Giftless

Chapter Twenty

In the weeks afterwards, Saltcombe became a refuge. In San Francisco, the Museum's explosion was thought a gas leak. There was only rubble left. Those Dark Wielders who wished to stay with us were free to do so. There were no boundaries, no judgements, no them-and-us. A few chose to seek out other wielder camps around the world, not knowing what welcome they would receive.

Ian organised everything once he got back from Iceland, travelling the long way round, via airplanes and trains. We had no operational doorways and it would take months, maybe years, to repair the one in the church. I couldn't face anyone. Decisions were made and my opinions were asked, though I barely spoke. The cottage I shared with became Ian a makeshift hospital for those injured in the blast. The only person who seemed somewhat oblivious to everything was mother, whose house remained as undisturbed as ever.

"I hid in the attic when those fiends came," she told me later, while I embraced her, thankful that she survived when so many others had died.

Jeffrey. Hannah. Lin. Mithun. Gene.

Those were the names I knew. How many Dark Wielders, enchanted to that madwoman's will, had been crushed? Thirty-eight had been found in the Museum's remains thus far. I guessed there would be more to come. Had she escaped? If so, where to?

Surveillance cameras had been set up in the caves, along with bright lights. They watched me as I walked past, ducking under a few low-hanging stalactites. Not another soul could traverse this underground system without us knowing about it. It was the Dark Wielder's technology, shared with us. Not that we called them Dark Wielders anymore.

Titles had been dropped, prejudices displaced, for the moment. We were no longer separate wielding communities. In fact, as we combined our strengths, we found we were fairly similar and the wars our predecessors fought were no longer our own.

I took my usual spot on the cave's floor, in a drier spot. I didn't want to get my new clothes dirty: funeral clothes. Even though we hadn't found Hannah's body, we had held a service. I doubted we would find it, for she had been that close to the bomb.

I sat, head turned to the doorway, watching, waiting.

This had become a routine. Every day, I came down here. Although, I didn't expect anyone to come through. I wasn't an idiot. I knew the doorway on the other side had been destroyed. Still, I wanted to be here. It was the only place where I was left alone, to grieve.

Usually.

I wasn't alone today.

I heard approaching footsteps and Ian's gentle words. "Are you okay?" With a lengthy exhale, he added, "I know, it's a daft question." With lumbering movements, he sat opposite me, legs stretched out, feet touching the cave's wall on the other side. He was still in his black suit, eyes rimmed red.

He had kept his distance lately. Or I had kept mine. Both, perhaps. Despite our combined need for space, all those unspoken words pressed into the space between us, widening it further.

"The library's a mess," he said, clearing his throat. "Feel like helping me fix it up?"

"You told me we weren't war-makers, yet we had a bomb." The marks on my throat had healed to a yellowish tinge, aided by runes and enchantments I had wanted to refuse at first. How could I trust anyone? Especially in such a sensitive place. Even now, I glanced to peoples' necks, expecting to see their flesh carved up, their will bound to another. Autumn was approaching and, with it, scarf weather. I wouldn't be able to stand it, walking around Saltcombe, my home, unable to check who was under mind control and who wasn't.