Cut Deck: Lone Player, #2

PROLOGUE

Monday, July 31

The vase shatters when it hits the floor.

It’s blue and ugly. The vase, not the bird—although the bird is blue too.

The vase isn’t really much of anything anymore. Which is good, because I’ve spent my whole life hating it. I just never had the guts to throw it out.

But I’m too busy chasing the bird around my kitchen with a broom to thank it for breaking the ugly thing.

The bird rebounds like the collision never happened—a flurry of flapping wings and stray feathers that blanket the floor. Beads of sweat glide down my back as I swat at the creature, careful not to actually hit it. The bird chirps in alarm, but instead of flying toward the open sliding glass door, it circles the ceiling fan again, bumping into cabinets with every frantic zig-zag. It’s like it can’t even see the way out.

But that’s impossible. The door is open. The windows are open.

There is every way out, and the bird chooses to stay trapped.

Its next victim is an expensive-looking oil painting of a white rabbit. A picture frame. A wooden cutting board, which clatters so loudly it scares the bird into increased hysteria. But above all else, what really makes my teeth grind is the cereal box it knocks over next.

The box flies off the island and lands on the floor, adding cornflakes to the sea of feathers. I curse under my breath. I was going to eat that.

With a sigh, I use the back of my hand to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I’ve been at this for half an hour, and nothing seems to work. Maybe it’ll go away if I ignore it. I lean against my broom and glance up at the fan, which spins but hardly addresses the heat drifting in from outside. When it’s gone, I can close the windows. I scan the ceiling for the bird—but it’s nowhere to be seen.

Before I can celebrate, something blue catches my eye.

The bird stands in the pile of spilled cornflakes, pecking at the cereal like it’s lived here as long as I have.

I frown. Those can’t be good for him.

As I crouch by the mess and watch the bird eat, it either doesn’t notice me, or doesn’t care that I’m there. I swat at it with my hand. It doesn’t budge. I point my broom at it instead. Go.

The bird ignores my demand.

I glare. "There’s gotta be cornflakes somewhere else. Now get."

Before I can make another threat, someone knocks on the door.

Slowly, I rise to my feet and glance over my shoulder to study the foyer. I didn’t order anything, did I?

Three more knocks cut through the silence, neatly spaced and perfectly timed. So it’s not a package. I turn around and point at the bird. We’ll discuss this later.

With my jaw clenched and broom in hand, I walk toward the foyer. Who would want anything to do with me on a Monday morning?

I open the door, saying, "Were my instructions unclear last week? I thought I already told you exactly where to install those solar panels, and believe me, they won’t get any sun where they’re going…"

A young woman with long black hair stands on my porch holding a duffel bag. She wears a pair of deeply tinted shades—and a suit as dark as night.

Every drop of blood in my veins ices over. My shoulders stiffen, and I blink a dozen times to ensure I’m seeing straight. Shades. Suit. A holster on her belt, carrying something that looks awfully similar to a black Nightjade gun.

Only one occupation requires a uniform like that.

But the panic subsides when my gaze settles on the cobalt ribbon pinned to the back of her hair.

Jade Silva? I can’t suppress a smirk when I lean against the doorframe. I look her up and down with a chuckle. How long has it been? Three years? Four?

Agent J. Sparrow, she corrects. She holds up a dark blue poker chip before shoving it back in her pocket. Her brows crease as she takes in my disheveled hair, the feather-covered broom, and my current state of shirtlessness. I’m here on business.

So formal. I toss the broom aside and cross my arms. To what do I owe the pleasure?

Jade hesitates, then slowly removes her sunglasses. I miss the chance to be alarmed by the look in her eyes before the words come out. Your brother is dead.

I blink.

Somewhere beyond her, beyond me, a car drives by. A gust of wind bends a pine branch. A robin plucks a worm from my lawn before flying away.

Well don’t just stand there. Come on in. I turn around and head inside, leaving the door open. You know your way around. Make yourself at home.

Jade closes the door, following close behind as I cut through the foyer and into the kitchen. I pause in front of the espresso machine on the counter. How do you take your coffee again?

Mal—

Cinnamon. I snap my fingers. You always put cinnamon in your coffee.

Mal, I don’t think this is a good time⁠—

It’s always a good time for coffee. I preheat the machine and start measuring the grounds, spilling a few.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Jade part her lips, then close them. She takes a seat at one of the barstools lining the island and sets the duffel bag on the counter. She folds her hands together over the marble, observing the mess on the floor. She doesn’t mention it. I tamp the grounds and get the machine going after a few fumbles. My hands shake.

I find the broom again and busy myself by sweeping up the cornflakes while we wait. I don’t see the bird anywhere. Maybe it finally left.

Is that your grandmother’s old vase? Jade’s question splinters the silence.

My throat tightens. I glance at her, then at the shards of blue and white ceramic on the ground. I nod.

She shakes her head. You’re lucky your dad isn’t here to see that mess. He’d kill you.

I nod again, flex my fingers into fists, then relax them. Yup.

She asks no further questions as I clean the broken vase.

Eventually, I prepare our coffee, remembering to add cinnamon to Jade’s—and extra honey for good measure. I slide her a mug and down half my drink in one gulp. God, that’s good stuff.

Jade doesn’t touch her coffee. Mal…

So glad I went ahead and splurged. I slap the espresso machine and turn around to study it. I take another sip. I’m thoroughly convinced that I wouldn’t survive without this thing.

"Mallory. I freeze. Jade lowers her voice. Did you hear what I said?"

I glance over my shoulder at her, then turn back around. I heard you just fine.

I can’t look at her, so I drink the rest of my coffee and bring my mug to the sink.

I don’t think you’re understanding the severity of your situation right now. Your brother was… She bites her lip.

A knot forms in my throat, and I swallow through it. I know what he was.

