Jay Posey - Morningside Fall

“They didn’t pursue?”

Lil shook her head. “I don’t know why. We thought maybe the daylight made it difficult for them.”

“Asher lost control,” Wren said. “I don’t think he was expecting that.”

“Expecting what?” Cass asked.

“Any of it. For us to attack. Or to have help. I think it was too much for him. This time. I think he’s still learning.”

“I still don’t understand it,” Cass said. “You’re sure it’s Asher?”

“I’m positive.”

“Do you know how he’s doing it?”

Wren looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap. After a few moments, he shook his head. “No, I don’t, Mama. I’m sorry.”

Cass leaned over and kissed him on top of the head again. In her hazy state, she’d almost let herself forget. She wanted to forget. But if it was true, and she had no reason to doubt her son, then Asher was out there, somehow. And that meant that Asher would, one day, come for them.

She thought back to the attack on Morningside’s gate. The destruction of Chapel’s village. Chapel’s village. Had Asher known that they’d sheltered Wren before he first came to Morningside? A sudden chill settled over Cass as the thought crystallized. It was exactly the kind of thing Asher would do. Scorch the earth of any and all who may have had a hand in his undoing. Or something else. Not even revenge. Just to destroy something beloved by his little brother. Pure malice.

It was too much to consider for Cass in that moment. Her thoughts were still scattered, hard to capture. As much as she hated to admit it, she was in no shape to do anything about Asher, or even to think about doing anything.

“You should rest,” Lil said. She got to her feet.

“Didn’t I just do that for sixteen hours or something?” Cass said. But even as she said it, she felt a hint of relief at the suggestion, as if it gave her permission to feel as exhausted as she did.

Lil chuckled. “A drugged sleep is rarely a restful one, and your body needs time. Are you hungry?”

Cass shook her head.

“I’ll check on you in a couple of hours,” Lil said.

“Thanks, Lil.”

Lil bowed slightly and gracefully left the room.

“I think I need to lie down again, baby,” Cass said.

Wren slipped off the bed and stood next to it while Cass gingerly repositioned herself. The mattress hadn’t seemed all that comfortable the first time she’d slept on it, but now it seemed as good as any bed she could remember.

“Can I stay with you?” Wren asked.

“Of course.”

Cass scooted over and started to put her back to the wall, but found there was no way she could lie on her back or left side that didn’t cause her some measure of pain. In the end she moved to the edge of the bed, to lie on her right side, and let Wren slide in between her and the wall. He lay on his back, with her arm under his neck and his head on her pillow. The pressure hurt her biceps a little, but she found the comfort of his weight outweighed the pain, reassuring her that he was here and safe. She laid her other arm over him and nuzzled his soft, warm cheek, and let her eyes fall closed.

Wren lay alongside his mother, listening to her steady breathing. It used to help him relax, to focus on her breathing. Now it just made him feel worse. He had lied to her. He’d never lied to her before. But then, he’d never had need to before.

It had been hard to say it, to actually get the false words to come out of his mouth. But he’d done it, and even though he felt bad, he was still sure it had been the right thing to do. Pretty sure, anyway. He’d told her he didn’t know how Asher had gotten into the Weir. But in truth, he knew exactly how he’d done it.

Asher had found his way into Underdown’s machine.

Wren had spent hours running it through his mind, replaying Asher’s final moments, still vivid in his memory. Even after all this time, he wasn’t certain what he had done. He wasn’t even sure what he’d meant to do. He’d just wanted Asher to stop, and to go away, so he’d told him to. And then. Then it was like Asher had just… dissolved.

And maybe he had, in some way. Because Wren had never sensed Asher again. Until yesterday, on the rooftop.

He’d wondered from time to time what might have happened to Asher, of course. And now, though Wren still didn’t have the exact answer, he felt he had at least some clue. Whatever Wren had done to him, Asher had managed to undo. To reclaim his consciousness. Or reassemble it, maybe. Outside the bounds of usual storage. Unsecured.

Wren guessed Asher had interfaced with the machine plenty of times before. He might in fact have been connected to it in that last moment. And from there, it would’ve been a small thing for someone like Asher. A small thing to infiltrate the minds of the Weir, already slaves to some other purpose, and bend them to his will.

The first time, the only time, Wren had connected to the machine, what he’d seen had reminded him of Asher, but it’d never occurred to him then that Asher might really have been there. Wren wondered now what he could’ve done differently, if only he’d recognized it sooner. The system or systems that Underdown’s machine created, or tapped into, had been overwhelming. Underdown’s machine. His father’s machine. His father’s creation had given Asher a place to dwell, to grow in power, and Wren had sent him there. A dark legacy, his to bear, made darker by his own foolishness.

It was his fault. Really and truly. Wren had brought Asher to Morningside. And Wren had released Asher too. And now wherever Wren went, he was sure to attract Asher’s wrath.

He had to fix it. He had to make it right. And that meant Wren had to get back to Morningside to shut the machine down.

Painter sat balled up at the head of his bed, hunched in the corner with his back against two walls and his chin resting on his knees. He’d been sitting that way since before the sun came up, and even though he knew everyone else was up and about, he couldn’t bring himself to leave his room. Not yet.

His mind felt splintered. Not confused, but tangled, like Painter was holding too many contrary thoughts in his head at once. He’d seen the way Cass had moved. The way she’d carved through the horde of Weir. It had awed him. And horrified him.

On one hand, he’d been… what, grateful? Relieved? Emboldened? Some strange mix of emotions had filled him when Painter had come through the front doors of the building, expecting to see the Weir coming from every side. Instead, they’d been pushed back and, carrying Wick, he and Mouse had had a straight and clear path from the door to Lil’s people.

But as they’d approached, Lil had changed. They all had. And they had taken on some new, terrible form. And then they’d gone among the Weir. That was when he’d seen it all from a new perspective. The Weir had ceased to be merely appalling creatures in his eyes; they’d become something more. A community defending itself from some unholy vengeance that had come upon them without warning.

And somehow they hadn’t seemed so different from anyone else. Only a few months ago, he could’ve been among them. Even now, his sister could be. What if Snow had been there? Would Cass have hesitated to strike her down?

And yet. And yet. No matter what he thought, there seemed to always be some other thought alongside it, swirling, countering. Wren was good. Cass was good. Lil was good.

And yet.

The only thing Painter was certain of was that he didn’t belong. Not here with them. Not in Morningside. Not even among the Weir.

Where was Snow? Where was his sister? He missed her more than he’d thought possible. He wished she’d never gotten caught up in whatever game was being played in Morningside. Even when she’d rejected him, at least he’d known she was out there somewhere, alive. There’d still been hope.