The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) (40 page)

I listen to their
conversation, not caring how intrusive I’m being. I remember him
crying out that name in his sleep. Mel. He sounded so scared. If
she’s someone from his past, why is he being so secretive about
meeting her? I don’t care about him having friends—I even pushed
him towards Timofei so I clearly don’t care about him dating. But
keeping it secret is what riles me up.

“Excuse me?” Mel’s
response is venomous. If she attacks him I’ll swing right over this
balcony and take the two story drop. I’d love to see her hurt him
with me beside him.

“You don’t remember
me?” My anger sinks instantly at Siah’s tone. It’s his lost voice,
the one he uses when he’s hurting and doesn’t know what to do.

“Should I?”

“We met when I was
younger. We shared a … a room. You saved me.”

She whispers, “Vian?”
and then there’s silence. They could be hugging. They could be
kissing. They could be doing absolutely anything. She could have
killed him. My fingers make fists on the metal railing.

Eventually Yosiah
says, “You didn’t forget me.”

“Of
course I didn’t—I couldn’t forget you if I tried. And I’ve
tried
to
forget.”

I
wonder if Siah would tell me what’s between him and this Mel if I
asked. Before this, I’d have said yes without question. But now I’m
not so sure. I know this is his past and that it’s his choice to
keep me and it separate but—we’ve started telling each other our
histories. He knows my name and I know his. I know about his
parents—who were even worse than my mother—and he knows about my
own family, how Thomas almost died when he fell down the steps when
he was three, how Livy got arrested by an Official for talking to
her imaginary friend, how I bribed him to let her go. I’ve told
him
personal
things. There’s nothing I’ve kept from him but he still has
secrets from me.

I feel like I have a
right to them, which is wrong. I lower myself to the floor and push
my forehead against the cold bars of the railing. Their voices dip
for a minute, so I miss half a conversation.

“—
didn’t know what happened to you,” Mel says. She paces below,
which is good for me because she moves into my view.

I
bite into my cheek.
I know her.
She’s not someone from Plymouth like I’d assumed.
She came from Leeds. I can’t remember the name she gave us but it
sure as hell wasn’t Mel. Honour knows—she’s been hovering around
him like a fly around shit. Honour probably knows the most about
her.

I haul myself from the
balcony and go back to the room, my thoughts fighting themselves. I
check on my brother and sister, listen close because Livy is a
sneak and wouldn’t think twice about pretending. But both their
breathing is deep and genuine. I close the door behind myself and
pad down the hallway to Honour’s room, cursing a twinge in my
ankle. I thought it’d healed days ago. I knock quietly on the door
with the back of my knuckles. It opens half a minute later and Tia
peers down at me with worry.

“I need to talk to
Honour,” I say without explanation.

He stumbles into view,
bleary eyed. “I’m here.”

“Can we go
downstairs?”

He rubs his mussed
hair. “Yeah, sure.” He drops a kiss on Horatia’s head and says, “Be
back soon.”

I go to the kitchen,
not turning on a single light—I don’t want Yosiah to know I’m here.
The moonlight’s enough to see by anyway.

“Secret meeting in the
dark,” Honour says warily. “Should I be worried?”

“No.” I sit at the
table, rigid. “There’s a girl that came from Leeds. She’s done
nothing but stalk you. Who is she?”

“Cat?” He pulls out a
chair, serious now. “I don’t know much about her. She was living
with John in Leeds for a while. She said she came from Underground
London Zone. She’s looking for someone—that’s why she was with
John. I wasn’t supposed to know that but I listen to people.” He
shrugs unapologetically. “She doesn’t like to talk but she watches
everything. And she has a strange eye. She creeps me out.”

I don’t comment on
Honour’s eclectic description, though I am curious about Cat/Mel’s
weird eye. “She’s outside,” I tell him, “talking to Siah. Or at
least she was.”

Honour’s face
scrunches up.

“They seem to know
each other.”

“Alright, that’s
suspicious,” he admits. “You hear what they were saying?”

“Not much. She didn’t
recognise him at first. I don’t think they’ve seen each other in a
long time, and it’s gotta be before I met Yosiah because I’ve never
seen her before.”

“Wow, that’s …
years.”