And that’s exactly the problem. She stands up and walks over to where I stand, hugging her abdomen. Without your father’s position, you’d be in a refrigerated truck halfway to New Mexico by now.

It’s quiet. Through the still-open sliding glass door and windows, a bird chirps cheerfully. My voice lowers. Is that where Randy is?

No.

I start washing my mug. Why not?

She stares at her shoes, then at me. I made arrangements for you.

The mug is clean now, so I scrub a pan instead, knuckles clenched. You didn’t have to do that.

Of course I did. She almost sounds hurt. Undergrounder or not, Randy deserves a funeral.

The pan is crusted with burnt eggs. No matter how thoroughly I scrape it, or how much soap I slather it in, nothing changes. I should’ve let it soak overnight.

Is that what you arranged? I scrub the pan harder. His funeral?

Well…not exactly.

I pause. And what do you mean by that?

Jade sighs, unzips the duffel bag, and pulls out an urn.

Carefully, she sets it on the counter. It’s blue and white, just like the shattered vase I thought I was finally rid of. My breath catches in my lungs.

Please don’t be mad at me, she says, her voice nearly a whisper.

My legs tremble. How did he…

He was finally caught. Got mixed up in some Underground operation that went south. She stares at her hands. They exterminated him at a training facility a few hours south of here.

I nod.

Randy doesn’t belong in the Tombs, Mal. She stares at the urn, eyes glossy. I couldn’t let them send his body there.

I swallow. Thank you.

But…there are other arrangements in place too.

I return to the pan, clutching the handle with white knuckles.

You knew Randy better than anyone, Jade says. Even after he…disappeared…I think deep down, you knew what he was up to.

I hold back a nod. All I can do is stare at the pan.

This is what the Agency thinks too. Especially my father.

I scoff. How is Agent Canary doing, anyway? Still pressed about the last time he caught me climbing out of your window?

Jade glares. I’m being serious here.

My fingers are already wrinkling from the water, but I keep it running. Go on.

Traitors don’t usually get nice funerals, Mal. She sighs. But your father wasn’t usual, and by default, neither are his sons.

I’m aware.

As Head of House, Agent Canary has agreed to make an exception to the rules, given who your father was, and…what you were. To me.

I scrub the pan hard enough for the sponge to finally cut through the crust. So no refrigerated trucks for Randy.

She pauses. You can have a nice ceremony for him. I can help, if you’d like.

But there’s a catch.

Jade sighs. If you were anybody else, even with your Immunity, you’d be exterminated for your brother’s associations. In the eyes of the law, you’re just as much of a traitor as he was. Her voice is stern. You realize this, right?

My neck twitches. I keep my eyes fixed to my task. Yup.

It took some…convincing, but Agent Canary is willing to offer you a pardon. Under one condition.

And what would that be?

Jade hesitates. There are shoes for you to fill.

I drop the pan. It rings so loudly against the sink’s steel that Jade nearly jumps back. No.

Mal, listen to me⁠—

I get back to scrubbing. Not happening.

Just think about it for a second, okay?

There’s not a chance in hell, Jade. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

But—

They’ve been sending me letters and knocking on my door for years, and there’s a reason why they never hear back. I shake my head. "It’s not happening."

You need to be realistic here, she says between clenched teeth. "Your brother ran off to join the Underground. Randy was a traitor, so they killed him for it. It doesn’t matter that you stayed put or inherited your father’s Immunity, alright? Policy will earn you that exact same fate if you don’t agree to this deal. The only reason you’re still breathing is because I’m the one who begged my father to make an exception. Your dad was one of the greatest Agents this region has ever seen, and Canary still needed convincing."

If they want me to join so bad, then why did he need convincing in the first place?

My father has his…motivations. But you know how the Corps feels about legacies and success rates. He has higher ups who are eager to see if the son of Agent Finch will bring them the same results his father did.

So it’s political.

It doesn’t matter.

My hands feel like they might fall off, but I keep scrubbing. I’m not joining.

You’re being ridiculous.

Am I?

They’ll kill you if you don’t agree to this, Mal!

You of all people should know how I feel about putting on a suit.

How you feel about it doesn’t exactly matter here, alright? This is your only option.

I grind my teeth. I don’t realize my fingers are stinging until I see pink skin and blood under my nails. It’s not the only one.

Jade scoffs. Do you even hear yourself right now?

I abandon the pan and shut off the faucet, finally turning to face her. "You said it yourself, Jade. If enlisting is filling in his shoes, the alternative is looking pretty damn friendly."

She looks at me like I’ve just plunged a knife through her ribcage. You don’t mean that.

And what if I do?

Her eyes widen, and a twinge of guilt twists in my gut. I grip the sink with both hands, let my head hang low, then bring it back up to study her. The quivering of her jaw. The gloss over her gaze.

God. I hate it when she looks at me like that. I close my eyes and take a deep, shaking breath. She could get me to do anything, couldn’t she?

When I open them again, she’s still staring at me.

"You need this pardon. I need this pardon. And if you can’t bring yourself to do it for me—her voice cracks, and she softens it—do it for Randy."

She stares at the urn, and I do too. Tangled within the florals glazed over its surface, I notice a bluebird with its wings outstretched, carrying an olive branch in its beak.

It’s what he would have wanted, she says.

My throat burns. It feels like my heart is lodged inside it, pounding in my ears and mouth. I nail my eyes to that painted bird to keep the room from spinning.

Agents have privileges, you know. Resources. She looks at me. You could get answers.

I glance down at her, then back at the bird.

Don’t you want to know where Randy disappeared to? She hesitates. Or what happened to him in the end?

I want to tell her no—that I have the urn and places I think my brother would like to be as a dead person, and that I don’t need answers. That would be the reasonable reality, wouldn’t it? Pretending I already have the closure I’ve been starving for, no matter how unbearable the hunger pains may be?

But in spite of the shoes, in spite of myself—there is a deeply rooted part of me that wants to know. Something tells me this is my only chance to get answers.

