The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) Page 30

  I stretch over the table to poke him in the head. “You’re not Forgotten London’s next it couple, then?”

  He mutters a colourful insult that has me beaming. I’m sure he learned that one from me. “What’s the problem?” I ask. “A kiss doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he liked it, maybe he didn’t, you’re not gonna stop being friends, are you?”

  “I guess not.” He raises his head with a sigh. “But he’s from the past. I don’t think they said many nice things about gay people back then. What if he’s repulsed by me kissing him?”

  “What if he stops looking at you with those big green puppy dog eyes, you mean?” He glares me into an answer. Kind of impressive, really. “I don’t think he’s the sort of guy to get repulsed by your gayness. He’s friends with those lesbians, isn’t he?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I didn’t think of that.”

  “And even if he doesn’t wanna kiss you again, or jump into bed with you—don’t give me that look, I don’t know what kinda relationship you’re after. Look, he’s still gonna be your friend. I’ve kissed Siah before, and we’re still friends. It’ll be fine.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what if I’m not gay? What if I just kissed Bran but I don’t like boys?”

  “Then you don’t like boys. Or you do like boys. Or you like boys and girls and everything in-between. Seriously, Honour, we’re at the end of the world. Kiss who you want.”

  He nods, then nods again like he needs to confirm his nod. “Yes,” he says very seriously. “You’re right.”

  “I usually am.”

  He laughs. “What do you like? I mean—not that you have to tell me. I’m just asking.”

  I raise an eyebrow perfect in its precise silent sarcasm. Then I surprise myself by saying, “I love my best friend.”

  Now I want to hide my face in the table top. I get out a bit of frustration by spitting, “It’s so annoying. It needs to stop.”

  “Can’t help you there,” Honour says. He lets out all his breath and slumps onto the table top, looking up at me through his eyelashes. “Thanks for making me feel better.”

  “Yeah.” I just made myself feel shitty and pissed off in the process. “You’re welcome.”

  Silence gets its chance to shove into the conversation then, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable the way it does with some people.

  “So,” I say eventually. “You got a plan?”

  “Why would I have a plan? For what?”

  “For getting answers from Cat-slash-Mel. You always have a plan.”

  “Well.” He looks out the small square window into the moonlit garden. “I guess I’ll just try to get her to talk more. Be her friend, or something.”

  “Don’t even think about bringing her into our clique.”

  “We do not have a clique,” he protests.

  “We really do.”

  Honour stares at me for three suspended seconds and then bursts out laughing. “Yeah,” he says. “We so do.”

  It’s easy to feel light around Honour. He has a way of making the worst situations seem smaller, something we can easily smash into pieces. I like being around him. He makes me feel good without trying at all and he’s quick to see things from my point of view. He doesn’t judge either, which I appreciate.

  I look him in the eye. “You’re a decent friend, you know?”

  “Wow. High praise.”

  I smirk. “Just don’t let it go to your head.”

  “I’ll try but … oh no. I can already feel it inflating.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say sincerely. I give him an encouraging smile. “That’s just your thick head.”

  He glares at me but I don’t feel like glaring back. Not until I spot a familiar silhouette in the doorway from the corner of my eye. I wondered how much longer it’d be until he came looking for me. I’m churning with bitterness at being kept in the dark and resentment for his ‘Mel’ but one look at his face has it dissipating. I’m pathetic. As soon as he’s upset or hurt I turn soft and forgiving.

  “Thanks,” I tell Honour, climbing to my feet.

  “No problem.” He gives me a loaded look. He’ll get answers from Mel/Cat.

  “Come on,” I say to Siah, heading back upstairs.

  I know he can read the dark emotions in me because he doesn’t say a word as I lay down. He settles beside me but farther away than before. It feels like there’s a huge crack between us, like the ones that formed around Forgotten London when it Fell. The irrational fear from Siah’s jump comes at me in a rush and I roll over, facing him. I can’t afford to be angry with him, to be distant, not now. Maybe if we ever settle down in a safe place. But not now.

  “What you said,” Yosiah says before I can open my mouth. His voice is unsteady. I keep quiet. “In Manchester. Did you mean it?”

  I forget to breathe for two seconds. What I said in Manchester. When I thought we were going to die. What we’ve both been pretending was never said.

  “What did I say?” I whisper. “I don’t remember.”

  “It’s not important.”

  I try to relax, try to forget, but it’s pointless. He knows what I said and so do I.

  “I’m sorry,” he says out of nowhere.

  I look at him sharply. “For what?”

  “You’re angry at me. It must be … there’s only one thing I’ve done wrong and that’s keep something from you. So I’m sorry. For that.”

  I curl up on my side. “You won’t tell me?”

  He inches closer, brings his hand to my hair. “It’s not a small thing,” he murmurs. “It’s a big thing.” He meets my eyes in the gloom. I know I’m not gonna like what he says next because he’s biting his lip. “Sometimes I forget.” He trails his fingers to my collarbone, to my biggest scars. “What they did to you.”

  My breath hitches and all of a sudden I want anything but to know his secrets. I shut down my emotions, close my eyes, and pretend I’m not scared to death.

