Page 95 of Snag
“Was it you who killed me?” I ask evenly. “You who severed all our soul bonds?”
Reck takes a breath— then another, even more ragged. His hands tighten on the steering wheel until the molded leather and steel groan under the pressure he’s exerting.
“No,” he rasps. “It wasn’t me. Not … by my hand, at least.”
He carries some sort of guilt over my first death. And Rought seems to think Reck’s done something that makes him dangerous to me, for me.
I give him space to elaborate. He doesn’t. Though the tension threading through his hands and up through his shoulders eases a little as more minutes, then another quarter hour, pass in silence.
The landscape continues to change around us as weclose in on the barrens and the essence-scorched plateaus that run all the way to the base of the Rocky Mountains just over the border into Idaho.
Reck has been driving at double any reasonable speed limit the whole way. Not that I’ve seen any posted signs or monitoring devices. And even though the road is nearly dead straight and not that badly maintained, the vehicle doesn’t run smoothly at this velocity.
The multitiered breakdown of the political landscape of North America over a century ago destroyed much of the verdant farmlands, the vineyards and orchards that once defined this area. Closer to the mountains and rivers, nature is slowly reclaiming the territory. These so-called wilds are vastly different than the overgrown sections of the coast that the Outcast MC is claiming and rehabilitating. Rather than slowly crumbling from neglect as it is along the coastline, any hint of civilization has been scrubbed from these lands.
Random ranger-overseen outposts pop up all along the highway, all the way through the rest of Oregon and into Idaho. I’m fairly certain those outposts are more for emergency situations rather than being continually occupied. Again, the overall governance of the wilds of Cascadia is … spotty.
If I were to roll my window down, I might catch the scent of dire-mage-wrought essence still etched deeply into the earth. Or of the weapons the nulls deployed to stop those mages from claiming this previously resource-rich land.
A trio of my Gage ancestors stepped in to quell the conflict in this area, then helped define and fortify the newly drawn borders between Canada to the northeast, the Navajo Nation to the east, and California to the south.
Not that the name ‘Gage’ appears in any null-written history books. Within those pages, only the deployment of a weapon of mass destruction is mentioned. With nothing of note about the miraculous recovery from that nuclear fallout.
“It’s ironic,” I say, catching sight of essence scorch marks still marring the barren rock out my window. “For a dire awry to choose this as her meeting spot.”
“The border between Cascadia and California isn’t as fortified as the border between Cascadia and the Navajo Nation.” Reck flicks his thumb to indicate the GPS map on the dashboard. We’re still at least an hour away from the location pin that has updated three times on Reck’s map, always moving farther east. As if someone is silently sending through new coordinates. “Even so, Bellamy can retreat in two directions from here, then cross into Canada or the US.”
“The United States is practically walled off.”
“It’s the border between the US and the Federation, and between the Federation and Mexico, that’s fortified to that extent. Everyone who shares a border with Cascadia and California has been easing crossings for the last decade or so, especially trade.”
I hum thoughtfully, not all that interested in the conversation. Though the fact that Reck is speaking to me with actual civility is a nice change. International borders never impacted me much as Zaya Gage, and they certainly don’t impact the Conduit from moving where the universe wills her.
And yes, I’m still ignoring that the universe actively doesn’t want me in this vehicle, or with Reck, or perhaps both.
My phone screen flickers, then blacks outagain. Either Coda is still working on breaking through Reck’s Authority-issued black box, or the awry tech is just letting me know they have eyes on me.
Another fifteen minutes pass in silence.
So many lost years, lost memories, and shared moments stretch between me and the shifter at my side. Yet neither of us has anything to say to the other.
“You don’t remember,” Reck finally says as if picking up my thoughts, not even glancing my way. It’s a confirmation, not a question. “You don’t remember us. You don’t remember that night. You don’t remember dying.”
“I have vague memories of waking,” I say, keeping my gaze out the side window.
It hurts, I realize. Somewhere buried deep inside me, it hurts that he obviously doesn’t give a shit about me. Mack’s photos and my conversations with Rought and Rath truly had me believing differently.
Reck takes another breath as if to speak, still not looking at me. But he doesn’t voice whatever follow-up question he had.
“There are no threads between us,” I say.
“I don’t know what that means,” he snaps.
“Had you manifested your beast?” I ask, slightly detached. Not numb, but focused, waiting for whatever the universe is trying to shield me from. “That night. When I died. Had you manifested?”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference against him,” Reck says, not wholly believing it. The half-lie filters through to me easily.
“So yes.”
