Jay Posey - Three

“They should’ve been here by now,” Dagon said.

“Then go look for them,” Asher replied, a sinister smile spreading slowly across his face. “I have business with Underdown.”

Over the following two weeks, Three’s strength slowly began to return, and he and Wren found themselves steadily becoming more a part of this frontier community. True to his word, Chapel showed Three the extent of the grounds, including the fields hewn from concrete where crops were now grown. He also returned all of Three’s gear, his harness, pistol, and blade, explaining how he’d kept it safely locked up until he was certain of Three’s intentions. Three met Mr Carter, a man of few words who seemed to carry the weight of the world and who possessed the strength to do so. And Three became better acquainted with Lil, the woman who had cared for him, and scalded him with hot broth.

After a time, Three was able to assist with a number of the daily tasks that kept the group thriving in the midst of the once-urban wasteland, though they would not let him keep watch despite his willingness to do so. Cass’s death continued to weigh heavily, but the sting of her loss gradually lessened, and Three found himself occasionally able to think of her without being crushed by sorrow and guilt.

Wren’s spirits lifted as well, as he was at last able to live in safety, to play with other children, to have something like a childhood again. He was plagued by sudden waves of grief and longing for his mother, but he nevertheless improved as the days wore on. Lil especially seemed to have formed a special bond with him, and the two were regularly together throughout the day. Most nights, Wren would sleep on a mat next to Three, in their small but adequate room. But occasionally Wren would ask for permission to stay with Lil, and Three never refused.

By the start of the third week, Three felt nearly himself again. And one night, after a hard day’s work and an evening of hearty food and good company, he found himself lying on his mat with Wren by his side, beginning to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was a life for them here. Here, in this unimaginable community, this boldly defiant explosion of life and freedom on the edge of the Strand.

It was just as he drifted off into the space between wakefulness and sleep that the attack came.

He felt it first, more than heard it. A sort of creeping, electric dread that caused his heart to pound, a sudden heightening of his senses that told him adrenaline was pouring into his system, readying him to fight, or to flee. It had been Wren, of course. The boy had suddenly tensed beside him; a reaction Three had quickly learned to interpret as a dire warning. Wren fumbled for Three’s hand. Found it, squeezed. Three knew well by now that Wren would say nothing, would make no sound. And he knew far too well that the boy was terrified. Something was out there, ominous, brooding, like a black thundercloud waiting to burst.

A sliver of light seeped in from lanterns in the hall that had been turned low, dull like the final heat of a dying ember, perceptible only because Three’s eyes had adjusted to the otherwise complete blackness. He stretched out his hand in the darkness, gently felt for the boy’s face, his cheek newly wet with tears.

“Wren,” Three said, parting his lips just enough for the breath to escape in a whisper. “Is it Asher?”

He felt Wren shake his head.

“Weir?”

A nod. Three expected to feel some sort of relief, but instead felt only a sickening knot tighten in his gut. His last encounter with the Weir had left him more shaken than he cared to admit, and not only because of Cass’s death. These Weir from the Strand, their coordinated movement and attacks, were entirely new to him, something he didn’t understand. Without understanding, there was no way to prepare, and in his usual way of life, being unprepared was essentially the same as being dead. Then again, nothing about his way of life had been usual of late.

“We need to get out,” Three said. “Don’t want to get caught where we can’t move.”

Three rolled to his feet, and had to pause momentarily to pull his hand free from Wren’s. He patted the boy’s arm firmly, then crossed to the corner where he kept his harness and weapons, trying to ignore the stiffness in his shoulders, the dullness he felt around the edges of his perception. Sliding into his harness, there was a tremble in his chest, reminding him of his injury, of his too-recent weakness. He’d slipped in his time here, allowed softness to creep in. Soon enough he’d learn when he’d have to pay for it.

Three crept back to Wren, found him lying in the same position, still as death. He lay a hand on the boy’s arm, and squeezed it.

“Come on, kiddo,” he whispered.

Wren answered only by picking himself up off the mat and grabbing hold of Three’s arm. Three stayed on one knee, cupped Wren’s head in one hand, drew him close so that their noses nearly touched.

“Stay close,” he said. “Like always.”

He felt Wren nod. “Like always.”

Three swiveled into a crouch and slowly drew open the door, thankful for the workmanship that kept the movement silent. The hall was empty, quiet, dark save for the dots of dim red light from the lanterns. He moved out into the corridor, probing with all his senses, with Wren pressed hard against him. There was no sound of trouble, no smell of blood or fire, nothing to see but stillness and the trick of darkness on the eyes. But there was tension in the air, a tangible, crackling pressure like a bone flexed to the point of breaking.

The two continued cautiously down the hallway, around the corner, to the set of double doors that led outside. Three slid them open carefully, felt the crisp air splash across his face. The courtyard was bathed in the pale blue-gray of the half-moonlight, spotted by pools of dim orange where lanterns hung. In the middle of the courtyard, Three could see the inkblot shape of a lone figure, standing upright, facing away.

Tall, stretched thin, utterly still yet somehow fluid, like he could melt into shadow at any second. Even from this distance, without seeing the man’s face, Three knew him.

Dagon, the man they’d called The Grave. It wasn’t hard to imagine why; Three pictured Dagon emerging from some dark pool of shadow and dragging his victims back down with him, for the earth to swallow. A dead man, doing death’s work.

There was no other choice. Three stepped out into the courtyard, with Wren clinging to the back of his shirt, practically tripping to keep close. Dagon turned at their approach, but in the instant of his movement, Three could tell something had changed. There was an edge in Dagon’s motion where none had been before. And when their eyes met, Three recognized well the look of the hunted.

They stood maybe twenty feet apart. Three rested his hand on his pistol, hoped his draw hadn’t suffered too much over the past few weeks. One chance before Dagon could close the distance. One shell left in the cylinder. One shot to kill or be killed.

“Took too long,” Dagon said in a rasping voice. He was rattled, almost out of breath. Not nearly the casual killer he’d seemed before. His eyes were hollow, like he hadn’t slept in days. He laughed sadly.

“Where’s Haven?” Dagon asked.

Three didn’t answer. Just held steady. Not even wanting to blink.

“Spinner. Where’s your mom, kid?”

Three felt Wren tighten around his leg, tried to ignore it. Focus. Wait for the moment.

“I can’t get you out of this one anyway. Not now. I just wanted to see her.”

“You’ll see her soon enough,” Three answered.

There was a cry in the distance, a man’s voice shouting an alarm. Dagon flicked a glance in the direction of the warning reflexively. Three anticipated, drew, squeezed the trigger—