Devil's Own
by KNS
Disclaimer: Come on, you know who the characters belong to (anyone/everyone who isn't me.)
Auth Note: Set at the end of "One Blood," between the final two scenes. (Season 1) Part of the Devil's Walk Series. (You are permitted in times of great danger to walk with the devil until you have crossed the bridge. ~ Bulgarian proverb)
To live without sure knowledge,
yes or no,
is my inheritance.
~ Margaret Randall ( from "Rice Pudding")
And she's left standing there, half-sobbing, gun hanging loosely in one hand, the other clenched into a tight fist. Joe is face-down on the floor, his dark blood pooling across her shadow. Thin afternoon light sifts down through a hazy window, showing dust motes dancing in suddenly still air.
In the bar's far corner, Fancy sits down at his usual table, alone, again, as usual, with his back to the room.
Silence, screaming silence –
The bar is filled with Killjoys and Company guards. There are people here who called Joe friend, a companion-at-arms –
Why hadn't anyone helped him?
Why hadn't she?
And moments have passed since Joe hit the ground – so why hasn't anything happened? A hundred eyes are watching her, waiting. Is she supposed to echo back Fancy's words? Announce, "The Warrant is all," and tap her heart for good measure?
She snarls, pounds the table with the side of her closed fist. Snatching up her PDD, she stuffs it into the top of her boot, slams home her gun into its holster on her leg. Maybe her exit would be more meaningful if she could spit out something pithy, something about friendship or loyalty, something dramatic. . . But she doesn't say anything. She's still trying to stop sobbing when she walks out, refusing to look at anyone as she leaves.
Outside the Royale, the streets are still bustling. People are still going from here to there. The sun is still shining – weakly, since a late-day storm is gathering strength over the western rooftops.
One of the few good men she's ever known is dead in the bar behind her. One less person she's ever dared to care about is still walking around in the universe. Out here, it's business as usual.
She walked Joe into that bar.
Pride or shame or everything else make her go. Faster than a walk, not quite a run. . . Vaguely she hears Johnny calling her, telling her to wait. She doesn't. At some point between two buildings, she deactivates her comms.
Joe was kind to her when she really, desperately needed kindness. He was the surrogate father she should've had – a flawed man, true, but kind. A thousand times better than Khlyen. Now Joe is dead and Khlyen is not.
About the time rain starts falling in earnest, she's phased out the instinct to flee. Physically, at least. Her mind still wants to run far away, as fast as possible. She feels much like she had when her husband died; this time, the blood on her hands is only figurative.
And so Khlyen finds her: exhausted, cried out, leaning against a storm drain under slim shelter from the rain.
Maybe this is the only pattern her life has ever had, will ever have: someone dies who doesn't deserve to, and Khlyen is there to point out why.
Oh, but this time, she doesn't care about caution. The better half of her mentors is gone; the lesser half can go, too.
Khlyen never goes away. She really should know that by now. He'll always find her, one way or another, across space and time and every other logical barrier. There is no end to Khlyen.
Joe's death has made her angry, brave, desperate, or all three. When Khlyen pins her against the alley wall, hand easily around her throat, she finally finds strength to hurt him as she's imagined doing a thousand times.
Of course, of course it doesn't work. Again, again, and again she stabs him, her knife buried to the hilt in his gut. . . he doesn't even have the courtesy to bleed like he should.
That's when she realizes she's gone mad. No one can be repeatedly stabbed and not shed one drop of blood. So what's real, then, and what isn't? Her hair and face are wet with rain. Her eyes ache from crying, or trying not to. She can feel bruises on her neck from Khlyen's fingers, and the scrape across her cheek from earlier in the day. Joe's death is a pit somewhere under her left ribs.
Evening comes while the clouds still hide the sky. Or maybe her vision is fading, and the day is still bright. She walks, sticking to shadows; soon shadows are all, and she can walk anywhere. Sometimes she stops, leans against a wall or whatever, only for a moment, just to catch her breath. She doesn't stay.
Someone says her name. Blinking, she realizes she's crouched on the ground, leaning back against a cold metal wall. She's shivering, blindly looking at discarded trash in a corner.
"Dutch, look at me."
She looks up as instructed. Alvis is sunk down beside her, hood thrown back, brow drawn down over unblinking eyes. "What are you doing here?"
It doesn't sound like the first time he's asked the question. But where is here? Glancing around, she recognizes the familiar slants and shadows of one of Old Town's monasteries. This is where Alvis' order is housed, the humble, dilapidated place where monks went when they weren't somewhere else. Why the hells had she come here?
"I don't know." A true, if unhelpful answer. She lets him help her stand. His hands are warm, and she shivers, desperately cold. "I didn't –"
"It's okay," Alvis says, but he's still frowning. "Let's get inside, and then you can tell me."
