Page 105 of Cage of Starlight
Oh, and Tory’s clumsy promises of the world they could build. Tory’swait, Tory’swe’ll find a way.
Now is a terrible time to want to believe in it, a terrible time to admit, like the weak creature he is, that he wants to live. That he could be someone better, fuller—together. Sena wasn’t lying before. Therearemore important things than survival. Living, now that he’s found someone worth living for, is one of them.
It could have been, anyway.
The flap of his tent shifts open—Tory returning, no doubt—and Sena doesn’t dare open his eyes. He rarely has the right words for anything. Finding the ones to tell Torythismight be impossible.
He does not have five days, or a day.
His Core is already dead.
*
In the flickering lamplight in Riese’s tent, Tory perches on a box, ready to kill.
“Youwhat?”
Riese flips placidly through a pile of documents in the far corner. “I wanted you to meet Yized, since she’ll be helping you. Sena didn’t tell you about her?”
Sena’s had a lot on his mind and is a half-step shy of delirium. Sena is not the one Tory blames for not telling him. “She’s from the Compound! The Core you said you’d remove? She put it in me!”
“Funny thing,” Helner drawls. “You’re from the Compound, too.”
“I’m not—”
“Give her a chance,” Riese says. “I’ve known her much longer than I’ve known you. She’s saved a lot of lives for us . . . though she’s a real bitch about it. Keeps asking for money.”
Helner smiles sweetly. “If you think anyone gets a single thing in this world for free, you’re delusional, dear.”
Riese purrs, “I can be very persuasive.”
“Oh, I know. It’s why I never linger. I hate sticky men.”
Tory stands. “Are we finished here?”
Riese keeps ruffling through papers. “Sit. Give me a minute. I could tell you, but it’s better if you see.”
Tory drops back down on the box, kicks his knee up and down, runs the pads of his fingers over the coarse slacks of his combat fatigues. Wishes for a change of clothes. Wishes he were back by the fire—wishes he were as far as he can get from all of it. It’s the most relaxed conversation he’s ever had with Sena, but that’s what made it so wrong.
Sena told him about his fuckingbird.
Tory’s mother was like that in her final days. She stopped paying attention to the big things. Her focus narrowed to him—to them. To the final meal they foraged from the woods for themselves. She held him close and alternated between sweet melancholy and fear. Told him stories, told him (again and again) how to protect himself once he was out. Stroked his hair and kissed his forehead and promised there was a wide world out there full of every wonderful thing except her.
If I’m still alive five days from now, Sena said. He, too, is already telling stories of a future he doesn’t expect to share with Tory.
Tory was eight the last time he felt such dread. No wonder he didn’t recognize it. It’s been a lifetime since he got so close to someone he could lose.
Years have dulled the grief of his mother’s loss, butthis—Sena who wants a quiet house in the trees with his dumb bird, who has five days to live free or a lifetime to live under torture, in servitude. Sena shaking on that log, fevered and fading. The tentative way he leaned against Tory, like nearness was something he would have denied him. Who’s to say he even has five days?
It’s worse than any pain Tory can recall, like hot ropes strung around his chest, tightening.
That’s why this was stupid.
He’sstupid, just like Niela. How could he let it get this far?
He kicks his knee harder, brings a thumb to his mouth to chew at it. He pulls a strip of dry skin away with his teeth, hisses at a spark of pain. Blood wells up, and Tory presses his tongue to it, tastes copper.
He wants, and he wants, and hewants, but right now, he wants not to hurt. To be able to walk and not look back. He couldn’t even do that with Thatcher, though.