“Yes. Deep into
Yosiah’s past. So you get why I want to know who she is.”

“Well, not really.” I
throw a glare and he holds his hands up. “I mean, maybe they’re
just old friends.”

“Old friends who sneak
out in the middle of the night to meet each other and don’t
acknowledge each other during the day.”

“Yeah …”

“If she has something
to use against him—”

“Miya, if she’s bad
I’ll find out.”

I’m comforted for some
stupid reason by Honour’s determination. “Do you always see people
that way? Good or bad?”

“Sometimes,” he
admits.

His honesty coaxes a
smirk from me. “What am I, then?”

“A dark grey.”

I laugh, long and low.
I can’t help it.

Before silence is
given the chance to settle in between us, Honour blurts out, “I
kissed Branwell!”

“Holy shit.
Really?”

He drops his head into
his hands. “I don’t know why I did it. I just really wanted to. And
then right after I felt like an idiot.”

I
stretch over the table to poke him in the head. “You’re not
Forgotten London’s next
it
couple, then?”

He mutters a colourful
insult that has me beaming. I’m sure he learned that one from me.
“What’s the problem?” I ask. “A kiss doesn’t mean anything. Maybe
he liked it, maybe he didn’t, you’re not gonna stop being friends,
are you?”

“I guess not.” He
raises his head with a sigh. “But he’s from the past. I don’t think
they said many nice things about gay people back then. What if he’s
repulsed by me kissing him?”

“What if he stops
looking at you with those big green puppy dog eyes, you mean?” He
glares me into an answer. Kind of impressive, really. “I don’t
think he’s the sort of guy to get repulsed by your gayness. He’s
friends with those lesbians, isn’t he?”

“Oh. Yeah. I didn’t
think of that.”

“And even if he
doesn’t wanna kiss you again, or jump into bed with you—don’t give
me that look, I don’t know what kinda relationship you’re after.
Look, he’s still gonna be your friend. I’ve kissed Siah before, and
we’re still friends. It’ll be fine.”

“You mean that?”

“Yeah.”

“And what if I’m not
gay? What if I just kissed Bran but I don’t like boys?”

“Then you don’t like
boys. Or you do like boys. Or you like boys and girls and
everything in-between. Seriously, Honour, we’re at the end of the
world. Kiss who you want.”

He nods, then nods
again like he needs to confirm his nod. “Yes,” he says very
seriously. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

He laughs. “What do
you like? I mean—not that you have to tell me. I’m just
asking.”

I raise an eyebrow
perfect in its precise silent sarcasm. Then I surprise myself by
saying, “I love my best friend.”

Now I want to hide my
face in the table top. I get out a bit of frustration by spitting,
“It’s so annoying. It needs to stop.”

“Can’t help you
there,” Honour says. He lets out all his breath and slumps onto the
table top, looking up at me through his eyelashes. “Thanks for
making me feel better.”

“Yeah.” I just made
myself feel shitty and pissed off in the process. “You’re
welcome.”

Silence gets its
chance to shove into the conversation then, but it doesn’t feel
uncomfortable the way it does with some people.

“So,” I say
eventually. “You got a plan?”

“Why would I have a
plan? For what?”

“For getting answers
from Cat-slash-Mel. You always have a plan.”

“Well.” He looks out
the small square window into the moonlit garden. “I guess I’ll just
try to get her to talk more. Be her friend, or something.”

“Don’t even think
about bringing her into our clique.”

“We do not have a
clique,” he protests.

“We really do.”

Honour stares at me
for three suspended seconds and then bursts out laughing. “Yeah,”
he says. “We so do.”

It’s easy to feel
light around Honour. He has a way of making the worst situations
seem smaller, something we can easily smash into pieces. I like
being around him. He makes me feel good without trying at all and
he’s quick to see things from my point of view. He doesn’t judge
either, which I appreciate.

I look him in the eye.
“You’re a decent friend, you know?”

“Wow. High
praise.”

I smirk. “Just don’t
let it go to your head.”

“I’ll try but …
oh
no
. I can already feel it
inflating.”

“Don’t worry,” I say
sincerely. I give him an encouraging smile. “That’s just your thick
head.”