Am I really ready to die without knowing what happened?

Just…think about it, okay? Jade grabs her bag and walks toward the door. The collection of drunk voicemails in my inbox tells me you still have my number. Use it by the end of the week.

She pauses, giving me one last look before putting her shades back on. Thanks for the coffee.

I stare at the mug as she lets herself out. It’s still untouched.

I’m not sure how long I stand here with my palms pressed against the countertop, staring at the veins in the marble, trying to notice a pattern I can’t find. When that becomes too much, I look at the bird on the urn again.

I’m not surprised about the way things turned out for Randy; I’ve been waiting for this day ever since he ran off. He knew what he was signing up for, and I knew it too. I thought I’d broken into the acceptance stage by now—that it would be soft and easy to wear, like a well-used pair of shoes.

I grip the edge of the counter so tightly it burns. Then why does it feel like I’m still getting blisters?

My foot taps. I stare at the marble again. The urn. The remaining feathers and cereal on the floor. The chipped paint on the wall, previously hidden by a painting. Jade’s cold mug of coffee. I can see my reflection within it, with cinnamon where my freckles should be.

I swipe my arm across the counter, and the mug goes flying.

It hits the floor and shatters. Dark liquid spreads over the black and white checkered tile I’m sure my dad paid a fortune for. I wonder if it’ll stain.

I pull away from the island and run my hands through my hair. I pace back and forth. I kick a cabinet and stub my toe. I cuss out the cabinet and pull at my hair again. I squeeze my eyes shut. My pacing quickens. Every heartbeat feels like someone’s punching my throat. I walk past one of the fallen paintings, and I kick my foot through it. My vision blurs and my ears ring and my lungs feel like they’re shrinking, and the ceiling is caving in, and it grows closer, and closer, and I can’t take a single full breath, and everything is shrinking, and I’m shrinking, and⁠—

My fist cracks into the wall.

I freeze, palms planted against it, shoulders hunched up to my ears. Even as my breathing slows, my hands won’t stop shaking.

A chirp emits from the corner of the kitchen by the sliding glass door.

Slowly, I walk over to investigate—and my heart rises into my throat.

Sprawled out on the floor and drenched in sunlight, a bluebird rests on its back with crooked, outstretched wings. It faces the open door, studying the grass outside and the sky overhead. It’s a nice day for Seattle. There isn’t a tile closer to freedom in the entire kitchen.

What a beautiful place to twitch, and twitch, and stop.

I stand there for a long time, unsure if I should blame the bird or the cage that killed it, watching the light shift with a passing cloud. A breeze enters through the open windows and tangles my hair. Somewhere out there, a lawnmower starts, and another bird sings. I want to cry. I should cry. But I don’t.

There was every way out.

A feather falls onto my head. I look up again, and I have my answer for Jade.

My nails carve into the flesh of my palms. I watch the ceiling fan spin, dropping feathers with every rotation. Morning light seeps through the windows. The urn’s glaze catches it with a glint.

I’m going to find the person who put my brother in there.

And when I do, there will be no way out.

EDDIE

Monday, April 1

64 Beds Made

♪ I Hope I Become a Ghost - The Deadly Syndrome ♪

I have no shortage of uncertainties, but there’s one thing I know for a fact: the Vermillion Keep is definitely haunted.

I wake before sunrise. There is no light when I blink my world into place. Even while I stretch and pat my face to make sure I’m still here, I can’t see a single inch of my own skin.

The air in my room tastes like it’s spent decades in a canning jar. A deep, strained breath of it helps soothe the dull ache in my head, but only a little. It never really goes away.

I drag myself out of bed and check the window. There is only more darkness when I part the drapes. Good, I note. No one will see me leave. I close the curtains and walk back over to my bed to begin wrangling the comforter back into place.

I never believed in making beds before End Harbor. What I once saw as wasted time is now a habit I execute without thinking, like breathing. It’s easier to make beds than count the days that pass me by.

I make my bed for the sixty-fourth time.

I grab my knife, lace up my boots, and tiptoe across the room, relying on touch alone to reach my closet. I slip inside a brown wool sweater, my rust-orange puffer jacket, and the only pair of jeans I own before clipping my sheathed blade to one of the belt loops. The jeans are two sizes too big and faded with age, but I can’t bring myself to care. This whole town feels like a second-hand outfit anyway.

There isn’t much furniture in my room, making it easier to navigate in the dark. Either way, I’ve been here long enough to have its layout memorized. A closet next to the entry door. A quilted bed whose headboard sticks to the right wall. A bathroom with a clawfoot tub that’s chipped in five places. An old wood nightstand, and a matching dresser across from the bed. A salt-stained window overlooking the sea.

That’s what my world has been reduced to.

I make my way to my nightstand and instinctively reach out to grab the jackalope and cow carvings I keep there, but my hand pauses two inches away, suspended in midair. Guilt twists my stomach. Remember what Aaron said about sneaking around?

I frown. Screw that.

I grab the carvings and shove them deep into the pockets of my jeans, flinching when my hand brushes against something cold. Something metal. A shudder runs through me.

I never go anywhere without Aaron’s carvings, but carrying Carmody’s lighter with me is a different kind of need. A reminder that I can’t bring myself to get rid of, no matter how many times I’ve tried. A toll.

I pull out the lighter and walk toward the door as quietly as I can.

I twist the knob and open the door, wincing when a chime rings through the corridor. I squeeze my eyes shut, and open them when the sound fades. I wait for someone to stir. To my luck, I am the only one here.

In the dark I can make out enough of my surroundings to notice a familiar brass bell hanging from the top of my door frame—one that I definitely remember disabling yesterday. I grit my teeth. I’m going to kill him.

I stand on my toes to reach up and remove it, but it’s screwed in place. With a glare, I close my door and move forward, mindful of the bell.