  “They took me when I was thirteen,” he says.

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “But you have to know. This is the last thing I’ve kept from you. You need to know how they—”

  “I lied,” I say quickly. Anything to stop him. I can’t deal with whatever horror story lurks in his past, even though he’s right. I do need to know it. Just not yet. I whisper, “When you asked me. I remember what I said in Manchester. I meant it. And you—you’re keeping things from me as well. Feelings.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “You’re avoiding admitting … things.”

  “I wanted to be honest with you, to tell you I was kidnapped and tortured and made to kill people. But fine.” He kisses my shoulder. “I have feelings for you.”

  I hold my breath. And then, remembering I need oxygen, I let it out slowly. “Likewise.”

  “Which part?”

  An arm snakes around my waist. Half of me wants to struggle and the other half just wants to curl into his warmth. I’m glad I’m still folded in on myself—my legs are a safety barrier.

  “Both,” I say. “Minus the killing.” When he kisses my hair I feel obliged to tell him, “But this doesn’t change anything. I’m not gonna be lovey or girly or fall at your feet. I won’t be Yosiah’s girl; I won’t stop being Miya. But I might let you kiss me. Occasionally. Once a week.”

  “Once a week sounds heavenly.”

  “Heavenly?” I groan. “Pick a different word.”

  “Amazing?”

  “You use that all the time.” His eyes are steady and earnest, his touch light and fleeting. I uncurl, letting down my last barrier. Don’t make me regret this, Merchant. “Put a bit of effort into it,” I say.

  He’s quiet, thinking. “Sublime?”

  “That’s worse than the first one.”

  He swears under his breath. His hand slides down my spine to the small of my back. “Intoxicating.” His voice has dipped lower. I’m not surprised when he pu
lls me flush against him.

  “Better.”

  He hums wordlessly in response.

  “Remember,” I say as his fingers slide into my hair. I grow more confident, raising my fingers to his neck, his jaw. “Only once a week. Are you sure you want to use it now?”

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  With no effort at all, he covers my body with his. A thrill goes through me when his mouth meets mine and my hands, out of control, dip under his shirt. His body is a warm weight pressing me into the mattress, his kisses insistent and greedy, his every touch adoring. Humming under the surface of this superficial lust is the knowledge that Yosiah loves me, that I love him. It’s like all the other times we’ve kissed and it’s like none of them. I realise with neither of us holding back this time, we’re not going to stop.

  I break away, breathing hard. “My brother and sister,” I say.

  He hovers over me, his face so close I feel every breath. Frustration is written in his lowered brows, his tense jaw. I know the exact feeling. I raise myself on my elbows and kiss him without really meaning to. My heart feels twice as full as it should.

  “Damn you,” he growls, pulling back.

  “There’s a spare room at the end,” I say, already pulling him off the bed. “Wait.” I put both hands on his chest, jumping a little at how quick he’s breathing. “Do you have anything?”

  “Any what?”

  I hiss, “Condoms, Yosiah. I don’t exactly want another kid to look after.”

  He looks completely and utterly floored.

  “Oh, fine, wait here.” I find my jacket on the carpet and dig around in an inside pocket until I find a foil square. I found it in a bowl of them in the Guardians infirmary and pocketed a couple. I damn myself for not taking the whole bowl.

  “Wha—”

  I lean onto my tiptoes and kiss his bewildered mouth. “Stole it from the Guardians.”

  “But. Were you planning—?”

  “Enough talking.” I grab him by the hand and pull him into the hallway. We stumble to a halt against a wall. His hands find my hips, my mouth finds his.

  “Wait.” His eyes reflect my own anger at another delay but I have to ask this. “What is this—to you? I need to know we want the same thing. I don’t want to be a one night girl, Yosiah. I don’t want to lose you because of this.”

  “You’re not a one night girl.” He kisses the bridge of my nose. “You know you’re more than that to me. You’re my best friend, my Miya. My girl for every day of the rest of my life, or until you’re bored of me.”

  My stomach is swimming with a sickly warmth. My cheeks are hot. “I won’t get bored of you.”

  “And you won’t lose me. Not because of this. Not because of anything.”

  Our next kiss is hot and Goddamned heavenly.

  “Are you sure?” Yosiah stills me with hands on either side of my face. “Are you sure, Miya? About this? About me? You don’t have to, not just because I love you. We can stop.”

  If my heart was full before, it just exploded into a hundred shards of Siah, Siah, Siah. “I’m sure,” I say. I wind my arms around his neck, my fingers in his hair. “I’m really sure. Are you?”

  “I love you.” His hands slide around my waist. “I’m sure.”

  There’s still a trill of fear in me at the thought of being fully, honestly open with him. At being intimate. But my fears are drowned out by how much I want this, how much I want to be with Yosiah. I urge him down the corridor to the spare room and shut the door behind us.

  ***

  Yosiah

  11:29. 07.11.2040. The Free Lands, Southlands, Plymouth.

  There’s a lavish brick construction at the side of the road with balconies of white stone, columns holding up the upper tiers, and benches placed every now and then. I’m not sure how effective it is as a building, since it has no roof, walls, or obvious purpose, but I appreciate the benches.