He glares at me but I
don’t feel like glaring back. Not until I spot a familiar
silhouette in the doorway from the corner of my eye. I wondered how
much longer it’d be until he came looking for me. I’m churning with
bitterness at being kept in the dark and resentment for his ‘Mel’
but one look at his face has it dissipating. I’m pathetic. As soon
as he’s upset or hurt I turn soft and forgiving.

“Thanks,” I tell
Honour, climbing to my feet.

“No problem.” He gives
me a loaded look. He’ll get answers from Mel/Cat.

“Come on,” I say to
Siah, heading back upstairs.

I know he can read the
dark emotions in me because he doesn’t say a word as I lay down. He
settles beside me but farther away than before. It feels like
there’s a huge crack between us, like the ones that formed around
Forgotten London when it Fell. The irrational fear from Siah’s jump
comes at me in a rush and I roll over, facing him. I can’t afford
to be angry with him, to be distant, not now. Maybe if we ever
settle down in a safe place. But not now.

“What you said,”
Yosiah says before I can open my mouth. His voice is unsteady. I
keep quiet. “In Manchester. Did you mean it?”

I forget to breathe
for two seconds. What I said in Manchester. When I thought we were
going to die. What we’ve both been pretending was never said.

“What did I say?” I
whisper. “I don’t remember.”

“It’s not
important.”

I try to relax, try to
forget, but it’s pointless. He knows what I said and so do I.

“I’m sorry,” he says
out of nowhere.

I look at him sharply.
“For what?”

“You’re angry at me.
It must be … there’s only one thing I’ve done wrong and that’s keep
something from you. So I’m sorry. For that.”

I curl up on my side.
“You won’t tell me?”

He inches closer,
brings his hand to my hair. “It’s not a small thing,” he murmurs.
“It’s a big thing.” He meets my eyes in the gloom. I know I’m not
gonna like what he says next because he’s biting his lip.
“Sometimes I forget.” He trails his fingers to my collarbone, to my
biggest scars. “What they did to you.”

My breath hitches and
all of a sudden I want anything but to know his secrets. I shut
down my emotions, close my eyes, and pretend I’m not scared to
death.

“They took me when I
was thirteen,” he says.

“You don’t have to
tell me.”

“But you have to know.
This is the last thing I’ve kept from you. You need to know how
they—”

“I lied,” I say
quickly. Anything to stop him. I can’t deal with whatever horror
story lurks in his past, even though he’s right. I do need to know
it. Just not yet. I whisper, “When you asked me. I remember what I
said in Manchester. I meant it. And you—you’re keeping things from
me as well. Feelings.”

“You’re changing the
subject.”

“You’re avoiding
admitting … things.”

“I wanted to be honest
with you, to tell you I was kidnapped and tortured and made to kill
people. But fine.” He kisses my shoulder. “I have feelings for
you.”

I hold my breath. And
then, remembering I need oxygen, I let it out slowly.
“Likewise.”

“Which part?”

An arm snakes around
my waist. Half of me wants to struggle and the other half just
wants to curl into his warmth. I’m glad I’m still folded in on
myself—my legs are a safety barrier.

“Both,” I say. “Minus
the killing.” When he kisses my hair I feel obliged to tell him,
“But this doesn’t change anything. I’m not gonna be lovey or girly
or fall at your feet. I won’t be Yosiah’s girl; I won’t stop being
Miya. But I might let you kiss me. Occasionally. Once a week.”

“Once a week sounds
heavenly.”

“Heavenly?” I groan.
“Pick a different word.”

“Amazing?”

“You
use that all the time.” His eyes are steady and earnest, his touch
light and fleeting. I uncurl, letting down my last barrier.
Don’t make me regret this, Merchant.
“
Put a bit of effort into it,” I
say.

He’s quiet, thinking.
“Sublime?”

“That’s worse than the
first one.”

He swears under his
breath. His hand slides down my spine to the small of my back.
“Intoxicating.” His voice has dipped lower. I’m not surprised when
he pulls me flush against him.

“Better.”

He hums wordlessly in
response.

“Remember,” I say as
his fingers slide into my hair. I grow more confident, raising my
fingers to his neck, his jaw. “Only once a week. Are you sure you
want to use it now?”