The floor is soft beneath my shoes as I tiptoe down the hall. It’s a stretch of lush emerald carpet that’s been here since the Yesterdays, like most of the Vermillion. Or all of town. I assume it was in much better condition before the Wandering drove every End Harbor resident elsewhere. Today, the carpet is rough and faded, distorted by layers and layers of old footsteps. Ruined by those who are now nothing but ghosts.

I rub my eyes as I walk, unsure of how much sleep I really got last night. True rest is fleeting these days. Though I have no alarm here at End Harbor, I have unintentionally formed an internal clock, one that always pulls me from slumber long before the first tendrils of light seep through my curtains. I occupy hours of solitude, rising and falling before and after everyone else.

This is how I know the Vermillion Keep is haunted. When you stay up late and wake up early with little rest in between, your eyes are open while others’ are shut. You come to understand certain things that most don’t have the chance to realize.

You see ghosts.

They say the hotel has always been compromised by spirits, even in the Yesterdays. That the once-seafaring souls who called this abandoned port town home now wander the halls at night, creaking floorboards and ringing bells and whispering old names. But I’m not sure it’s haunted in the way everyone seems to think.

I can’t tell if it is my ghosts or theirs that follow my footsteps. There is an echo after every sound that I mistake for company, a melody in certain winds I mistake for lost voices. Every shadow I stumble across never fails to perfectly match the shape of one of the gaping holes in my core.

But when I reach out to touch them—when I turn around to see what is following me, or try to catch the voices in the breeze—it all dissolves into nothing.

It’s easier to believe in their ghosts than mine.

I count my steps to the stairwell, staying close to the walls on my way down, carefully tracing the crimson paneling to make sure I don’t stray too far to the side and tumble over the railing.

I know I’ve reached the lobby when I smell mildew and cinnamon. The walls morph from crimson to faded teal, and red floral carpet appears beneath my feet. I walk further, refusing to meet my gaze as I pass a dirty bronze mirror. It hangs above a set of plum armchairs to my left that sit centered around a chipped black coffee table. I avoid the mirror at all costs.

I walk over to the door and study the antique brass bell installed above it. Unlike the ones Aaron likes to surprise me with, this one is a permanent resident of the Vermillion and older than I am. I’ve gotten pretty good at disabling it—which means someone else has become even better at fixing it.

I drag a coffee table to the door and use it as a stool. Sure enough, a new clapper has been reattached, made of wood instead of brass. There is only one person in all of End Harbor who is that skilled at carving.

I take my knife and fidget with the clapper, but it’s hard to see. Although my eyes have adjusted to the dark, there is still a blur I cannot shake.

My sight would have been back to normal by now if it weren’t for what happened that day on the beach. Thanks to Carmody, my left eye never had the chance to properly heal from being debugged. Now it feels like half of everything I see is beyond a layer of frosted glass.

Aaron still likes to remind me that I’m one of the lucky ones. In emergencies, when debugging must happen quickly, and the debugger lacks the skills to extract the microchip without permanent eye damage, it’s common to remove the organ completely. A small cost paid by the debugged to free their bloodstream—free themself—and become Unseen.

Fortunately, Aaron is a skilled surgeon. I didn’t lose my eye, and it wasn’t mutilated and scarred by a rushed or inexperienced operation either. My eye is not clouded and white like Aaron’s, and I don’t have a jagged pink scar like his that cuts through the left side of my face.

But Carmody and his sand ruined what should have been a perfect recovery. While my eye has improved over the months, healing has plateaued. I’m still not used to the imperfections in my vision.

I can’t even think about my other scars.

I work with what I have, squinting through the blurriness. When I look closer, I see a small, engraved message on the side of the clapper and roll my eyes. The familiar two-word phrase is a staple in Aaron’s vocabulary.

I use my knife to silence the bell before shoving the clapper into my pocket, returning the coffee table, and taking my exit.

I slip outside quietly. Even with my sweater and jacket, I shiver. The air is cold and crisp, and I down it in sweet, desperate gulps. I ignore the haunting stench of salt and sand and stare up at the sky. I wonder where the rain went, I think to myself. It always rains in End Harbor.

The journey to the lighthouse is habitual and instinctive—something felt, not planned. I’m not sure how much time has passed when I reach it, still under the cover of darkness.

I stand in front of the lighthouse with my hands in my pockets, letting the wind whip my already tangled hair into knots. Even from the height of the cliff I stand on, mist pricks the skin of my face as waves crash upon the rocks below.

The salt smell is harder to ignore now that I’m so close to the water. Sometimes, when I breathe in the scent of seaweed or hear a gull calling overhead, I remember the blindness I felt that day in the sand. I remember the burning in my arm. The white sea foam that turned pink when it washed over Carmody’s lifeless body.

And I remember the moment after. The arms that held me together when I felt like I was falling apart.

Don’t go there.

I shove my hands deeper into my jacket pockets, wrap it tightly around my torso, and step forward.

Aaron says the lighthouse is over a century old. It stands tall against a charcoal horizon, its white stone walls grayed and smudged by age. It’s topped by a metal cupola the shade of dried blood, infected with the rust of a steadfast enduring.

Damp gravel crunches beneath my feet as I walk closer. Wild rye hisses and bends in the wind, carrying the stench of wet stone. What was once a parking lot is now overgrown and untamed. With every passing year and every new patch of weeds, the lighthouse deteriorates a bit more. I wonder how long it will be until it is no longer here at all. Until it too is forgotten.

I reach the door, then stop dead in my tracks when I see the padlock. I press my lips into a thin, tired line, nostrils flaring. This is new.

I pull out my knife and pick the lock with ease, surprised that Aaron assumed his little trick would keep me out. He’s the one who taught me how to pick locks in the first place.