  I sit on one of them, hunched over, watching the sea dance in the distance. I need to sit and think. To figure out a way to handle the fear of losing Miya at every turn, of losing myself and becoming something I don’t want to be.

  I try to encase myself in the heat and the surety of last night, with Miya above me, the press of her skin on mine a fiery comfort, but it won’t stay. I keep returning to that stranger, the one who said my name and vanished. I can’t think of anything but that voice no matter how badly I want to recall the precise feel of Miya’s mouth creating possessive marks across my chest. I hear it even now, like a ghost.

  My heart jumps into my throat at a dark figure in my peripheral vision.

  “Vian,” says my sister. “It’s only me.”

  I let out my breath. If I had lost control—

  “Don’t,” she says. “Don’t think about things that never happened.”

  I scowl at her. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  “You’re my brother. I always know what you’re thinking.” She touches the back of my head with a gloved hand, looking at me with an expression I thought I would never see again, because I thought I would never see her again. It presses down on me again, forcing me breathless with the realisation that Kari is alive. That she’s been out here all this time. Looking for me.

  I become younger again. I’m not twenty anymore. I’m the fourteen year old boy thrown out by his parents because he wasn’t acting the way they wanted him to. The fourteen year old boy who loved and lost his sister less than a week after that. The fourteen year old boy alone in the world, with no conceivable idea of living without her.

  My eyes are pricking, my throat swelling with the tears I will not let myself cry.

  “Control it,” Kari says, low. “You can control your emotions, Vian. Nothing has the power to break you unless you let it.”

  I exhale, floored by another emotion, the one that keeps me fighting. I remember saying those exact words to Miya what feels like a lifetime ago, when I watched all the strength in her be replaced by a smaller, timid emotion. She looked lost. So lost—God, what could make her look like that? Miya. Unbreakable, untameable Miya—my Miya—lost? Unconceivable. But I saw it, I watched it take over her, and it was the worst thing to happen to me since the Fall.

  I would love—a vicious, avenging sort of love, different to the warmth and devotion I feel for Miya—to hunt down whatever villain made her look that way, and I would love to tear them limb from limb until they were nothing but a burst of atoms strewn across the air, until they were nothing.

  “Enough.” Kari’s touch becomes a sharp grip of my hair. “Find control.”

  She’s right. This isn’t me. My emotions are out of hand. I don’t really want to hunt down a monster from Miya’s past and tear them apart. Well, I do, but this is different. I would usually think about killing them but this is intense conviction. This is meaning it.

  I breathe out, shutting my eyes, and I find control. That one blinding spark that gives me clarity. Justice, I’m sure some people would call it. Others might call it kindness or necessity. For me it’s remembering my past, remembering what I don’t want to. It’s promising to make everything right.

  Revenge.

  Honour

  10:18. 08.11.2040. The Free Lands, Southlands, Plymouth.

  This is our last day in Plymouth and I can’t say I’m sad to leave it. I never formed any attachment to the guest house or the people—though they’re coming with us to Bharat so it wouldn’t matter if I had. The only person from this town I care about is my brother, Wes, and he’s really from Forgotten London.

  I stand with him at the side of the road, watching the planes fly over the sea and inland. Bharat’s aircrafts have arrived. We’re getting off this wretched island. Finally.

  “Ready to leave?” Wes asks, noticing my expression.

  “You have no idea.”

  He watches the silver aircrafts, amusement wrinkling his brow. “She’d have hated this.” He clarifies, “My Lia,” though I knew exactly who he was talking about. “
All this moving about from place to place, the new people, the strange transport. It’s better she died when she did.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “She loved that town. I know she’d have hated what happened to it.”

  Thalia did love Forgotten London. She might have moaned and whined about everything, but she loved it more than any of us did. I think she was the only one of us who was genuinely happy there.

  “It’s better she didn’t have to watch it Fall.”

  I think about that—really think about it. I decide he’s right. The people that died in the Fall of Forgotten London should still be alive, but is this a life worth living? Maybe it will be if the Guardians wrestle control from States. But that’s a pretty small maybe.

  I start to think a little differently about the dead. Thalia should be here with us, Marrin should be here, Alba should be here, but they’re probably better off where they are. At least there’s no pain, no certain failure, no excruciating grief.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Wes looks at me with a lopsided frown. “For what?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Just thanks.”

  “Well.” He rumples his sandy hair. “You’re welcome.”

  I can’t see the aircrafts anymore. They must have landed.

  “At least we’re all back together now,” Wes says, carrying on a conversation he began in his head.

  “Except for John,” I point out.

  “He’s a madman.” Wes catches my arm. “Has he told you what he’s trying to do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you believe him? About the President jumping through time?”

  I scratch the back of my neck. “I wouldn’t have before but—I have this … friend. He’s not from this time.”

  Wes shakes his head, laughing. “I love how casually you say that. You have a friend from the future?”

  “The past, actually. He’s from the 1800s. We’re not sure how he ended up here but it has something to do with a bracelet.”

  “A bracelet? That’s anticlimactic.”