Page 28 of Obliterated
It was clear in the way the blanket wasn’t quite where I left it. It was clear by the cigarette butts left in the little ashtray I put out for him. And it was mostly clear because I woke up in the middle of the night, and he was there.
Not watching me like he usually does. Not pinning me with that intense stare that makes it hard to breathe. No… he was asleep. Curled up in the chair, head on the armrest, shoulders hunched like he’d fought the whole damn island and lost. Snoring softly, dark hair falling across his forehead. He’s different when he’s asleep. Softer, if that’s even possible. More real. Less dangerous, even if I know that if I reached out, he’d probably bite my hand off like a Walker.
I fell back asleep right after, a small smile on my face. And I haven’t seen him since.
Even now, five days later, when I walk into the bar… he’s not there. Not at his usual spot at my counter, not twisting one of those cigarettes he loves so much, not squaring off with Tassand Sami or polishing his blades. The stool stays empty, because no one dares sit where their champion, their legend, their nightmare, usually does.
His absence echoes louder than his presence ever did.
Max and the others are on patrol. Their own regular run, I know that much. It’s something they do all the time, heading up to the northern villages for trade, bringing supplies, or cutting down Walkers along the way.
I’m not on the inside, so I’ve got no clue what they’re really doing out there. All I know is his absence hangs heavier than it should.
But it’s not just him missing today.
When I step behind the bar to relieve Ben, he’s not there either. Pale, freckled Ben, the ginger who always runs mornings. Instead one of our servers, Mira, is covering, hair high in a ponytail, her bronze tag catching the light. She’s one of the girls that does more than waitressing alone.
“Where’s Ben?” I ask.
She blinks at me like I should already know. “Haven’t you heard? He’s been missing since yesterday. They say he turned Walker.”
My brows knit. “A Walker? Ben?”
Mira doesn’t add much more. Just looks relieved I’m taking over, grabs her things, and makes for the door. Before she leaves, she mentions something about a group of rowdy guys in the corner. All with bronze tags. Touched ones. Says they’re well on their way to being drunk and I should keep an eye on it.
I keep her warning in mind as I slip into the rhythm of the shift and start pouring drinks, catching coins tossed across the counter. While my hands keep moving, my ears do the real work. Snatches of gossip drift my way as I do my work. Always the same:Ben’s gone, Ben turned Walker, poor kid never had a chance.
Except he wasn’t Touched. He wore silver. Clean. I saw it myself just yesterday. Unless the last rain turned him Touched even days later? But that can’t be… can it?
The thought knots in my gut and I justknowthat something isn’t right here, and I need to tell Max… If his Majesty, King of the Immune, dancer of the Red Rains, ever has the decency to show his annoying face.
I toy with the idea of asking a couple of Watchers at one of the back tables if they’ve seen him, but it would look weird. Desperate. And the last thing I need is more eyes on me, more whispers about why Joyeus’ boy is poking around where he doesn’t belong.
Still… I can’t shake the feeling something is off.
But when I finally pull my head out of my ass and mutter to one of the waitresses that I’ll be gone for a bit to ask those Watchers, and turn around… they’re gone. Shit.
I make for the door, thinking it’s safer to ask outside anyway, but then that table catches my attention. The one Mira warned me about. The one with a group of heavy-shouldered dockworkers, bearded and sunburned, all big and obnoxious.
They’ve been at it all evening. Louder with every drink, voices rising with every round, laughter sharp enough to cut through the rest of the room.
Something about the man sitting with his back to the wall makes me pause. The way he slouches like he owns the whole fucking place, the way that mouth slants… There’s something nagging at the back of my brain.
When he finally spots me standing there in the middle of the room, he cocks his head, a slow grin spreading, showing off rotten teeth.
Ohfuck. I know him.I know him.I fuckingknowhim.
The filthy dark-blond hair’s tied back at his nape now, the goatee new, different from the full beard I last saw on him. But it’s him. Definitely him.
Shit. Shit.Shit.
How the fuck can he be here? On Ibitha, of all places?
My eyes go wide, and my hand goes straight for the wicked dagger at my hip Max gave me. Slim, balanced, black hilt worn smooth, and sharp enough to bite deep if I let it fly. I told Max once that I used to have a dagger. He doesn’t know it wasn’t just one, which I traded during my journey here. He doesn’t know my mother made me practice with them, flicking blades at a board she painted with big red X’s. Over and over, being as cautious as she was, drilling it into me that a weapon is the only guarantee you get in this world.
But even though I was in that proverbial tower most of the time, locked away, kept out of sight, sometimes I had to haul her back from a corner somewhere, gone on drugs and alcohol, unconscious, barely breathing.
That’s how I know him.