Dust lifts from the floor as I enter, curling around my boots with every step. Despite the dim lighting, I’m familiar enough with my surroundings to see everything clearly in my head. I know there are cobwebs spread across every surface, infecting the rotten wood shelves and the little trinkets that decorate them. I walk past stacks of folded maps and photography books from the Yesterdays, taking in the sharp scent of old paper.

I walk upstairs. The first floor was once a souvenir shop for tourists, but the second story was once someone’s home. It’s small but comfortable enough for two to live happily within its walls. An antique kitchenette decorates one edge of the room. An oak table with two chairs resides on the other. There’s an old quilted twin bed in one corner, a closet in another that’s always been padlocked, and a blue and white striped rug spread across the center of the floor. Everything is coated with dust.

I reach the outer balcony circling the lantern room. A soft breeze bites at my cheeks as I find the last door, which guards a small staircase. I’m not paying attention as I climb the last steps and open the trapdoor.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I am not alone.

I close the trapdoor behind me.

Someone is waiting in the lantern room.

EDDIE

Monday, April 1

64 Beds Made

♪ Drown - The Smashing Pumpkins ♪

I expect to see the barrel of a Nightjade gun, but instead, I find a young man leaning against the beacon with his arms crossed, glaring like I’ve done something unspeakable. You’re a liar.

The relief subsides, and I narrow my eyes. Some greeting, asshole.

Aaron wears a black knit sweater and faded jeans, with a familiar leather satchel strung over his shoulder. His dark brown hair is long enough now to be tucked behind his ears, and while it’s usually unkempt, it seems neater this morning. Combed, to my surprise—which tells me he’s been up for much longer than I have.

You’re not supposed to be up here.

His face is characteristically displeased, and his usual round glasses rest on his nose. Now that he’s no longer sneaking around in Chip territory on smuggling missions, he has no reason to hide his scarred left eye behind shades. We are all Unseen at End Harbor.

I walk over to where he stands and shove the disabled padlock into his chest. Then use a better lock next time.

He takes the lock and puts it in his satchel with a sigh, then slides his hands into his pockets. Don’t know why I even try anymore.

You clearly expected me to get past it if you’re up here waiting for me, I say. And how did you get inside after locking the door?

First-floor window.

Committed to the bit, I see. I lean against the beacon and hand him the bell clapper too. And would you quit it with the bells already? You’re not fooling anyone and it’s getting annoying.

Maybe annoyance is the point.

We stare through the lantern room’s dust-coated glass walls, studying rolling waves and distant pines that loom beyond End Harbor’s wall.

You know it makes me nervous when you come up here by yourself, he mutters.

I press my lips together, trying not to think about what he’s referring to. So are you going to tell me why I’m such a liar, or is that just my latest nickname?

He faces me, his expression softening. Why didn’t you say anything about your birthday?

I avert my gaze as guilt churns my stomach. I hate when he looks at me like that. It’s not my birthday.

And there it is again.

I ignore the fact that lies no longer taste bitter on my tongue and hug my abdomen tighter. Did Milo tell you?

You don’t remember the day we met? Aaron pouts with a hand over his chest. I’m hurt.

I said nothing about my birthday when we met.

When you met Cedar, sure. But what about the cabin?

I roll my eyes at his ridiculous alias—and our reunion outside the Cut. "Of course I remember meeting Aaron. He tried to kill me. I jab a finger into his chest. You and Cedar both, actually."

"I did not try to kill you. I was being cautious."

By threatening me with a knife? On multiple occasions?

"One, a threat is not a murder attempt. Two, I do not attempt—I achieve. And three, I thought you were an imposter."

Believe me, I remember.

Then you should also remember that I asked you questions about your identity. Like your birthday, for example.

My face warms. I completely forgot about that.

I don’t remember things the way I used to. Now, it feels like a mist has settled over everything I know. Lines blur. Everything feels warped, like someone has taken a lighter to the edges of a picture. The faces fade with every passing day. Sometimes it feels like I can barely recall the night I lost everything—or the day I lost it all again. There are only sounds and shapes, colors and hazy recollections.

The fog never lifts.

But with Aaron’s reminder, the memory floods back. I can picture the scene perfectly: the Unseen rebel caging me against the wall with a knife to my throat, making sure I wasn’t an undercover Chaser. I did tell him my birthday.

How do you know I wasn’t lying back then? I ask.

Oh, I know everything, Voclain. He tilts his head. Surely you’ve learned that by now.

I roll my eyes and stare outside again. I can’t lie my way out of this one.

Aaron studies the scenery with a sigh. I’m glad you were born, Voclain. He pauses. I may not act like it sometimes, but it’s the truth.

I avert my gaze and wait for him to begin one of his lectures. To explain why it’s important for us to be honest with each other. But he doesn’t, and for some reason that feels worse.

He slouches his shoulders. If you ever want to visit the lighthouse…I don’t care what time it is. I’ll take you, okay? We don’t even have to talk. He shrugs. We could even stay here instead of the Vermillion, if you want. I could fix it up easily.

I shake my head.

Please, just don’t go alone anymore. He glances down at me, then looks away. I’d rather lose sleep than wake up and find you gone again.

A knot forms in my throat and I stare at my boots. Fine.

Thank you.

We’re perfectly still for a while, until he reaches into his bag and pulls out a small rectangular object wrapped in old Yesterday newspaper. Here.

You didn’t have to get me anything.

Lie. Liar.

I shake my head and remove the yellowed wrapping paper. It’s a dark wooden box, engraved with intricate floral designs I trace with my finger. Lavender. I suppress a grin and remove the lid.

The inside is lined with dark blue velvet. Resting on top are three black throwing knives made of polished steel. I trace the edges in awe. Where did you get these?

I have my secrets.

I flatten my eyelids. You stole them?

I’m an honest man now, alright? I traded for these, fair and square. He shrugs. I redid some Harbor man’s kitchen cabinets.

Aaron. More guilt tugs at my stomach as I imagine the care that must have gone into making the box, or the work it took to get the knives. He’s been planning this for a while, hasn’t he?

