Page 45 of Chaos
“What’s the point of all his magic if he can’t find all the kids?”
Auden’s brows furrow, probably wondering why Santa didn’t use all his magic to stop the plague, or his parents’ death, or Shane’s hand, or Ruby’s death, or Shasta’s blindness, or my kidnapping. Or worse, what if Santa is dead, too.
Beast lets out a noisy snuffle in the corner, and rolls onto his back, four legs up in the air, mouth hanging open, tongue out.
Auden giggles, and the tense moment evaporates.
He’s trying to force a puzzle piece into another one, when the door blasts abruptly open.
I pivot reflexively in my seat, rising up on my knees, reaching for the uncomfortably large weight of Yorke’s handgun beside me. It’s in my hands, safety off, the barrel aimed at the door, my left eye squinting closed, somehow certain it’s Ben, or worse, Scraggle coming with soap and that horrible worm.
Beast lurches up, blinking around, one ear inside out.
My finger tightens on the trigger.
The door opens fully.
I can almost smell the cellar stink, when I register who is actually standing in the doorway—Yorke, Shane behind him, with a big dinner cart.
He takes me in with understanding, hands up warily in adon’t shootgesture. “I should have knocked. Sorry.”
I’m panting, almost dizzy as I lower the gun.
Maybe I shouldn’t have one right now.
Auden blinks at me. “Frankie, are you okay?”
No.
“Yeah.” I sag into the sofa for a second, breathing through a swell of vertigo, taking comfort in the reddened, evening sky visible beyond the windows. “I’m okay.”
Yorke makes a face as they roll the cart in.
The elevators must be working during the sunshine stretch. It didn’t occur to me to try using the electric lights.
“How’s Wendell?” I ask.
Beast licks at my fingers with a whine. Maybe he can smell the buckets.
“Stable. He should be okay.” Yorke gestures down at the silver cloches covering the plates on the cart. “Thought you might not want to face dinner in the Tastemaker yet.”
I touch Beast’s ears, then Auden’s shoulder so they know I haven’t forgotten them, stand, taking the gun with me to stow on top of the armoire by the door away from my jittery, twitchy self, and walk straight into him, and shove my head against his chest. “Sorry I pulled a gun on you.”
“It’ll get easier,” he murmurs into my hair. “I saw some bad stuff during the war, in a bunker, the things they did to some women down there. I didn’t live it like you did, so it might take longer for you, but it will fade if you don’t fight it.”
His hands touch my shoulders like he isn’t sure where he can touch me that won’t hurt me.
I wrap my fingers around his forearms. “It wasn’t that bad, Yorke.” My cracked split nails, bloody scabs, my torn-up fingertips stick out from the world in sharp details suddenly, as if they heard my words and want to taunt me. I drop my hands. “Truly.”
I can tell he doesn’t entirely believe me.
We settle around the table, and it feels likethe most family thing we’ve ever done—the four of us around a table, food spread out, Beast eating his portion from a bowl nearby.
Shane mutters, “Fucking Plumberger,” under his breath when he tastes it.
“I can’t believe a chicken died for this,” Auden says in a tone that makes me think he’s heard someone else say exactly that, and he shakes his head sagely. “What a waste.”
I eat it without complaint. It tastes like protein and vitamins. “I think it’s meant to be taco soup.”