Spells of Blood and Kin (21 page)

It broke his paralysis. He had a duty to these, his comrades. He should see it through.

He rebuilt the pyre then. Neater this time. He tried at first to close everyone's eyes and lay their hands in place, but he had waited too long and could not. He could not pray, either, his voice still gone from him: when he tried to force it out, he ended up vomiting at the base of the pyre.

He doused everything with more kerosene, which stank. All the doorways were open, since he had torn the doors from them; there was plenty of oxygen to fuel the blaze. He lit the Zippo lighter and tossed it onto the pyre.

The ball of flame was so sudden and hot that he reeled right out one of the open doors into the yard. He tripped backward over nothing and lay where he fell.

The rescue squad found him there, some time later: both eyebrows burned off, bullet holes in his biceps and trapezius. No one imagined it was anything other than an insurgent attack.

Maksim let the medics stitch him up. He thought, while they did so, about Stepanovich, who had died of illness as mortal people often did. He wanted to blame Stepanovich for leaving him or for being his friend in the first place. He was coming out of his madness enough to know those thoughts were mad thoughts.

He thought about how Stepanovich would not have died of illness if Maksim had made him
kin.

Maksim could have made any of his comrades
kin.
All of them, even. He thought about what he'd done instead.

He did not mind having killed
Zampolit
Ogorodnik, but the others had been good enough comrades. Kind, even. Now that he was less mad, he did not see how it made sense to turn them all into some kind of tribute to Stepanovich instead of letting them go about their lives. Stepanovich would not have appreciated it.

Stepanovich would not have appreciated being made
kin,
either, he saw. Not when being
kin
led to things such as this.

While Maksim was thinking, the medics, careful and clinical in their latex gloves, washed the worst of the blood from him. He had bled enough from his unnoticed injuries that they did not seem to realize not all the blood was his own.

He had bled enough that he was slow and shocky with it, which kept him from doing anything rash right away. He saw the
Starshina
of the rescue squad enter the infirmary tent and come to stand before him, and he heard the man's questions about the
mujahideen,
about their numbers, about the direction from which they had attacked.

He saw that there was no point in answering these questions, even if he had been able to speak. Eventually, the
Starshina
shook his head sadly and departed again, and finally Maksim was alone.

Maksim still had his pistol. He spent a calm half hour sitting on his cot in the infirmary tent with his mouth around the muzzle. As long as the pistol was there, he could think about his options. He did not need to move quickly.

He thought of only one thing that made sense: Iadviga Rozhnata and the promise she'd made him years ago.

Two things that made sense. Iadviga Rozhnata and the pistol.

The pistol tasted salty. After a while, Maksim found that it was because his tears had run into his open mouth. He put the pistol in his pocket, slipped out of the infirmary, and began running north.

MAY 21

  
WAXING GIBBOUS

Maksim met Gus at the roti shop this time.

“He was here,” she said without preamble. She had a beautiful black eye.

“Did I do that to your face?” Maksim asked.

“Forget about it. The guy you're looking for, that's who I'm talking about. Here. In my part of town. Did some damage to some people who probably deserved it. A man I know said it was a young white guy, a stranger, came up the alley and just laid a beating on these other guys. Knew I was looking for a white kid mixing it up with people. Came and told me. I found the place; I'll show you the way.”

“Now.”

“No, Maks. When I'm done eating. And don't give me that look. You know I can take you, especially these days.”

He did know. He was still limping from whatever she'd done to his knee.

He sat in tense silence, rubbing his thigh, while Gus ate her roti and drank unsubtly from a bottle of something in a paper bag.

“You should have something,” she said. “It's killing me to watch you.”

Maksim accepted a slug from the bottle, which turned out to be Canadian Club.

“I guess you'd prefer vodka,” Gus said at his wince of distaste.

“It is only that nothing tastes right.”

“Because of what your witch is giving you. Well, it's unnatural. What do you expect? You'd be better off living like me.”

“I would not be happy.” An understatement. He'd rather die than live like Gus. She did not manage to hang on to anything precious, neither people nor belongings. She said she liked Parkdale, but that couldn't be more than a half truth. He'd always believed she came to this city because in a pinch she could ask Maksim for help, money, a sofa to sleep on.

Gus drained the bottle and led Maksim outside. The alley was not far from where he had met the boy in the first place. “Did he return here because of what happened? Or because he comes here often?” Maksim wondered.

“What happened,” Gus said. “It's got to be. He didn't just come and wander around; he came and kicked some ass. He's starting to figure it out. That means he'll probably be back again, even if we can't find him today.”

“If he is beginning to understand his nature, we
must
find him today.”

But the trail of scent stopped at the Lansdowne subway station.

Maksim, enraged, overturned a newspaper box and kicked the glass in. Gus had to punch him in the ear to get his attention. A bystander shouted that he was calling the police, and the two of them ran away together, Gus laughing breathlessly and Maksim almost sobbing.

“Five more days until I may stop rationing eggs,” he said to himself aloud when they slowed in a laneway a kilometer or two on.

“You sure you can make it that long?” Gus asked.

“No.”

