Phoenix

Conversations

She didn't remember how she got to the spare bedroom in the Tavern, or came to be lying in the bed, staring into the storm grey eyes of Eli. But somehow it had happened. And somehow, Eli's usual mask of disconnect had cracked down the middle and his brow had creased in a deep furrow of concern.

She blinked and felt her lashes stick together from residue salty tears. She tried to swallow, but her throat muscles were like a kinked hose, saliva gathered on her tongue and dribbled down her cheek. Eli wiped the drool with the corner of a cool, wet towel like one would do a baby before transferring the towel into a large basin next to her bed, dipping, wringing the fabric out, then placing it on her neck. She sighed as the coolness bled the heat from her skin, providing temporary relief from the swollen, constrictive pain.

He lifted her arm. "Freia has been restrained in your dormitory in Phoenix cave. She's no longer a threat to you." He inspected the cuts made by Freia's sharpened nails, applying a brine-smelling salve directly to the wounds and rubbing. "Oroton gave her a sedative to calm her down. She's sleeping."

Ash hissed. The salve, once it had penetrated the dried, caked blood, stung. Eli continued to work it into her skin with procedural precision. Once the salve was dry to touch, he placed her arm back on the mattress and retrieved a folded note from his pocket. "I believe this is yours?"

She didn't take the note—just studied his expression for any change in demeanour to indicate he'd read its contents.

Eli placed the note on her bedside table next to the bowl of cold water. "The Wanderers do not condemn those who act under inevitable circumstances," he said. "You should know that."

His words hung in the air, eluding meaning. Either he'd read the note, or he knew what it contained. Perhaps Freia had exposed her after all. The thought made all the dull aches in her battered body rise to the fore of her conscious. The ache between her eyes where a migraine had settled, the sting on her arm smothered in salve, the painful pulse of the bruised veins on her neck.

But Eli didn't seem angry. He merely took a deep, constricted breath as though he were the one with the swollen throat. "I think it's time I told you what really happened on the night Heather died."

As usual, it wasn't what Ash had expected him to say and despite the fact that she couldn't speak if she tried, she wouldn't have known what to say.

Eli took another constricted breath. "Heather and I were deeply connected. I called it love. But Heather? Her feelings were perhaps not love, but dependence." With a slight shake of his head, he went on. "She came from a broken family like mine. Her mother was addicted to gambling, as was my father. Her father disappeared from her life before she could remember, as had my mother. We were both children of Outcasts, born just before the zero-child policy. She had a sister, I had a brother. It was like we were two halves of the same person—both born of fire, but two complementary parts—I was the coal, she was the flame.

"We met by chance on the docks of the Sansa river—the spot where it used to run beneath Junction Bridge. The river has since dried up, but they used to gather there to transport goods from one side of the city to the other. Back then, I would go once a week to trade black market fruits from the island for medical supplies and food not so easily supplemented in our diets such as flour and dried meats.

"I overheard Heather in a heated argument with a man who'd tried to shortchange her for a deck of hand-painted playing cards she'd sold him. He'd suggested she make up the rest with a favour of his choice while sneering and sticking his hand down his waders. She'd smiled sweetly and proceeded to burn a large dick-shaped hole in the fabric.

"That was Heather. Fiery and unpredictable and when I brought her to the Paradise, it was like watching a flamingo come into its colour. She was the most talented with her force, well-liked and well-respected. We became inseparable friends. I told her everything—how my father used to get drunk and beat my older brother into week-long comas. How we'd have to scrounge around in the dumpsters for food because he'd spend all his money on the golden brew. In return, she told me about the time her mother had tried to sell her to a Madame just to pay off her gambling debt.