Page 90 of Shrapnel

Having a bodyguard had been…weird. Noah had grown used to a sense of solitude since inhabiting the mansion. Whatever cleaning staff he paid kept their distance and besides Harvey, he rarely saw any Mesa members. Elijah was the only other person he saw with any regularity, but he was different. Noah sought out his presence. Just sitting next to him was enough to calm the itchiness he felt. One glance into his eyes and the cruel voices in Noah’s mind fled. He could be calm with him.

Jackson was anything but calm. He paced around the house like a caged tiger—muscles twitching and eyes scanning the walls. More than once, Noah wanted to tell him to open a window, stick his head out and breathe. He figured Jackson must be bored, but he didn’t say anything. At all. His ability to be silent must rival that of Roland.

Watching him taunt the mutinous Mesa’s was the first time Jackson had shown any kind of personality. His eyebrows relaxed and if you squinted, it looked like his lips might be ever so slightly curled up. He hadn’t done anything about the yelling, yet. Noah had held him off.

Noah sighed and felt a headache building in the base of his skull.That’s right,he thought cruelly,look at me. I’m the fucking spitting image of my father, troublesome fuck waffles.

“He’s no leader. Luther was right to hide him away! The mutt is too mixed. His whore mother must have spread her legs for anyone.”

Jackson shifted, the blade twisting in his big grip. Noah held up a hand.

“Are you challenging me?” his words were so low the man had to take a step forward to hear.

“What?”

“I said,” Noah reiterated, taking a long step forward so he was standing in the sun. “Are you challenging me for leadership?”

The man gaped for a moment, glancing back at his groupies before turning back to Noah. “I…I’m Mesa, through and through. I could do a better job than you. Yes, I’m—”

Noah drew his father’s gun and fired. The heavy gun recoiled against his palm, the grip bucking in his hands just once before he slipped it back into its holster.

The Mesa man looked surprised. He wobbled for a moment before his body collapsed, a small trickle of blood running down his cheek just below his ruined right eye.

Someone screamed, but Noah didn’t know who. He turned on his heel and stormed back into the cool mansion. Jackson’s blade snicked as he slid it back into its black tactical sheath.

“Nice shot.”

Noah fought back bile. “I was aiming for his forehead.”

Jackson shrugged. “Shut him up either way.”

He breathed through his nose, exhaling shakily. His hands were trembling. Noah could smell the gunpowder. Was that blood? No. There was no way he would be able to smell it. His mind was bringing back memories from the night at the Grand Hotel. Back then blood had been everywhere. In his hair, in his mouth, on his clothes. It had taken days for the red stain to come off his skin.

The gunshot was ringing in his ears. He hated that sound. It reverberated down his spine into his feet. Echoing in his ears like a pulsating drum, constantly reminding him that he pulled the trigger. That he made that choice.

He wanted to call Elijah. Hear his voice, crawl into him and never come out. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Why couldn’t he just run away with Elijah somewhere. A place where there are no guns or blades, a place as far away from the sands of White Sand Mesa or the naked trees of Weaver Syndicate. Far away from the deep red color of blood.

“I killed to get this position. Why are they always so surprised I’ll kill to keep it?” he muttered, trying to affect normalcy. Like all his parts weren’t about to shake loose.

Jackson probably wasn’t fooled, but he let Noah have it.

They passed by that ugly couch and Noah slowed. It looked the same as it had when he was a kid. Someone had covered it with a sheet. Harvey probably. That’s something he would do. The man loved to take care of people. With a dust buster in one hand and a cleaver in the other, he was Noah’s personal babysitter. And one of the only people he trusted.

Noah glanced across the hall at Luther’s office doors. They were firmly shut. Just like the day he first walked into White Sand Mesa. Swallowing, he crossed the hallway.

This wasn’t Luther’s home anymore. This was his home. Every room, every door, every inch belonged to him. He would no longer tolerate the specter of his uncle. Neither one of them.

Roughly he pushed open the doors, gritting his teeth as they slammed back into the wall.

No one had touched the gaudy office since Luther died. Even the papers on his desk were the same. Dust covered the shelves of vials lining the wall, and the golden appliques on the antique desk looked a little faded. Sunlight streamed in from the window, curtains parted to let the dust motes dance in the rays. It smelled stale. Without humans moving the air around the leather and paper from the books on his shelves took over.

“Just when I thought this house couldn’t get any uglier,” Jackson remarked.

You have no idea.

Noah walked toward the desk. This was the only room he had not checked. He didn’t want to know his uncle’s secrets or to understand him. But he wanted this to end. With the gun weighing him down, he looked up at the shelves. All manner of horrors bounced around in the neat little jars.

They used to look so much bigger.