Free A Latent Dark by Martin Kee Page B

rhythmic, until James closed his eyes as if nothing had happened at all. But Skyla lay awake until her heart stopped racing. Eventually the sound of morning birds gently nudged her into unconsciousness.
    *
    She awoke the next morning feeling groggy and tired. She nearly closed her eyes again until she realized that the fold-up bed was hidden in the wall. Events from the night before still drifted in and out of her memory like a tide. A beam of sunlight stabbed at her face. Her tongue tasted like something had died there and her eyes still ached with fatigue.
    James sat at the dining table, his face unreadable. She opened her mouth to greet him and then closed it. He was looking at her as though she were a deer he might shoot. Skyla’s heart skipped a beat. She had seen that look before on every street in Bollingbrook, on every citizen as they crossed themselves when she passed. She saw it on the faces of beggars who would turn away from her and groan.
    “What are you?” said James, as if talking to himself.
    His elbows rested on the table, his fingers steepled.
    Skyla said nothing.
    “What are you?” he said again, directing the question at her.
    Skyla’s mind drifted to the axe that sat embedded in the stump outside.
    “What do you mean?” she asked.
    James flexed his fingers on the table. “You aren’t from Bollingbrook,” he said. “I’ve met the people up the hill.”
    “Why would I lie?” Her voice was small, unable to believe what she was hearing.
    “Because,” he said, waving at her leather backpack. “Bollingbrook is industrial, but I’ve never seen arcane technology like those goggles come from there.”
    “I told you,” she tried to keep her voice even. “They aren’t from Bollingbrook—”
    “Oh, I know,” he said rolling his eyes. “They were a gift .”
    He spat the word like a curse.
    “They were a gift.” She felt her cheeks growing warm.
    “Sure they were,” he said coolly.
    Skyla stifled a gasp. She knew that if she spoke her voice would tremble and crack.
    “You know who does make arcane artifacts?” he asked.
    She said nothing.
    “Rhinewall,” he said. “And do you know the sort of folk who steal things from Rhinewall?”
    She only glared at him, her mouth set in a line.
    “Bandits, that’s who. How long were you going to scope my house out before your Lassimir buddies broke in? A week? Were you going to case my cabin and then move on up to Bollingbrook and scam whoever you could up there?”
    “I told you!” She was furious now.
    “Oh, yes,” he said. “You’re from Bollingbrook. Let me guess, you’re the only poor one there, I bet. Explain to me what ‘orphan’ can afford a private school uniform.”
    “It’s my—”
    “Your story stinks .” His eyes were small pinpricks now. “I’ve met the Bollingbrook folk. They are good people, honest hardworking people who did not once lie to me.”
    He punctuated “once” by slamming his hands on the table, palms open. It rang like a gunshot in the silence. Skyla jumped and wiped a tear from her cheek. She turned away. She could see where this was going.
    This is my curse , she thought, rising from the couch as if being barked at by an angry dog; she collected her things.
    James continued to rant. “How long have you been doing this? You get a stranger to take you in, you look at his house and then what? Bandits? Thieves…”
    She did not dare look at him. His ranting was almost hysterical, as if he were no longer angry with her, but terrified of her.
    And he was.
    He almost sounds like he’s trying to convince himself nothing happened last night, she thought. And then a more troubling thought crept into her mind: Why did it go after him and not me? I thought they were following me.
    The thought passed through and left like a breeze out a window, disrupted by the tirade.
    “You tell your thieving cohorts that James Mulligan would sooner shoot them in the face than let one of your ilk stay here ever