Page 13 of Fearful (Powerless Trilogy #3.5)

“For Adena,” the man chokes.

And then he disappears into the night.

Lenny is much sturdier than Death previously gave him credit for.

He carries Blair with little sign of strain, her head lolling against his starchy shoulder.

“Almost there,” he murmurs.

“Almost where, Lenny?” The Tele’s question is more slurred than assertive.

“No insulting nickname?” He picks up his pace (Death is then forced to do the same), thoroughly jostling the wounded girl in his arms. “You really are hurt.”

Blair tries again, these words more biting. “Where are you taking me?”

Mara has been wondering just that. She looks to Lenny, awaiting his answer.

“To my house.”

“You mean,” Blair begins hoarsely, “you live with a bunch of sweaty Imperials by choice?”

Death follows her escort around a corner as he says, “Those sweaty Imperials are worth the luxury of living in a castle.”

Blair groans with as much scorn as she can muster. “Yes, but you have a curfew. Do you get tucked into bed, too?”

“I know you’re making fun of me right now, but I would not object to a nightly tuck in.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Blair mumbles.

They turn another corner and—

Death comes to an abrupt halt. In another lifetime, her heart would have been pounding.

Mara drags her gaze over the cluster of gnarled trees that crowd a rickety house. Their branches are intertwined, weaving around one another in an infinite embrace.

This is that patch of earth—the one Death has been avoiding since her return to Ilya. Those trees were once thriving, so tall they seemed to scrape the sky with their branches. Now they curl with time, decay from the horrors they have witnessed.

But the flimsy home Lenny strides toward is mercifully unfamiliar.

Mara forces her feet forward. She stops before the worn door. A pile of sand adorns the step beneath.

Death refuses to feel. Just as the living assume of a heinous creature such as she.

“Whose house is this?”

The Imperial kindly answers Blair’s question. “It’s mine now. But Ma and I used to live here. Now”—he sets the limp Tele down—“can you stand for a second?”

“Yes, I know how to stand, gingersnap.”

“Ah. Sounds like someone is already feeling better.”

Lenny tugs at a faded pink ribbon around his neck. Mara, to her dismay, had failed to notice it peeking out from beneath the collar of his uniform. An iron key hangs at the end of it, intricate and decorated with swirling metal. After shoving it hastily into a lock, he then shoulders open the door.

“Home sweet home,” Lenny sighs.

He moves to slide an arm around Blair. “Don’t,” she snarls. “I don’t need your help.”

Palms raised, the Imperial steps aside. “Suit yourself.”

The Tele lifts her chin. This must make her terribly dizzy, because she immediately stumbles into the doorframe.

Lenny clears his throat. “Sure you don’t need—?”

“Just get me inside,” Blair seethes.

He swiftly obeys, wrapping a hesitant arm around his assignment’s waist. She leans heavily on him as they step into what is generously deemed a home. It’s a glorified shack, really, with its slatted roof and lack of furniture.

Mara surveys the shadowed space and finds only an inkling of relief.

No piece of the past lingers here.

“Where is your mother now?” Blair asks, easing herself onto a stiff cot decorating the floor.

Lenny visibly shudders as he crouches before her. “It feels wrong to think of her as ‘Mother.’ Seems so cold and formal.”

“It is,” she responds dully. “Not all of us are blessed with a ‘Ma.’?”

“Right.” He nods slowly. “I guess I’m pretty lucky, then. But Ma is in Dor now, sheltering Elites whose powers are too weak to safely remain in Ilya. Because of multiple Ordinary ancestors,” he clarifies.

Death thoroughly enjoys talk of these Elites and Ordinaries. It is quite fun, as though she is the only one laughing at an untold joke.

Lenny rifles through the bundle of clothing beside his bleary-eyed assignment on the cot. “Okay, nothing is broken, right? I feel like you would be even less pleasant if that were the case.”

“No. Nothing is broken.”

Hmm. Mara is a bit disappointed by her lack of retort.

In fact, upon further study, it seems the Tele is rather defeated.

If Death were to wager a guess—and, of course, she will—it would be that Blair Archer is unused to pain.

She doesn’t let anyone get close enough to hurt her.

That borrowed ability is the only defense she knows, and when that is stripped away, she is weak. Or rather, just as she was meant to be.

“Good,” Lenny says, relieved. “Now, I just need to bandage you up until we can discreetly get a Healer to your room. I’m not really sure how to go about doing that, but—”

“Are you capable of thinking these thoughts inside your head?” Blair grinds out between her teeth. “Because you’re making mine pound harder.”

“Ah, yes, let’s start there.”

