Page 86 of Gunpowder

Blair clenched his jaw. Felix cocked his head, inviting him to continue, but the warning in Spencer’s voice was clear. By all accounts, Blair should have already had a cigarette put out in his eye for the way he was talking to Felix, but he knew he was being shown leniency. Whether that was because Felix knew he was in the wrong or because he knew Blair’s emotions were running high, Blair didn’t know, but he was sure there would be a limit to what Felix would tolerate. Especially in front of the entire gang.

Saving Wren would be a lot harder if Blair had a broken arm, or however he would be punished if he didn’t back off. So he did. He took a step back, and Spencer’s hand fell away from his shoulder. Felix held his gaze a moment longer before looking back over to Reymond. “We’ll bring him home,” Felix said.

“I’m coming with you,” Reymond said. “Your loyalty is to your people. Someone needs to be there who will prioritize Wren’s safety.”

Felix’s eyes flicked to Blair, his expression unreadable. “I think we’ve got that covered.”

Blair met his gaze evenly. Not too long ago, Blair would have been mortified for the boss to think Incindious wasn’t his first priority. Then Blair fucked around and fell in love.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it,” Reymond said, and walked out of the bar without looking back. Blair doubted they’d seen the last of him, though.

“Alright, everyone,” Felix said, his voice carrying easily over a room that had been watching the confrontation in apprehensive silence. “Enough Incindious blood has been spilled by Phantom. We’ve all seen enough sleepless nights because of this war. Enough has been lost.” He clapped a hand on Blair’s back as he walked past him, and Blair looked up at him. The shadows under Felix’s eyes were even darker than the last time Blair saw him. Felix continued, walking through the crowd, “It ends today.”

Excited whoops and cheers erupted throughout the room while Blair checked his two guns in solemn silence. Eighteen rounds in the 92. Eighteen in the M9A3. The pockets of his cargo pants were heavy with spare clips.

He was getting Wren back, and he didn’t care how much blood he had to get on his hands in the process.

Wren stopped in the middle of the room and looked around. It was his father’s house, but there was an odd tranquility that it had never possessed before. His steps made no sound, produced no echo in the large, empty space. He looked down. Scrubs? He was sure he had been dressed for graduation. There was a distant sound like drums. Or rather, a drum. A single drumbeat. He approached the staircase to search for the source of the sound, but the closer he got the further away it became. Dread pooled in his stomach. He’d had dreams like this before, but the walls had always teemed with malice, and he was never alone. Eli was always there.

“Wren.”

He looked up at the familiar figure coming down the stairs. “Blair?”

The man coming toward him was not the Blair he had seen last. His hair was disheveled, his clothes bloody and his leg wrapped in what looked like strips of someone’s shirt. He recalled the image of a small form on the surgery table and Reymond cutting away his sodden jeans. He hadn’t realized he remembered so much of that night, but this was unmistakably Blair Kennedy as he had seen him for the first time, when he was just the patient with a gunshot wound, nameless and insignificant.

The beat was getting louder. He could barely hear Blair’s voice over it when he said, “Hey, Sunshine.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice tinged with resentment. You left, remember?

“I came to get you, lazy bones. You gotta go back.”

He held out his hand and Wren reached out without thinking to ask why or where they were going. His body acted on its own, falling to Blair like he was gravity pulling Wren back where he was meant to be. His fingertips fell just short of Blair’s. He tried to move forward but Blair was getting further away, his voice getting lost in that pounding drum, and the soft rays of light that had been cast across the room were receding. Shadows encroached on them until he could just make out Blair’s rapidly fading shape.

“Blair,” he called, but he could hear nothing but that sound, crashing all around him.

His eyes flew open and he jolted forward. Something snatched him back, and the room was definitely not the one he had been in before. The high ceilings, the spiraling staircase, Blair, it was all gone and replaced by a small, dark space. He almost laughed at himself. A dream, of all things. How stupid. He tried to move again, but now that he had his wits about him he realized he was sitting up and his wrists were tied behind him. He curled his fingers and felt his restraints. Zip ties, as far as he could assess. That pounding returned and he grimaced; that part had been real, apparently, but now the sound accompanied a fierce pain in his head. His throat didn’t feel too great either.

Wren flexed his wrist and found a familiar weight there. Good, he hadn’t been searched. That seemed like a careless choice on the part of his captors but he supposed they had written him off as defenseless either way once he was bound up. He was glad he had followed his impulse to collect his knives. Whether those instincts were his own or merely the echo of his father’s paranoia, he couldn’t say. He squinted into the dim room to take stock of his surroundings. The room was unremarkable, almost bare save for a desk with two computer monitors rotating between a handful of grainy images. He must have been in the security room for a larger building. Phantom’s doing, no doubt. He tried to move his feet but they were bound to the chair legs with more zip ties.

The door opened. It took more effort than he expected to raise his head, so for a long moment he was just staring at the leather boots approaching him. Wren managed to drag his gaze upward and saw a familiar, smiling person with violet hair hanging past their shoulders.

The figure came to crouch in front of him. “I’m so glad you’re awake,” they said, clapping their hands and their irrationally long fingernails together. “I’m Jinx. And you, dear Wren, are my honored guest.”

Oh.

Fucking splendid.

24

GUILT

Blair leaned heavily on the bar. He heard the squeaking of Spencer polishing a glass behind him; the same one he’d been polishing since they walked in. It was as though the bar had been gutted and they all stood there in the rubble, even though the hardwoods shone with the same luster as always, the stickers still in the corners of the windows where they had been replaced after the shootout. The smell of cigarette smoke still clung to every porous surface in the room.

The silence was as palpable as a human presence. When it was broken, it felt like an attack on the fragile peace of mind they had found in not acknowledging the situation out loud.

“I should have done somethi—” Blair started.

“Don’t you dare be so submerged in your own guilt to believe that you’re the only one who failed him,” Reymond said sharply, turning from the window.

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