Don’t worry about it, alright? The job was too easy.

I close the box and try my best to smile at him. Thank you.

He grins, and for a moment, I forget about the fog.

The peace is quickly overshadowed by guilt and falls through my fingers. I don’t deserve peace.

I close my eyes, trying not to think about the absences that grow heavier with each passing day. About the people-shaped gaps in my world that are so empty it aches. Aaron looks at me like he understands what I’m thinking. I brace myself for what he’ll say next.

But I know Ren isn’t gone.

There is no acceptance. There is no moving on—not when there’s still a chance that he’s out there somewhere, breathing although I cannot hear him, heart beating although I cannot feel him. There are some things you know to be true, even if you never have an explanation. Even if every piece of solid evidence disproves it.

Everyone else is wrong about Ren. I know it.

I wait for the words, but Aaron doesn’t say them. Instead, we watch the world turn a little less gray.

The sun rises, painting the lantern room in streaks of desaturated light. If we were anywhere else, it would be ethereal—a pearly slice of heaven flooding through the gaps in the clouds. But this is the farthest away from heaven I’ve been.

My head feels heavy and I let it fall against Aaron’s shoulder.

You really think he’s out there somewhere? he asks, so softly I almost miss it. I nod. There’s a pause, and he nods back. Then I think so too.

Static interrupts the silence.

Aaron, do you read me?

I immediately recognize the voice as Lori’s. Aaron retrieves the walkie-talkie from his belt, mumbling something under his breath as he brings it to his face. What do you want?

Where the hell are you?

Lighthouse.

Why?

Doesn’t matter.

The line goes silent for a moment.

And Eddie’s with you?

Yeah, she’s here.

Both of you need to get back to the Vermillion. Now.

Aaron’s brows furrow. Is everything okay?

Asa is here. Noriko too.

Aaron and I exchange confused glances. That could only mean…

She’s awake? we exclaim at once. Aaron’s lips curl into a relieved grin.

They’re not the only ones here.

Aaron gives me a puzzled look. Okay, who else?

Silence.

Who else, Lori?

Lori lets out a strained sigh.

Everyone.

What do you mean? More silence. Aaron’s voice diminishes. Lor?

For a moment, there is only quiet. I wonder if we’ve lost connection. Maybe the device stopped working. Maybe we’ll never hear a reply.

But when Lori finally speaks, every word sounds off-balance—and I feel the same.

There’s been an evacuation. They found the Cut.

EDDIE

Monday, April 1

64 Beds Made

♪ Secrets - The Wooden Birds ♪

Aaron and I follow the path downhill from the lighthouse, sprinting through grassy cliffsides until we reach pavement. At first, I can barely hear more than my own breath. The pounding in my head. The echoes of our shoes against asphalt. But the slope evens out, and when we reach Main Street, the sound arrives.

Hundreds of voices and sobs melt together, growing louder and louder until we are close enough to see the Vermillion through the morning fog creeping in from the harbor. Aaron runs a hand through his now-tousled hair, his breathing shaky as we stumble to a halt at the edge of the mob. "Shit."

The air is thick with iron, dirt, and pine. A crowd of Cut residents and End Harbor onlookers gather in front of the Vermillion Keep, tangled into one writhing knot of flesh and bone. Dozens of blankets and makeshift cloth stretchers are scattered across the pavement, each one holding someone worse off than the last. Every incapacitated body is painted with bruises and grime. Some groan in pain, their foreheads glistening with sweat. There are arms in slings, crutches made of sticks, stretchers too few to go around. Too many people who can no longer keep themselves upright.

Aaron carves through the crowd. I clutch his satchel to stay close. I can barely see my own feet as I struggle to keep up, dodging an angry sea of confused Harborers demanding answers.

A group of people huddle close in the center of the cacophony. I spot Noriko first, her long black hair billowing in the wind as she whispers to three other figures. Seeing her awake soothes something in me, but the feeling vanishes when I notice her uneasiness. Asa stands out like a sore thumb, his lean, towering frame and graying hair a familiar comfort against the uproar. I can’t fight the relief that the sight of him brings, but even from afar, I can tell his eyes are hollow. He doesn’t say a word.

Cecil stands next to them with his arms crossed, mustache twitching and face pinched in anger, arguing with an older man in a clean suit. Mayor Wagner.

We approach the heart of the commotion. The noise makes my ears ring and my throat tighten. Lori hurries past us carrying fresh blankets and water canteens. Her black hair whips in the wind as she looks over her shoulder at Aaron. Mom’s fine. Dad’s looking for you.

Aaron nods, and she disappears into the crowd to help the wounded. I spot Viv, Milo, Hugo, and Beau doing the same, and I’m not surprised when my brother pretends he doesn’t notice me.

We keep walking. Aaron cranes his neck, trying to pinpoint his father in the crowd, but we pause when someone calls his name.

A woman sits on the ground with a child in her lap. Strands of chestnut hair stick to the sides of her clammy face, and dark circles rest beneath her eyes.

The child can’t be older than four. Her brown curls are laced with dirt, and a brutal gash runs along her outer arm. As we get closer, I can see that the wound is already scabbed over. This couldn’t have happened recently.

Aaron crouches in front of the child. Hi there, Abigail.

The girl leaps to her feet and wraps her arms around his neck. I missed you.

Aaron chuckles as she pulls away. I missed you too.

The child sits down and points at me. What’s her name?

This is Eddie, Aaron says.

I crouch by his side. It’s very nice to meet you, Abigail. How old are you? She holds up three fingers and I gasp. Three?

She nods proudly. And a half.

So, Abbie, Aaron says gently. Can you tell me what happened to your arm?

She glances at her mother, who gives her a nod.

We were trying to get away and a mean man took me away from my mom. And there was a loud noise, and when the man fell, she took me right back. But I scratched my arm on a tree when she picked me up. And then we ran.