He is completely unbothered by her biting words. This only annoys Blair further.

His fingers brush her forehead, startling the Tele. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to help,” he says slowly. Hesitantly, he swipes a strand of tangled hair from her eyes. “There. Now I can see that gash on your temple.”

Mara takes a seat on the lumpy cot. They may be here awhile.

“Why are you helping me?” Blair demands.

Lenny tears a strip of fabric from the pile of abandoned clothing. “Aside from it kind of being my job?” His eyes flick over a glaring Blair. “Why didn’t you fight that Tele?”

She grinds her teeth together. Death can hear it. “I did.”

“No,” the Imperial corrects. “You didn’t—not really. I could hear your heart. It only slowed, like… like you—”

“Accepted my fate,” Blair finishes curtly. Her voice is steady. “That man is the second person who wants me dead for what I did in that arena. Maybe it’s time to admit they have a point.”

Lenny stares at her. The moon slips through those slits in the roof, trickling dull light across his face. He wears the type of look that begs to be analyzed, picked apart until each layer of emotion is on display. But even Mara does not know what it is he’s thinking, feeling—is or isn’t.

“Are you just going to let me bleed out over here?” Blair blurts harshly.

Her words cut through the concern on the Imperial’s face. “Right.” He clears his throat and lifts that strip of cloth to Blair’s forehead.

“Is that”—a look of repulsion pinches her features—“sand?”

“Oh, yeah.” After wrapping her head with the makeshift bandage, Lenny ties a knot against her hair. “I just recently got back from the Scorches.”

“What?”

“I was a part of that Resistance that failed,” he says casually.

“I even rescued Pae from the Enforcer and took them to Dor. But then they vanished from our camp—it was a whole thing.” He sighs.

“That’s why I came back to Ilya, actually.

I was going to smuggle Paedyn out of the kingdom before I found out Kitt had no intention of killing her. ”

Hmm. Death had not expected that. Over the years, she has collected more than a few martyrs and radicals and those ravenous for justice.

But Lenny does not look like the rest. No, he is still a boy with a heart much too soft—a luxury that revolution cannot afford.

Kindness is rarely jarring enough to instill change, you see, so cruelty is often justified by pure intentions.

Casually, the Imperial lifts that worn tunic again to rip more fabric from its hem.

Blair stares at the sandy garment, her voice lethal. “Are these the sweaty clothes you wore in the Scorches?”

Lenny has the audacity to snort. “I tell you I was a Resistance member, and that is the first thing you ask?”

“I don’t care about your treason,” she declares. “It’s honestly unsurprising, considering you’re a Hyper and your best friend is an Ordinary. What I do care about, however, is your filthy clothing on my open wound.”

He winces. “It’s not ideal, I’ll admit. But I don’t have any other clothes.”

“I could strangle you.”

“Save your energy.” Lenny leans in to examine the slice on her forearm. “Besides”—he flashes her a smile she happily scowls at—“I did just save your life.”

He had.

Death notes that this does not sit well with Blair.

“Did you mean what you said?” she asks, her tone indifferent. “About how me living is more torturous than Death?”

Mara perks up at such a direct mention.

When Lenny glances at his assignment, moonlight splatters his face with pale freckles of its own. “Was it true?”

Blair seems to be at war with herself.

“I wanted to be a baker,” she finally blurts.

Hmm. Yet another unexpected discovery this evening. Unlike Lenny, the Tele seems entirely too cutting and cruel for such an admission of self.

Wisely, Lenny does not laugh. “What?”

“Since we are admitting things,” she forces out, “you should know that I always wanted to be a baker.”

The Imperial blinks. This is then followed by the predicted laughter. “I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine you wanting to make anyone feel warm and fuzzy inside.”

“Well, there are only about four occupations you can have in this Plague-forsaken kingdom,” she retorts, though the venom in her voice begins to fade. “And when I was a little girl, baking was the only thing in my life I could control. Every measurement, every spice—it was mine to manipulate.”

Death can understand this. In another life, she, too, yearned for control. Now Mara is at the mercy of the Mors.

Lenny tenderly wraps the gash beneath her torn tunic sleeve. “So…” He sounds hesitant, as though at any moment, Blair might run away from this sudden vulnerability. “Why are you not a baker, then?”

She exhales slowly. “My mother wanted a boy—a strong male to take my father’s place as general one day.

” Both Mara and the Tele roll their eyes.

“So, from the moment of my birth, I was a disappointment. Mother knew I would have to work extra hard to earn my father’s position, because for whatever reason, being a woman is perceived as a disadvantage. ”