He sat down against the door of a garage, covering his face. Gus slid down beside him and gently touched his hair. He let her leave her hand there, but the pressure made his scalp crawl as if with lice until his whole body wanted to twitch miserably away; and still he sat unmoving, clenching his teeth.

“Let me take this for you,” Gus said.

“If I do not have something to do…” Maksim said.

“What are you afraid of? You'll trash some of your stuff?”

Maksim shook off her hand then, shuddering. “Look to yourself, Augusta. Have a care.”

She leaned in and scrubbed a rough hand over Maksim's scalp. “You raised me right,” she said. “I'm not an idiot.”

Maksim slapped her hand away and replaced it with his own, tugging on the short hair at his nape. “God help me, I will agree,” he said. “Take it for me. See me home and go hunting without me. I cannot.”

“It's okay. It will be okay. Truly, Maks.”

He could only shake his head. “God help me.”

MAY 24

  
WAXING GIBBOUS

Hannah was visiting her parents. Jonathan arrived at Nick's place with a guilt gift: two-thirds of a bottle of wine and a tiny foil-wrapped lump of hash.

“That smells amazing,” Nick said, turning from the sink.

“You're doing dishes,” Jonathan said. “Why are you doing dishes?”

“They were dirty.”

“That's new. Not that I'm complaining. I was just wondering if your head injury had more of an effect than we first realized.”

“Ass-kisser.” Nick angled his face toward the lamp over the stove. “All good. Look. Hardly any scar, even. Pour me something, will you? I'm almost done.” He fastidiously rinsed the sink of soapsuds and dried his hands on his cargo shorts. “Tell me you want to go to Parkdale tonight.”

“I'm not in the mood for a dive bar, honestly. Maybe one of the new hipster places there.”

“I fucking hate hipsters.”

“The Cammie, then. Whatever.”

“We can start there,” Nick said, smiling with teeth.

“Oh, no. It's not going to be one of those nights. I'm too bagged,” Jonathan said, thinking of the next morning's classes.

“Sure, the Cammie, then. We'll just have a pint or two on the patio and head back here for a bit. But first … you brought me a present.”

“I was feeling bad about letting you smoke me up all the time, and then I happened to run into that guy who used to live next to me in the Annex, and look what he was carrying.” Jonathan was already crumbling the hash into pellets the size and consistency of mouse droppings. He mingled them with some shreds of tobacco and filled the bowl of Nick's bong.

“Fantastic,” Nick said through a held breath, tendrils of smoke escaping from his lips and nose.

“It's kind of strong. Go easy on it.”

“I,” said Nick, “am not in the mood for going easy.”

Jonathan, in the bathroom twenty minutes later, splashed cool water on his face and sipped some from his cupped palms. He was higher than he'd meant to be, high enough that he didn't want to deal with Nick's weirdness, and thought he'd suggest that they stay here and play video games.

He came out to find Nick waiting for him on the other side of the door with a shot glass.

“Take your medicine,” Nick said.

Jonathan sipped. “Wild Turkey?”

“Bulleit, idiot. Clearly, it's wasted on you.” Nick reached for the glass, so Jonathan dodged him and swallowed the contents.

The taste of it, the burn of it, tripped an old reflex. He had a half-conscious sensation of dropping the reins. “Wouldn't that be nicer with a beer chaser?” he said.

“The Cammie has beer. Get your shit together. I want some air now.”

Nick nearly dragged him out of the apartment, while Jonathan dithered and stumbled. “I'm high,” he muttered. “Go easy on me.”

“I'm not,” Nick said. “Not high enough, anyway. Come on.”

At the Cameron, the patio was crowded. Nick and Jonathan found a seat by the railing, sandwiched between a table of guys in polo shirts and a table of young women in tube tops.

“I had a great fight,” Nick said.

Jonathan hid his face in his nice chilly pint and didn't meet Nick's eyes.

“Some guys were beating on another guy. I stopped them. I felt like a superhero.”

“Why were they beating on him?”

Nick shrugged. “Didn't stop to ask.”

“Why's it your business, then?”

Nick slammed his palms on the table, causing his pint to rock and splash. “What is it with you? Nothing I do is right for you anymore.” His words sounded too loud in the sudden silence that followed the impact of his hands. The girls in tube tops looked over anxiously.

“Dude…” said Jonathan.

Nick smacked him playfully on the side of the head. “Give it a rest. For tonight, at least.”

“Ow.”

“I mean it. We'll talk about something else. Something you can't judge. So. You and Hannah. When are you moving in together?”

“End of summer,” Jonathan said after a heroic gulp of pale ale. He signaled the waitress for another round. “She thought it was romantic, actually. How I hadn't asked her, and then it came out in that—never mind. Anyway, we were thinking about how to break it to Hannah's parents, because you know they're kind of a bit conservative.”

“Holy Christ. Oh my
God,
dude. You're going to propose
now
?”

“Not yet. I think we need to live together first. I was going to take her mom and dad out for dinner, though. You know. Show them I'm the kind of guy that won't do anything awful to their daughter.”

“Except, like, have premarital sex with her.”