You must have been so brave. Aaron smiles at her, then retrieves rubbing alcohol packets and a roll of bandages from his bag. He glances at the girl’s mother, lowering his voice. You did what you had to do.

The woman nods, swallowing nervously. I realize what he means and a shiver snakes down my spine.

You’re Lavender, right? she asks.

I nod. She reaches out to shake my hand, and I flinch before accepting it. Gently, she squeezes. Like she knows something I don’t. I’m Henrietta, but most people call me Henry.

I pull my hand away and slide it into my pocket. And most people call me Eddie.

She gives me something resembling a smile.

Hey Abbie, wanna hear something exciting? Aaron asks. He tears open a packet of rubbing alcohol. "You have a little cut, but we’ll fix it up real nice and turn it into a battle scar. Isn’t that cool?"

Abigail’s face lights up. Whoa.

I have one too, you know. Aaron raises a playful brow. Wanna see?

She nods excitedly.

Aaron pulls up his right sleeve. A thin scar I’ve never seen before carves his arm like a river. Unlike the still-red marks on my own arm, his scar is paled by years of healing. Why has he kept it hidden?

He notices me staring and averts his gaze, yanking the sleeve back down. He clears his throat and shifts his attention back to Abigail with an uneasy chuckle. That’s what happens when you run with knives.

Henry stares at her shoes.

That’s so cool! Abigail giggles. Will mine look like that?

Yes, but only with the help of this super special magic potion. Aaron gently takes her arm in his. It might sting a little. Is that alright?

Abigail nods. Aaron uses a pad of rubbing alcohol to wipe away the dirt surrounding her cut, then another one to clean the wound itself. Abigail squeezes her eyes shut and turns to bury her head in her mother’s neck.

I watch him work, taken aback by his gentleness. Something about this unfamiliar patience brings me a bit of warmth, but beneath his calm composure, something doesn’t seem right—like a framed painting hiding a crack in the wall. His hands won’t stop shaking.

Aaron finishes cleaning the wound and bandages it neatly before giving Abigail a soft pat on the back. Now all we have to do is wait for the scar.

Henry nudges her daughter. What do you say?

Abigail wraps her arms around Aaron’s neck for a second time. Thank you.

She pulls away and returns to her mother’s lap.

How are you feeling? Aaron asks, turning to Henry. Is there anything I can get you? Water? Tea? Something to eat?

I’m not sure I have much of an appetite, but tea would be lovely. Thank you.

I have lavender with a bit of honey and valerian root. Brewed it this morning. Aaron pulls a thermos from his satchel and pours a steaming amber liquid into the lid. He hands it to her, and she nods in thanks. This should help you relax. And maybe even get some sleep, if you’re lucky.

She sips the tea and hands the lid back to him. Thank you, Aaron.

He bags the thermos and nods toward Abigail. Make sure to keep an eye on her wound. Once you two get situated I’ll be swinging by to change the dressing every now and then. He lowers his voice so Abigail can’t hear. We don’t want it getting infected.

We say our goodbyes and weave back into the crowd. Aaron walks so fast I struggle to catch up, and when I do, I notice his hands are curled into fists. They haven’t stopped shaking.

Are you okay? I ask, trying to match his pace. He nods unconvincingly. I don’t have the chance to press further until he stops walking. I do the same.

Aaron stares at an older man about Asa’s age, with dark brown curls that move with the breeze. He stands with one hand in his pocket while the other clutches a wooden cane.

Dad, Aaron mutters, voice trembling. What the hell happened?

So this is Simon.

Good to see you too, kid, the man grumbles, emphasizing the resemblance I now notice.

What do you want, a kiss?

"A simple glad you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere would suffice. Simon kneels on a blanket spread across the pavement, pulling first aid supplies and herbal tinctures from a familiar satchel to arrange them in piles. I’m taking inventory. There wasn’t enough time to grab everything, so we’ll need to work with what we have."

You didn’t answer my question.

Noriko will fill everyone in later.

"If I wanted an answer later I wouldn’t have asked now."

Simon keeps his eyes glued to the supplies before him. We had a run-in with a few Chasers. That’s all you need to know right now.

What did they do?

Silence.

Did they take any prisoners? Try to gather information or evidence? When Simon doesn’t respond, I watch something leave Aaron’s eyes. They just attacked?

Simon sighs, unable to meet either of our stares. His voice softens. They slaughtered.

The world feels like a knife to the stomach. My arms press against it, lips parting. I blink rapidly, unable to settle on one place to look as my knees begin to tremble. Everything around me spins.

Slaughtered.

They were willing to wipe out an entire settlement of people, Aaron says. His shoulders stiffen. His jaw twitches. "We have children with us."

Simon changes the subject. We need more supplies. Splints. Clean cloths. Surgical tools. As much water as you can manage. Whatever else you can find that could be useful. We’ll have our work cut out for us these next few weeks.

I’m not running errands, alright? Not when there are… He swallows the rest of the sentence and shakes his head. I’ll help you. Shouldn’t there be wounds to tend? Stitches to sew?

I told you what I need. Now go.

Dad—

This is exactly why I didn’t want to say anything. Because I need your help, and you get like this.

I can help.

Yes, by getting supplies. Simon sighs. You can’t save anyone in anger.

Aaron raises his voice. How else am I supposed to react? What else am I supposed to do?

Learn to control your emotions, Simon mutters plainly.

"God, Dad. Aaron’s hands fly to his head and he pulls at his hair. How can you be so⁠—"

Because our people need me, Simon seethes, rising to his feet. He lowers his voice. And they need you too.

Aaron’s arms fall to his sides in defeat. His voice is soft now, cracking as he speaks. How many, Dad?

Simon’s gaze glosses over, and he averts it. Twenty-three.

The world spins. My pulse stutters, lungs pinching shut.

