made an effort to touch me, but seeing the horror of her hands, recoiled and turned away.

“Just go,” she wept. “It will soon be over. I don’t want you to see me.”

“Can it be reversed?” I said, desperation and panic lacing my words.

She blinked, wincing in pain, each breath becoming more labored as the affliction spread across her shoulders to her torso.

“Claire,” I yelled, shaking her to keep her lucid. “Is there anything that I can do to help you?”

“I can’t,” she said softly.

“Yes dammit! Do it!”

Swallowing hard, she looked up at me, “I can only endure if I take from others. If I take life from you.”

“Then take it!” I said without hesitation, understanding what she meant.

Her face softened, confused. “You would give it to me?”

I smiled. “I haven’t used it for much, trust me. Just do whatever it is you have to do. Don’t worry about me.

“Hurry,” I snapped, “that shit is spreading.”

Claire placed her ruined hands on my chest and stared at me for a moment.

“Mon bel homme,” she said, then began an incantation that I recalled from before. The words were in the same language, but her voice and pronunciation were darker, rougher, like the magic she had attempted at first, the magic that had failed to heal me. The greenish aura spread through the room, the winds picked up as they had, but it was over in a moment. Compared to healing me, this was an easy bit of magic for her. When she separated from me, her arms, hands and fingers had returned to normal; her form was once again flawless but still she wept.

I was surprised to still be alive, but other than the chill of the dying winds, I felt no different. Trying to comfort her, I moved closer, but Claire shook her head and held me off with an upraised palm.

“I thought I was going to die there,” I said.

She smiled, then laughed through her tears. “I didn’t need it all.”

I nodded and threw myself against the opposite wall.

“Are you going to be ok? I mean knowing that you die in the next twelve months....”

Claire laughed.

“It doesn’t work that way, Dale.”

I smiled, pleased that I had been able to help.

“I can’t die, Dale,” she added.

“But what about the whole rotting thing??”

Spreading her delicate fingers, she watched them for a second before replying.

“If I lose the life force that maintains me, then I will become a corpse, but that’s not dying. Not for me. You see, I’m already dead.”