“The sniper, Commander,” the captain said. “Wounded, as you requested.”
Roman studied the stranger. His hair was a dark shade of auburn, his face starkly pale, and his brown eyes glistened in agony until he caught sight of Dacre. Then his expression electrified with hatred. He spat at Dacre’s feet.
Dacre politely smiled. “I see you were left behind.”
“By my choice,” the young man rasped. Blood continued to run down his clothes, gathering in a pool beneath him. “And I will not fight for you.”
“You would rather perish?”
“Yes. Give me a clean shot and leave me here, to die where I was born.”
Dacre was quiet, but he studied the man. “You think I want to be merciful when you have harmed my soldiers?”
The sniper was silent. He looked kissed by death now. The edges of his lips were turning blue as his breaths labored.
“I will not fight for you,” he said again. “And you will not win this war. No matter how many of us you turn … we’ll abandon you, eventually. When we remember.”
Dacre held up his hand. He drew the air from the young man’s lungs with an unspoken spell that made the temperature in the room plunge and the lightbulbs flicker. Roman thought Dacre had honored the sniper’s request and killed him until Dacre said, “Take him below to one of the holding cells. Keep him stable until I can tend to his wounds.”
Roman watched as the soldiers hauled the unconscious sniper through the enchanted doorway to the world below, leaving a trail of blood behind.
“Two other privates were also wounded, sir,” the captain said. “Grenade blast. They’re four doors down, waiting for you.”
Roman was silent, but a numb feeling crept over him. He watched as Dacre followed the captain and the others out of the house, leaving him alone in the parlor.
Am I supposed to follow them? he wondered, but his thoughts slid like fog through his mind. Is this a test?
His stomach churned.
Roman strode for the front door, but he didn’t follow Dacre and the others. He hurried to the edge of town, his eyes on the orchard. The apple trees drew him in, as did the soft grass and the sunshine, spangling the ground.
He dropped his typewriter, fell to his knees, and vomited. There wasn’t much to give, but he heaved until he felt empty, his hands clinging to the roots in the ground.
He felt a tiny bit of relief and tilted his head back, blinking the tears from his eyes. That was when he realized he wasn’t alone. Lieutenant Shane was leaning against a nearby apple tree, smoking a cigarette and watching him.
“I needed a moment,” Roman said.
“Then take one,” Shane replied with a halfhearted shrug. “Although you’ve seen worse than this before, correspondent.”
The remark blistered like skin over fire. Roman was irritated by the gaps in his mind. By trying to weave together all the pieces of himself, only to find endless fragments were still lost.
“You say that as if you were there,” Roman said. “As if you know what happened to me.”
Shane was quiet as he smoked, his eyes set absently on the distance. A few of the apple blossoms drifted from above, settling like snow on his broad shoulders.
“In a manner of speaking, I was,” he finally replied. “But I can’t tell you what happened. You’ll have to remember for yourself.”
“How much longer until I do?”
“Can’t help you there either.”
“And why is that?” Roman asked, impatient. “You’ve never been wounded one time in this war? You’ve never been healed by Dacre?”
Shane stared at him. “You think everyone who is healed with his power forgets who they were?” He flicked his cigarette to the grass and crushed it beneath his boot before he turned away. “That’s the furthest thing from the truth, correspondent.”
{14}
Hunger
Dear R.,
I made it safely to my next destination, and I can only wonder about your own.
Let me confess now by candlelight, in the embrace of a new town, that I look forward to your letters. And just for one moonrise, let us act as if there are no burdens weighing us down. No responsibilities or tomorrows. No gods and no war.
I want
Iris stopped typing.
She was sitting on the floor of her new room, a small chamber on the main level of Bitteryne’s B and B. Iris had chosen this room because there was a wardrobe and a small brick hearth and a rug on the floor, which would suit her just fine for writing. But because she was sitting on the floor, she felt something odd.