“You’re the monster,” Samuel said. “You’re worse than she is.”
The sheriff rose in a fit of blind rage. He tried to grab Samuel but couldn’t keep his own footing. He fell to the ground, moaning as he staggered back up to his knees.
Samuel walked past the sheriff, glaring at him defiantly. “You’re right. This is my fault. And I’ll fix it. Do nothing. Like you always do.”
Samuel slipped on his black coat, pulling the fur hood over his head.
The sheriff used the table for leverage. He took his seat, and grabbed the bottle of liquor, cradling it near his collarbone. “I’m your boss. Don’t forget that.”
Samuel turned the doorknob.
“Hey!”
The sheriff’s scream made Samuel’s skin rise. He turned.
“What?”
“Where are you going?”
“Out,” Samuel said. “Away from you.”
The sheriff threw his bottle across the room, the glass bursting with a loud crack. “Stay away from that shop. It’s guarded. Heavily. To keep idiots like you out. Stay away from the jailhouse too. You’re not allowed in there until further notice. You hear me? That’s an order.”
“Are you going to beat my ass?”
“Please,” The sheriff tsked, brushing the air. “You’re so soft. I mean, if it wasn’t for that little girlfriend of yours, I’d be sure you were playing tunnel buddies with that little mayor.” He spat on the ground. “You want to die, kid? Fine. Go wherever you want. And you can pack up your shit in the morning and get out of my house. I’m done with you. Knock that Litten girl up and live with her. Or go stroke that little mayor’s cock. Suck him off until he gets his daddy to buy you your own house. I don’t give a shit. You know what? You are a real—”
Samuel slammed the door behind him.
Samuel ambled around the outskirts of the square, keeping his distance from the blacksmith’s shop. From far away, he could count four patrolmen guarding the front door.
Samuel drifted farther toward the eastern woods. His eyes were heavy, worn down from the constant tears and stinging cold. He didn’t know how late it was. The darkened sky had all but snuffed out the starlight, and the moon was barely visible through the thick waves of gray clouds. A cold wind was gusting, gaining bite, and the animals had all retreated into their burrows and nests. Random snowflakes fell, foreboding a larger storm on its way. Summer had made an early exit. Winter was here now.
Samuel’s muscles scrunched from the sting of the wind. He wanted to go to the jailhouse, to tell Zei about his father, to tell her what he had to do next. Seeing her there, he might have even set her free from the shackles, giving her the one thing she wanted most. Freedom. But more patrolmen guarded the jailhouse than before. He couldn’t risk getting caught there. Not if he had any chance of making his plan work.
Samuel pictured Zei curled up by the barred window in her cell. How would she do without him? Who would tend to her? He liked to think the mayor would be bold enough to waltz into her cell. He wouldn’t mind if Zei tore him to bits. She probably hated the mayor as much as he did.
The wind whistled as it pulled Samuel’s hood from his head. He yanked it back up. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. What if he got caught? Would he only make things worse? What if he did it, but then they got caught on the way to the border? Even if they made it, what would prevent the mayor and his rage from coming into the greenlands? Besides, why would any citizen willingly aid and abet a refugee cleric and his bastard son?
Samuel picked up speed, crunching his leather boots harder into the dead grass. He knew his plan wasn’t the best and that he might be making things worse. But he knew the mayor, and he knew what Charles and the sheriff wouldn’t admit. His father was a dead man if he didn’t get him out of that shop.
He thought of Claudette and what it would mean to leave her behind. He cared for her. A big part of him wanted to marry her, to live with her, to kiss her and touch her in ways he never thought he would be able to touch anyone before. But he knew he could never do that. Not after what had happened to Harold. Samuel watched her father die. He wouldn’t make the same mistake with his father.
For so long he’d been terrified of becoming like his father, but now, more than anything, he didn’t want to be like the sheriff. If being hard meant that he had to sit back while people died, then he’d rather be soft. And if being a patrolman in Haid meant turning into an apathetic drunk, he’d rather take his chances elsewhere.
The pine trees creaked, their bristles rustling in the darkness. Samuel stopped near the edge of the woods. He bent his neck down, his glasses lowering. He looked to the hard and dying grass, which was now peppered with white flakes.
“I don’t know if you’re there.”
Samuel’s breath fogged.
“Because you’ve never been there before. Not for me. But, if you’re there, I need you. If not for me, then for my father.” He paused. “He’s done nothing but serve you. He’s a good man. You know that. Help him. Please. Help me.”
Samuel looked up, despite himself, pushing his glasses into the space between his eyes. He needed to move.
He returned to the sheriff’s house. He opened the door quickly yet quietly. He scanned the room before stepping fully inside. The sheriff was passed out by the kitchen table, his head buried in his arms, his snores muted.
Samuel tiptoed to the dresser and began packing things into his backpack. First, he put in all the money he’d saved. It was a little over four hundred coins, enough to help them make do for a while. He put in an extra pair of jeans and a shirt, as well as the peacoat Charles had given him. He made sure to leave all his uniforms. He never liked them anyway.
He snuck into the sheriff’s room, which was littered with unwashed clothes and empty bottles of liquor. He watched his footsteps as he rummaged through the sheriff’s things, looking under the mattress and inside the closet until he found the prosthetic arm hiding underneath a spare pile of bedsheets. The mechanical arm jingled as he lifted it. He cradled it tight against his chest to mute the noise. He wrapped an extra shirt around the prosthetic, covering it, before packing it inside his bag. Samuel draped the backpack over his shoulder and slipped on his gloves. He felt his coat pockets, making sure he had his two throwing knives and his hunting knife. His feet treaded lightly as he went to the door and eased the handle back. The sheriff never stirred. A small wave of white powder forced its way inside the house as he took his exit. In a matter of minutes, the snowfall turned aggressive. He crept to the square, careful not to make too much noise with his footsteps. His nostrils burned as he sucked in freezing air and bits of snow. He wasn’t bothered. The snow, while a nuisance, would give him more cover in the darkness. What if Azhuel had heard his prayer?
He went to the back end of the main row’s shops, making sure to avoid the sight of the nearby patrolmen. As Samuel suspected, they had only posted guards in front of the main entrance.
Samuel wiped his glasses, cleaning off the snow. He squinted, but he didn’t see any figures. He approached the window, and when he was directly underneath it, he got on his knees. He hoped it wasn’t locked. He got on his tiptoes and gently put his nose on the cold glass, gazing inside. Everything was blurred and distorted. The flames inside the blacksmith’s furnace danced wildly, but he saw no moving figures. He could make out some of the metal tools mounted on the walls. In the center of the shop, he spotted what appeared to be the blacksmith’s main table.