Immortal War

so few people I trust these days. I know you have your work, and so do I, but there’s all this eternity stretched out before us. It scares me sometimes.”

“I won’t be your cure for loneliness,” she said sharply, staring into the fountain.

“No,” he said, standing close beside her, his face glowing in the light of the moon and its reflection in the water. “You’d be so much more than that.”

Darcy felt a fresh wave of sadness break within her. “We can never be together,” she said. “Your words are like diamonds, Jez. They always were, but your actions fall short.” He looked at her forlornly as she continued. “The reason I didn’t run away with you that night was because of the hideous way you treated the captain—the very man who’d rescued you from the abyss.” It pained her to think of that night but now that Pandora’s box was open, it could not be closed. “You whispered sweet nothings to me, but after you’d gone I learned that you had murdered Shanti in cold blood.” She paused but he didn’t deny it. “I’m sure you’ve murdered many others since then. And now you’re one of Sidorio’s trusted deputies, so you’re just as responsible for this war as he is. It’s your fault your best friend is in the state he’s in.”

Stukeley frowned. “That’s not fair. You’ve never liked Sidorio.”

“There’s very little to like,” she said. “But at least Sidorio knows himself. I think you look in the mirror, Jez, and you see someone quite different staring back at you.”

She turned from him and drew her cardigan more tightly around her. The cold sadness inside her was now equaled by the chill of the night. Once every dream of hers had been bound up with Jez Stukeley. Now all she wanted was to go back inside and bury herself under her bedcovers. Perhaps this was the saddest part of all—that he, whom she had once thought to be her Mr. Jetsam, might now mean so little to her.

“Is that it, then?” Stukeley asked. Now there was bitterness in his voice. “Is that all the time you’ll deign to grant me before I leave with Johnny?”

She turned to glance over her shoulder, perfectly poised. “I think I’ve been more than generous, all things considered,” she said. “And now, I think I’d best get back inside. If I stay out any longer, I might catch a chill. Or worse.”

Darcy turned away and, bowing her head against the night breeze, made for the Corridor of Lights. Walking back into the compound, she was surprised how weightless she felt—as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She walked beneath the butter lamps, finding their distinctive smell homely and grounding. Turning the corner into the Corridor of Discards, she felt as if she were seeing the place for the first time. Her eyes were assaulted from all sides by the shapes and colors of the trinkets so many Nocturnals had left here in order to journey deeper into the compound and on toward a state of peace.

Darcy paused in the middle of the corridor and reached into the pocket of her nurse’s uniform. With trembling fingers she retrieved a small brooch in the shape of a shooting star. It was the first gift Jez had given her, and she had kept it close all this time—a kind of talisman. Now she placed the brooch here where it belonged—among all the other discarded things. She had been on the verge of placing it here before, when Grace and Noijon had surprised her. But she had found herself afflicted by doubt. Now that doubt had evaporated. Feeling lighter having disposed of the last token of her toxic relationship with Jez, she continued on her way.

She felt sure that Grace and Noijon could handle Johnny, and she didn’t want to play any further part in their misguided plan. She decided it was best, all things considered, to keep out of their way. Up ahead, the door leading to the inpatient wards was open. She slipped through the door and into the ward. It seemed deserted; the other medical staff must be on a break. Darcy immediately fell back into duty mode, picking up a sheaf of papers that had been dropped on the stone floor and adjusting the muslin curtains around one of the beds to retain the patient’s privacy. She continued on her way, noticing that within one of the muslin tents, there was a light.

Stepping closer, she saw that on the other side of the curtain, the patient was awake and moving. He was whispering to himself and waving his arms about. Thinking that he might be in some kind of distress, she pushed back the curtain and stepped inside.

“Are you all right?” she asked gently.

The patient, a young-looking man with shiny black hair shaped into a pompadour, froze and smiled at her. “Never better,” he said.

“What were you doing just now?” she asked. “Whispering and waving your arms like that?”

He winked at her. “I was just playing my guitar,” he said.

“Your guitar?”

He nodded and brought his hands up to mime strumming an invisible guitar. Darcy smiled but couldn’t help wondering how badly concussed he must have been to be experiencing such delusions.

“Don’t look so worried,” he said. “You’re much too beautiful to have frown lines.”

She smiled at the compliment, taking a closer look at his face and noticing that his eyes were almost as dark as his hair.

“My actual guitar was lost when we were attacked,” he said. “The band and I were entertaining the troops, you see. We all made it out in one piece, just about—except my 1954 Fender Strat Sunburst.” He smiled. “Now that guitar had the Mojo. Big time! In fact, she pretty much saved my life, you know.”

“She… you mean it did?”

The patient nodded, patting the seat beside his bed. Darcy sat down, setting the sheaf of papers she had picked up earlier on her lap and turning her full attention to the young man at her side.

“This merciless Vamp was bearing down on me with this evil-looking, double-headed ax doohickey. So I took hold of my Fender Strat and staked him clean through the heart with it. He disintegrated into itty-bitty pieces but so, sad to say, did my Fender Strat.” He shook his head sadly but then shrugged. “And that’s why I’m reduced to playing air guitar,” he said. “But it’s probably a good thing because that way I don’t wake up any of the others when I’m practicing my set.”

“Ah!” Darcy nodded in understanding. “That’s why you were whispering.”

He nodded. “No flies on you, nurse,” he said.

“So you’re in a band?” Darcy said. “Would I have heard of it? What’s it called?”

The young man’s eyes twinkled as he strummed his imaginary guitar with a flourish. “Jet Jetsam and the Jets,” he said.

Darcy barely dared to ask the next question. “And you are… Jet Jetsam?”

“The one and only,” he said, putting her out of her misery with the biggest, most beautiful smile she had seen in centuries.

23

WALKING WOUNDED

Johnny leaned heavily on Grace and Noijon as they walked him out across the courtyard and into the kitchen garden. Seeing them appear, Stukeley jumped to his feet.

“Johnny!” he cried, jumping up and running over to his old buddy. “It’s so good to see you!” Stopping short beside him, Stukeley took a proper look at his friend and comrade. “Man, you look like —”

“I feel worse than that!” Johnny said, hanging his head.

“Where’s Darcy?” Grace asked Stukeley.

“She had to go,” he said. “Or, to be more accurate, she felt she had to get away from me.”

“Oh.” Grace nodded. “Well, I suppose you two should be on your way, too. Noijon and I will go and distract the guards.” She was about to set off when Johnny reached out and softly caught her arm.

“Hey,” he said. “Don’t I get to thank you for saving my life?”