Twenty-three.

I look up at Aaron. Every part of him trembles. His eyes are red and glistening. His lips press together like he’s trying to keep his breathing steady, but I stand close enough to feel that every rise and fall of his chest is strained. Slow, but shaking, like something is rattling to get out. I look down at his hands. They’re curled so tightly that beads of red form around his nails.

Aaron, I mutter, unsure that he can hear me.

He’s gone before I get an answer, storming off into a crowd that swallows him whole.

I turn to face Simon, who doesn’t look up from his task. He’ll come back around. He always does.

I glance over my shoulder. I’ve never seen him like this.

He’s more sensitive than you think. Simon arranges a row of surgical tools on the blanket. It’s his best and worst trait.

What do you mean?

He sighs. My son will bear any burden he can get his hands on. And when he stumbles across something he can’t fix—people he can’t help—he gets frustrated.

And why do you think that is?

Simon stares up at me, almost perplexed. He observes me for a moment before looking away and clearing his throat. I wish I knew.

Something tells me there is more to be said, but I’m too fixated on Aaron to dwell on it. I look into the crowd again and bite my lip. I should go find him.

Simon nods, and I turn to walk away.

Oh, and Lavender?

I pause and glance over my shoulder.

He waves. It’s nice to finally meet the girl I’ve heard so much about.

If it were any other day, I’m sure my face would warm. But it’s cold, and there is so much gray. I wave goodbye and walk away.

I retrace Aaron’s steps, moving past the Vermillion until I break through the edge of the crowd. I jog down the street with towering brick shops to my right and the sea to my left. I slow to a stop once I’m far enough from the commotion and scan the empty street for any sign of Aaron. I turn to my right—and spot him.

There is an abandoned parking lot filled with rusted cars, tucked between two brick buildings, so narrow I almost mistake it for an alleyway. The back wall is covered in vines, and the wall to my right displays a faded, whitewashed mural of a galleon at sea. The painting is barely visible and cracked in several places, a testament to End Harbor’s age.

Aaron occupies the far-right corner, nearly hidden by a corroded white van without doors or windows. He presses his arms against the painted wall, leaning forward with his head bowed. His shoulders are stiff and hunched up to his ears, and his whole body convulses in silence.

I jog around the van and stumble to a stop when I see his right hand, balled into a bloody fist. His knuckles are completely torn, and there are places where the mural is stained red.

I walk to his side, reaching into his satchel to retrieve the same supplies he used to help Abigail. He doesn’t protest when I take his hand in mine. Remembering his process, I clean the blood away and carefully bandage his broken skin. He winces when I touch his swollen, crooked index finger.

I observe it gently. It’s broken.

He nods. I find medical tape in his satchel and wrap the broken finger with his middle to stabilize it, then return the supplies to his bag. He uses his now-free right hand to wipe his nose with a sniffle. His other arm is still propped against the wall, his head still lowered like he can’t bring himself to look at me. Thank you.

I lean against the wall and stare at the sky. I close my eyes and take a deep, shaky breath. Do you think…

I can’t finish the sentence.

Aaron lifts his head up with another sniffle. His eyes are red. What are you saying, Voclain?

I roll my head over to look at him. Did I draw them in?

Aaron straightens his posture, turning to face me. Of course not.

All of this happened three months after I showed up. A lump forms in my throat, and my vision suddenly seems foggier than usual. That can’t be a coincidence, Aaron.

He hesitates. It’s not your fault.

Then whose is it?

He folds his arms across his chest. We both know the answer to that question.

We stand like that for a long time, letting the moments drip past like slow-falling honey. I’m not sure when the tears begin inching down my cheek, or how many minutes have passed until my eyes have no more left to give. Wind toys with my hair, but I can hardly feel it.

I look at Aaron, trying to locate him in his own gaze, but he is elsewhere. There is something cold and hollow behind his stare—something so empty I can barely find a single recognizable piece within it. He pulls a flask from his bag and takes a deep swig.

If we ever run into another Chaser… He walks away without sparing me a glance. Hold me back.

EDDIE

Monday, April 1

64 Beds Made

There is something eerie about being in a church again.

When Aaron and I step inside, it takes me a while to remember that I am here in End Harbor. For a moment I see hundreds of documents pinned to dark blue walls. Beau’s pool table in the corner, stained glass, and walnut wood pews. The round table where I once sat with Ren—the corner where he tried to convince me that I was angry with him. I shudder when I think of his touch, how close he was when he wrapped his arms around me.

But his arms are not here anymore, and my memories of the Cut drip away like candle wax.

Now we are in a neater place. Brighter, though the evening is melting into night. Cream-colored walls and vertical paneling give the illusion that the ceiling is much higher than it is, lengthening walls in a way that makes me feel smaller than usual. The pews and podium are light oak, and the floor is a lush, outdated green carpet. The air is thick with the stench of dried blood and sweat, though I try my best to ignore it.

These meetings happen quite often in End Harbor, though I’ve never actually been to one. I can’t say I blame them for their lack of invitation. But I doubt this particular meeting will be anything like its predecessors.

Now, the building is crammed with Cut exiles and Harbor citizens, waiting for the answers we’ve been promised. Every pew is filled. Frantic chatter and hushed whispers flood the room. It’s so crowded that Aaron and I have to sit on empty folding chairs in the back. Anyone who doesn’t find a chair in time stands. There is simply no room for everyone.

I glance at Aaron, who has been quiet all day. After he stormed off, we gathered supplies for his father from the general store and the town’s rundown hospital, where the Cut escapees with the most pressing of injuries are stationed. Everyone else has been assigned a room at the Vermillion or with a Harbor resident generous enough to share their space. I wasn’t surprised when Aaron gave up his own room to a family who needed it.

We spent the rest of the day helping as much as we could manage. But aside from a few grunted wound-stitching demonstrations here and there, he’s barely said a word