A long minute passed before Zei lowered her knees, the shackles around her feet clanking as her heels slid farther down into the dirt. Her tiny hand reached out and took the package. She tucked it between her thighs. She held the package in place with her stump as her hand tore back the paper wrapping. She pulled out the hardbound book and guided it up into the light, examining the cover. It was a brown leather printing of a little girl lying across the chest of a large wolf. The title, Winds of Mercy, was craftily etched into the spine.
“It’s a book for kids,” Samuel said. He stood up, and his joints popped. His legs were tired from the constant walking.
Zei propped the book back down onto her legs and opened the book. She turned page after page, her eyes fixated on the large printed words and the cartoonish pictures.
“You’re not ready to read it yet. I haven’t taught you enough words.”
Samuel allowed his back to recline against the metal bars of the gate. “I don’t think I can teach you anymore. I’m scared of you, Zei. You hurt people. And with the mayor … the way things are … I don’t know if I’ll ever not be afraid of you.”
Zei turned another page, her focus solely on the book.
“I saw your arm,” Samuel said. “The mechanical one.”
Zei looked up, her pupils wide.
“How did you get something like that?”
Zei remained stoic.
“I don’t know if you’re a demon. But I know you’re a murderer. And. To me. That is just as bad. Do you feel bad for him? He was … my friend’s father. How am I supposed to forget what I saw? I see his body every time I close my eyes.”
Zei allowed the book to slip out from her lap. She reached across the ground and traced a word.
F R I E N D.
Zei’s index finger came up from the dirt. She pointed to Samuel.
Samuel pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. He shook his head.
“I don’t know. I don’t think we can be.”
Samuel turned away. He stepped outside of the cell and sealed the gate shut. He opened his mouth, his insides longing to force more words. But nothing came up. Zei waited for a moment before lowering her head, lifting the book, and turning to another page.
Samuel stirred, his fingers digging into his cot. Light escaped from the window, the morning rays leaking out from the small gap left by the curtain. He cracked open his eyelids for a second but quickly closed them shut again. His retinas burned, and his head felt as though a large rock had struck it. He’d made the mistake of having more than a couple glasses of whiskey with the sheriff. He wanted to stop when his muscles felt loose, but the sheriff taunted him for being a little girl with a weak constitution.
It took Samuel several minutes to sit up from the bed. When he did, a sudden nausea swept over him. He clenched down on his teeth, tasting acidic vomit as it ran up his burning throat. He staggered for the kitchen counter and puked. He convulsed as the contents of his stomach splattered into the sink. The queasiness subsided slightly when he’d finished. He wiped his mouth as he looked around the room, squinting. His insides were always so sensitive. He half expected to see the sheriff standing by the table, ready to mock him, but the house was empty. It wasn’t like the sheriff to be gone so early in the morning. Not unless he had to be.
Samuel put on his glasses before heading to his drawer. He got dressed slowly, careful not to make too many sudden movements. He scratched his arms before tucking his shirt into his pants, still feeling awkward in his uniform. Perhaps it would always feel that way. He laced his boots and stood. His eyes were watering heavily, so he blinked hard. He wanted to stop by the butcher’s shop before heading to the jailhouse.
He buttoned up his coat before stepping outside. He placed a hand on his forehead, taking a brief moment to get his bearings in the daylight. He turned west, scanning down the square. The streets were empty, save for several patrolmen who’d been positioned outside the blacksmith’s shop, the large wooden doors sealed shut. It was the same three patrolmen who’d stood guard outside the jailhouse the day before. Samuel slogged down the square, thinking it odd that the blacksmith’s doors were closed. He usually worked with his doors open because the furnace got so warm. Jax eyed Samuel, his rifle stiff by his side.
It made Samuel uncomfortable, so he moved to the other side of the square and did his best not to look over there again.
Before reaching the butcher’s shop, he stopped to briefly survey the happenings over by the western woods. A large number of loggers, several hundred at least, were lined up in rows with their limbs by their sides. He could hear the faint yelling of the foreigner, ordering the men to take steps forward, then quickly commanding them to stop. It was odd seeing burly loggers marching in awkward steps and taking commands from a man shorter than most of them. Gibbs and a few other loggers might have had reservations about joining a militia army, but the prospect of earning additional income swayed the majority. The mayor was getting what he wanted, and the loggers were earning coins in the process. Samuel hoped the militia would turn out to be an unnecessary undertaking. Governor Bloom would reestablish trade with the Others across the seas while phasing out trade with the south, and in the meantime, the citizens of Haid wouldn’t go hungry as they spent some of their time training for a temporary army.
Samuel put his hand on the butcher shop’s front door. The notion of loggers serving as a militia seemed silly to him. What weapons were the loggers supposed to use? Axes and hatchets and chains and knives? The sheriff barely had enough resources to arm the patrolmen he employed. Less than half of them carried firearms. Samuel wondered if the militia was merely a distraction, a way of keeping everyone busy while they waited for trade to reopen.
The bell dinged as Samuel pulled the door back. He went over to the glass counter. Claudette was rearranging the meat display, adding fresh cuts of steak to the lower portion of the shelf. She popped her head up and wiped her hands across her apron. Her face seemed to whiten as she looked at Samuel.
“Hi,” she said feebly.
“Hi.”
Claudette jostled behind the counter, grabbing a pair of metal tongs. Her movements were jerky and rushed.
“I’m sorry. I’m really busy today. I can’t talk much. Did you need something?”
“Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I’m fine. Just busy.”
Samuel tucked his thumbs into his palms. There was always plenty of work at the butcher’s shop to keep Claudette busy. He knew that. But something was different with her. He could feel it.
“I was going to get some more chuck. And talk. But I can come back later.”
Claudette shook her head. “No. It’s fine.” She grabbed a sheet of packing paper and shakily laid it on top of the counter. “How much do you want?”
“Half a pound is good. Have you seen the sheriff around? He left early this morning.”
Claudette froze for a second before shaking her head stiffly. She reached underneath the counter and grabbed a handful of the meat.
Samuel swallowed. “Claudette. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”