Fly doesn’t respond. He’s crying too hard. I’m not sure he even hears me.
I walk into the kitchen.
There’s a body laid out on the kitchen table, a blanket pulled right over it. A small body, slim in build. I can’t look at it.
I find the bottle from last night, yank off the stopper, and take a swig for myself. I liked that kid. She was funny. She made me laugh. Even if half the time I couldn’t understand what the hell she was talking about.
I place the bottle back down on the counter and lean into it, letting my head hang. I’ve seen people die before. Fuck, I’ve killed people before. But this, this feels different. Personal.
I can still hear Fly blubbering away in the front room. So I find a glass, pour him an extra-large measure, then hesitate, and pour myself one too.
I notice my own hands are trembling as I walk back into the front room and kneel before the dude on the old hearth rug.
“Drink this, Fly,” I tell him, holding it out to him.
His gaze meets mine. Watery. Fragile.
“Come on,” I tell him sternly. “Drink it up.”
Fly reaches out to take the glass from me, but his hands are shaking even harder than mine, and it’s clear he’s going to spill the lot over himself. So I take it back from him, hold it to his mouth, pour it between his lips. He gulps it down, and I keep pouring until the lot’s gone.
“All right?” I say.
“Not really,” he murmurs back.
“Yeah,” I say, rocking onto my backside and taking another swig of my own drink. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“She died in my arms, Dray,” he says, “while I was holding her. I felt… so hopeless. So useless. There was nothing I could do.”
“There was nothing any of us could do. You’re not hopeless. You’re not useless. You were a good friend to her. I could see that,” I tell him. “I’m not sure that kid had many friends, but you made her feel special. You and Briony. She liked you a lot.”
“Oh stars,” he says, dragging his hand down his face. “Her parents. Her boyfriend.”
“Don’t worry about that right now,” I say. “Here, do you want some more?” I offer him up my own glass.
He slumps back on the sofa.
“Right now, all I want to do is get completely wasted and off my face, but I’m not sure it’s the best thing.”
“It’s the only thing to do in situations like this,” I tell him, knocking back more of the alcohol.
The front door opens and Beaufort and Thorne step inside, guiding Little Kitten between them. She looks no better than her friend. They lead her over to the sofa and push her down into its embrace. The dog pads over to her and licks at her hand. It starts Fly crying all over again, which sets Little Kitten off too.
Fuck. It even has me sniffling into my drink.
I hand her my glass, with only a few drops left in it, and tell her to drink. Then Beaufort’s beckoning toward me, and we walk back into the kitchen.
Both Thorne and Beaufort stop when they see the body on the table. We’re all silent, staring at it.
Then Beaufort shakes his head and snaps his gaze back to us.
“We can’t stay here,” he says. “We’ve got to leave.”
“That’s easier said than done,” I point out, “given the state those two are in, given the state we’re all in.” Thorne looks sick to the stomach, and even Beaufort looks far more shaken than I’ve ever seen him.
“It’s just about conceivable,” he continues, “that the Empress won’t have heard about our arrival in Slate Quarter. There’s no way she won’t have heard about this demon attack, and even if she doesn’t know that it was us that stopped it, they’re still going to send forces out here. It’s inevitable. We can’t hang around. We’ve got to leave.”
I glance back toward the body. The old blanket covers her up. It’s a quilt stitched together with care and attention but worn and patched up in places. It doesn’t feel quite right. The girl deserves more than that. A lot more.