Oh, no. She's not going to tell him – What could she say that wouldn't make her want to cry again, or hang her head in shame?
How long was she in that position? Her legs tingle painfully, and she can't feel her toes. The gunshot wound to her shoulder must've torn open, or else has been slowly seeping, because it feels stuck to her skin. Gods, she's a mess. No wonder Alvis looks concerned.
Does Khlyen know about Alvis? Wrong question, little bird, she can practically hear Khlyen taunting. The correct question is, How much does Khlyen know about Alvis?
The monk catches her arm, tries to guide her towards the monastery's entrance. She sits back on her heels, resisting. Today she's already escorted one good man to his death.
Almost as if he can read her thoughts, Alvis says, "Just for a few minutes, Dutch. Come inside." He offers her the smile he saves for occasions when she's inclined to disagree with him.
So she goes with him, up the handful of steps and through the old, creaky-hinged doors. Inside, the darkness is broken by candlelight, and a low fire on the hearth of the greatroom. Incense hangs heavily in the air, almost disguising the underlying scent of perpetual damp. The unadorned floor is clean but webbed with cracks. This is one of the oldest buildings in Old Town, by anyone's account.
The long-robed monks mostly ignore her when she passes. Their chants echo in corners, follow her down the narrow halls. The entire place is a warren of twists and dead ends as a result of many years' unplanned expansions, but she's been here enough times to have a general sense of the layout. After the first two turns she known Alvis isn't leading her to the infirmary, but to his own room.
There's a hierarchy to the Scarbacks' religion, but it's more complicated than the monastery itself. She doesn't understand it very well, never put much effort into trying. Alvis has some sort of higher rank in the order. It isn't reflected in his room – which, honestly, is more like a cell. There's a narrow bed against one wall, a rickety table with an uneven-legged chair against the other. Candles sit in small alcoves in the wall; there's a fire on the hearth, with docile flames providing heat and light. No window, no other doors. At least his cell is at the end of a long, usually empty hallway, because the threadbare curtain hanging in the doorway provides merely a pathetic excuse of privacy.
"Sit," he tells her, and disappears somewhere for a few minutes. She wanders over to the fire, stretches out a hand to the flames.
It's unsettling to only have one point of exit from a room.
Alvis returns with two cups and a pitcher of some steaming liquid. He hands her a cup, pours out a measure while watching her stoically.
How many hours have passed since she drank with Joe?
It's mulled hauk, spiced with something she can't quite name. She suspects Alvis expects her to drink it all, so she does, but shakes her head when he tries to refill her cup.
Her eyes rest anywhere but on Alvis. If she meets his gaze, he'll use that uncanny monk-power to guess exactly what she's thinking. Even the fire is safer, with its hypnotic flames.
"The brothers were looking for you earlier," Alvis says. "The younger one mentioned what happened."
"I know you know their names by now." She tries to sound light, mostly fails. Gods, even standing next to a fire, she's still damn cold.
Alvis makes a negative sound. "He seemed – worried. Said he'd been looking for you for awhile." He reaches for the snaps on her jacket, slowly slides it off. "I'm sorry about your friend. Big Joe seemed like – one of the better Killjoys."
"The best," she corrects. "He was a good man. And I – I killed him."
"Hmm." The monk lightly traces the scrape across her cheek, the bruises around her neck, the fresh wound at her shoulder. His hand drops lower to her hip, then thigh. Deftly he unfastens the double buckles of her holster, has the belt clasp undone before she has a chance to object. "That's not what I understand happened," he disagrees, setting her gun and holster on the table.
If she puts a hand into the fire, will she be able to grasp the flames? How long could she hold one before it suffocated?
Alvis quickly catches her hand. "Don't," he says sharply. More calmly he adds, "Don't hurt yourself."
Too late. Way, way too late.
"It won't change anything," the monk tells her. Still holding her hand, he catches her chin with his other, turns her face towards him. "Dutch, hurting yourself won't make anything better for Joe."
"Remind me how you got most of your scars?" she retorts, almost amused. "Something about blood and redemption?"
He tips her chin up, trying to get her to meet his eyes. "Don't use my faith as your excuse," he counters, voice low and intense. "You can't even look at me and pretend to believe that." After a moment, he adds, "I see why the brothers are worried about you. I may be, as well."
She isn't worried about herself, so why should he? "You should worry about yourself, Alvis, not me." It sounds more like a threat than she'd intended. No part of her wants him to know what she's thinking, but he's already close to guessing. As long as she doesn't look at him, there's a chance. . . But he's a damn monk, and she's low on patience. The instant she meets his gaze, she knows she's made a mistake. She can see her own reflection in his eyes.
