Page 25 of Odder Still
He’s halfway there, at least. He means well. Someday, that intention might finally transfer over. “If it were easy, someone else would have already done it.”
“Aye, right.” The hint of sarcasm in his tone seems to soften the edge instead of strengthening it. His chin falls, his brow drooping. “I’m not the best person to lead a project like that.”
“Probably not.” As I say it, Ivor’s wrinkle-lined eyes come to mind, sparking with hatred for the philanthropists unwilling to become a part of the people they help.
Tavish’s brow shoots toward the ceiling, his unfocused gaze popping up before drifting back out of alignment. “You’re a damn dobber, you are.”
“It’s not a personal failing. You just don’t understand the lower city and what it needs the way the people who live there do.” I slip off my boots and pad across the carpet, only realizing what I’ve done once they’re behind me, the rug’s fabric sinking between my toes and drawing me farther in. Lavender gives me an offended meow as I plop onto the bed at Tavish’s side. The smudge of my lower-district grime mars the clean, sky-blue blanket like a gash. “But even if you aren’t the best person for the job, you’re the one with the most means. Sometimes life gives us a yoke that doesn’t fit our shoulders, and it’s a fucking mess, but we have to do what we can to carry it all the same.” That weight presses phantom palms to my back, bearing down with the musty scent of the deep swamp.
“You sound as though you speak from experience.” Tavish runs his hand up and down the side of his thigh, so close to mine that I swear I feel the motion of the air he displaces.
I watch his fingers drift back and forth, back and forth. “Between hiding from the world and letting myself be bullied into maintaining a terrible status quo, I finally accomplished something good—did my best to help save my mother’s homeland.” I don’t mean to lower my voice, but the words come out quiet. “Though, I guess I can’t recommend it. I don’t think they accepted me even after I helped them. I’m here, aren’t I? None of them stopped that. I can’t say that if you saved the lower districts, they would do the same for you.”
Tavish’s fingers keep drifting. They find my arm, and I can’t tell if it’s on purpose or by accident. The soft squeeze I swear he gives could be nothing but my own heartbeat pressing against my skin. He drops the hand so quickly after. “You deserved better from them.”
I force a smile before realizing there’s no need with him. Instead, I weaken. I droop. I collapse inside. And for a moment, with his hand on mine and the fear let loose, I feel like a whole person, alive and present and able to exist without alcohol to prop me up. “If you’re right, then my lack of deserving didn’t stop it from happening.” That little doubting voice in my head adds:Nothing will stop it from happening again, there or here or anywhere you try to build connections.
“You don’t deserve this whole aurora disaster either.” Tavish’s quiet statement cuts my frazzled doubts in half. With a soft hum, he lifts his hand. “May I?”
I hesitate, but my indecision caves to logic. He’s helping me remove the parasite—I can let him understand it a little better. It’s a single touch, not an acceptance of everlasting friendship. Not anything more than that either. “You may.”
I guide his hand to my neck. He doesn’t flinch away from the parasite’s velvety surface, not even when it goes from cold to hot and back again. His lips sink, then part. A stray curl tickles the edge of his mouth, but he seems not to notice. He seems not to notice anything but the fissure between myself and the parasite. His fingertips trace it, dancing between me and my enemy.
Every brush shivers through me. A part of me wants more of his thoughtful caress, but the rest wants nails beneath the creature and a liquid fire in my throat to smother it all.
“I don’t care whose shoulders fit this particular load,” Tavish says. “I’d like to try to carry it with you.”
His sincerity is almost overwhelming. All of him is. The way his fingertips rest so delicately against my skin and his lips purse open just the slightest, a set of three large, auburn freckles decorating them like piercings. I shouldn’t be thinking about this. I should pull away. I should wall myself back up with my stale life and my endless exhaustion. I should.
His thumb accidentally brushes my jawline.
We both jerk back, and I can’t tell if it happens before or after the banging at the door.
Tavish springs to his feet. He catches himself on the side of the mattress and stands properly. I scramble up as well, my heart pounding, limbs tingling, head light. Another round of aggressive knocking startles Blue off Tavish’s desk, and Lavender pins her ears back and tucks her tail over her nose.
Sheona’s voice comes through the door. “Tavish, dammit, you’d better be alive in there.”
“I’m coming, Sheona,” he grumbles, sliding back the bolt and pulling open the door with a lethargy to rival her force.
She scowls. “Greer’s people won’t acknowledge your request without you present. Prissy assholes. Personally, I think we should cut off their pinkie fingers and see just how quickly Greer responds to that.”
“How about we start with bureaucracy and only maim our desired allies as plan B?” Tavish asks. “Have you had a chance to bathe lately, Rubem? What an arse I am—of course you haven’t. Up with you, up! There’s clean water and soap and fresh everything.” He waves me toward nowhere, his motions too vague to be of actual use, before grabbing his jacket and backtracking toward the door. “I suspect I’ll have to finagle my way through a dozen loopholes just to be sure Greer receives my message. That should give you a few hours to freshen up. If anyone comes by, pretend you aren’t here.”
I don’t know what to make of this sudden transition from our quiet moment—what to make of him as a whole. I don’t know what to make of me, either. Through the emptiness in my chest, I piece everything I know of joy into an expression that almost mimics it. “I’m from a swamp, Tavish. The cleanest I’ve ever been was my escape from the womb.”
Tavish bobs in front of the door, one hand on the bolt. He quirks a smile, but it wobbles. “And here you are, still a little bit covered in blood?”
I glance at my ragged outfit. “It blends with my color scheme, and the dirt has pretty much concealed it at this point.” The need for a drink hits me with a subtle ache in the back of my throat, paired with a melancholy that desaturates all the color from my emotions, turning them to nasty greys and blacks. “Does your family’s endless wealth ever go toward liquor vaults or only pearls and gold?”
“Aye, of course. How do you think I survive in this place?” He pops over to his wardrobe and retrieves a large bottle of deep-amber liquid. The gentle light of the window reveals a label for O’Cain Fishery whiskey. “I hope this suits your tastes well enough. There’re glasses in the third drawer of the second dresser. Don’t drink it all before I get back.”
As he sweeps out the door, I cringe, his joke hitting too close to home. “I’ll try not to.”
The lock clicks into place, and I hear nothing more, the thick walls blocking out the sound of Tavish’s footsteps.
CHAPTER TEN
Cats on Character
