Damnable Grace
Page 51

“What would you read?” She laid her head on my shoulder.
“Whatever you wished,” I said, stroking the hair from her face. I kissed her head again and felt her body grow heavy with tiredness.
“I would like that,” she said sleepily. “I . . . I miss you, Phebe. I want you with me always. But when I ask, they tell me to be patient.” She shook her head. “I am not so good with patience, I think.” She sighed, nudging her cheek into a more comfortable position. I squeezed her as tightly as I could without hurting her.
“I . . .” I clenched my eyes together, ridding them of water. “I miss you too, sweetheart.”
I could not take the pain in my heart. Such devastating pain. I needed more drink. I needed to forget. The drink, the potion, made me forget.
I opened my eyes and wiped away the water clouding my vision, preparing to search for more alcohol. When my focus improved, I took in the sight before me. A thick covering of trees surrounded wherever I was. My eyebrows pulled down in confusion, and I swallowed the dryness from my throat. Nerves built inside me as I tried to remember why I was here.
This was not Lilah’s home. It was not New Zion . . .
Meister. Ice trickled down my spine and my heart kicked into an erratic beat. Had he found me somehow? A faint clattering noise came from somewhere behind me. I froze, my muscles strained.
I steadied my breathing as I worked up the courage to turn. I was not sure I could move, but I had to. If it was Meister, he would not leave me alone for long.
I turned and looked cautiously through the windows of the truck, using its body as a shield. A few yards away was a small wooden house, with what looked like a fire pit, and a couple of chairs beside it. The front door was open
Another clattering noise drifted from inside.
Fear ran thick in my veins as I tried to see through the windows. I could see someone moving inside, but could not see beyond blurred shapes and the reflection of the rising sun off the glass pane. I tried frantically to think of last night, of the days leading up to this moment. But my memories were scattered and difficult to pin down. The pounding in my head made it almost impossible to think straight.
I glanced around me, looking for a path, a way out, when suddenly, I heard someone approaching the front door from inside. I crouched against the side of the truck, my heart racing. I peered over the hood, and in the gloom of the hallway I glimpsed a pair of booted feet, then denim-clad legs. A hand, holding three full trash bags . . .
. . . and then he stepped out into the light.
AK.
I sagged against the truck. He brought the bags to the truck and threw them into the back. There were many bags there already. He wiped his head with his forearm. I could not take my eyes from him, from his large frame, his many tattoos, his dark hair in disarray.
AK pulled a cigarette from his back pocket and brought it to his mouth. The smell of smoke drifted on the breeze. He moved to the driver’s side door, opened it and reached inside. He pulled out the leather that had cradled my head as I slept. It was his vest, the one that showed he was with the Hangmen. He put it on over his tank and looked around. I didn’t have time to pretend I was not hiding before his gaze met mine.
I pushed away from the truck and brushed my fingers through my hair. I looked down and saw for the first time what I was dressed in. Soft black pants, which were too big but held up by the string around my waist, and a black tank with the devil on the front. On my feet were sandals.
AK’s boots crunched on the gravel as he walked around the hood of the truck and stopped before me. I kept my head down.
My face set on fire when I realized I was standing next to the vomit on the ground.
“How you feeling?” AK’s deep voice cut through my embarrassment.
I lifted my head and saw the concern in his eyes. I opened my mouth to give him the rote falsehood that was my usual answer to such questions. But something within me would not let me speak such things. The way AK watched me, the way his dark eyes penetrated mine, I knew he would sense the deception. So I answered honestly, “Terrible.” I felt my stomach sink at how weak I had become.
“No doubt,” he said. “Come in. I’ve finished cleaning it now. Wasn’t gonna bring you in until I’d got it livable again.”
I watched AK’s back as he walked away. He stopped near the front door and turned. “The sun’s almost up, and with the motherfucker of a hangover that’s gonna be coming your way, I wouldn’t wanna be standing out in the sun too long.”
I looked up to the sky, to the cloudless morning and the bright sun beginning to spread its rays. The bright light felt like daggers in my eyes. I walked toward the small cabin. It looked different to AK’s home—smaller and less refined. Yet it still held a kind of charm.
Arms folded across my waist, I walked across the threshold of the house. The walls were wooden, as were the floors. The floor was gleaming and smelled fresh, of lemons. To the right, there was a kitchen area with a small table. The white cabinets looked old and chipped, but they too were freshly cleaned.
Faded sofas sat to the left, with a table in front of them. There were three other doors that led to somewhere else. I edged in further, noticing more. The walls were bare but for several heads of animals that were mounted on plaques. I stepped closer to one of the walls. Several faded spots marred the old wood. Square and rectangle shapes, where there had clearly once been pictures or paintings of some sort. But they were gone now.
I caught a flicker of movement from my right. AK was walking out of one of the doors. He saw me at the wall, and his face clouded with something I could not decipher. He turned and walked to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of orange juice. He poured it into a glass. “Sit at the table,” he said.
Still not knowing where we were or why we were here—why I was here with him—I did as I was told. As I sat down, I placed my hand over my stomach, fighting back the need to purge. I wondered if AK kept any alcohol in his kitchen, hidden in a cabinet somewhere.
A glass of orange juice was placed before me. AK moved to another cupboard and took out a small bottle. “Take these with the juice,” AK said, sitting down in the other seat beside me and placing two blue pills on the tabletop.
“What are these?” I took hold of the juice with shaking hands.
“Gonna help with the head,” he replied. “Take them.”
I forced the pills down my throat with the juice, then put the glass down when I could stomach no more. The silence was thick between us. The few times I found the courage to look up at AK, he was watching me. And his expression looked angry. His skin was marked with scratches, red and thick, on his cheeks, neck and chest.