Kissing him isn't a conscious decision. It's as impulsive as reaching into the fire, and arguably just as dangerous – for him, at least. People keep dropping dead around her, to varying degrees and at multiple speeds. Alvis is the one taking the risk here.
He doesn't back down from her any more than he does with the Company guards. It's not as if he doesn't choose chance every day as he encourages the stirrings of Westerley revolution.
Damn, he's so incredibly warm. . . She can't get close enough, fast enough. His cloak is ridiculously hard to get off, just like last time, except that her frosted fingers make the ties harder to unknot.
"Slow down," he says, voice rough but amused. "How long were you in the rain? You're cold as ice." The last judgment is pronounced as he pulls her shirt over her head. The new skin at her shoulder gets pulled off with the fabric, makes her hiss in annoyance at the pain.
"It's torn an edge open," Alvis warns.
"Since when has blood ever bothered you?" she returns, pulling at the ties of his pants.
He catches her hands, making her pause. "Since it's from a gunshot wound on you," he answers somberly.
"I won't bleed out," she says, "so don't worry about it."
It's enough to make him drop the point for now, but probably not for later. But the way her life's been going, who knows if there's even going to be a later.
They're a good match – usually. This time they're off in rhythm, badly, until Alvis abruptly pins her arms and shifts her hips to correct things. Then it's over remarkably fast, leaving her feeling somewhat more centered and a great deal warmer. For a few moments, she actually feels okay.
Alvis wrecks that equilibrium when he props up on an elbow to smile down at her; when he pushes back her hair from her eyes, she suddenly feels like pushing him away. Apparently basic affection isn't something she can handle right now. She starts to slide away from him – difficult in the narrow bed – but he stops her.
"Don't tell me you have somewhere else to be," he says, smiling. "Why don't you try not running from people for awhile."
Sure, because her presence has been such a positive force for those closest to her. She closes her eyes, all but feeling the momentary warmth fade away. "It's a bad day for people too close to me," she mutters.
"From what I hear, you did all you could for Joe," Alvis disagrees. "You went against the Warrant."
"I followed the Warrant. I convinced him to walk into the Royale, convinced him the Company would trade what he'd stolen for his safety. . . He asked me to help him, and I just – " She stops talking, half afraid of what she'll say next.
The monk is patient. He waits, gently tracing random patterns across her skin. Almost she says something about Khlyen, comes so close to talking that she has to clench her jaw to stop the urge.
"I'm not looking for information," he says softly. "But I'd like to help with whatever demons are chasing you."
Great – all she needs is another target for Khlyen. "Thanks, but I think you have enough on your plate." She scrambles over him, reaching for her still-wet clothing. The shock of the cold floor on her bare feet is sobering. "You were right – I was outside too long. I really do have to be somewhere else."
"Why are you so afraid to ask for help, Killjoy?" Alvis asks, catching her wrist. "I've seen you do it before, a hundred times. . ." His voice trails off for a moment. Letting go of her wrist, he almost-touches the bruises around her neck. "Maybe you've gotten stuck in something so deep, you're afraid anyone who tries to help will only be pulled down with you."
Damn his freaky monk-powers. "I don't – have the right to ask for help with this," she acknowledges reluctantly.
He looks at her askance. "I can think of several people who owe you their lives," he says skeptically. "That's a large debt to carry. A person might welcome the opportunity to repay it."
No one in their right mind would welcome a chance to do anything involving Khlyen.
Alvis doesn't argue. Instead he gets up and pulls a warped wooden chest from beneath the bed. Opening the lid, he fishes out a muted orange tunic and much-mended Scarback cape. "Here – wear these," he says. "If you have to leave, at least leave in better shape than you arrived."
Suddenly it occurs to her: this man found her soaking wet in an alley, brought her into his home and tried to comfort her in any way she'd allow, asked for nothing in return – and she hasn't exactly seemed grateful.
She takes the clothes, sets them aside without releasing his hand. Gently she kisses his palm, then the inside of his wrist, both the old and new scars. "You always send me out better than I arrive," she says, and means it.
So she walks back onto Lucy dressed like a misfit Scarback, her wet clothes tied into a bundle under the borrowed cape. Johnny's standing in the cargo bay, waiting – he'll assume she was with Alvis all this time.
"We're going to Leith," she announces shortly, walks past him without pulling down her hood. She goes straight to her quarters, changes clothes before heading to the bridge. Alvis' words echo around her silence.
How much longer can she realistically outrun Khlyen without Johnny and D'avin knowing? And will they end up like Joe if she shuts them out, or asks for help?
That's a large debt to carry, Alvis said.
Maybe the brothers are going to pay, regardless of the situation. Maybe they deserve the right to make their own choices – as Joe had.
She stares out at the stars, wondering.
[End]