Stolen Lies (Fates of the Bound 2)

“Maybe. I can’t even get her to tell me what she wants for dinner, much less what she wants to wear or do for the day. She won’t speak unless she’s spoken to, and she doesn’t say much beyond yes, no, thank you, and I’m sorry. It’s breaking my heart.”

“You’re good with her.”

Shirley shifted at the unexpected compliment.

“Perhaps it would be best to limit her options. Ease her into decision making. Have her choose among three things to eat, have her pick what to wear from three options, have her decide what to do each hour or so from a few choices.”

“Like a toddler?”

Lila shrugged.

“Seems patronizing, but you have a point.”

“Get her a tutor, too. I imagine she’s woefully behind.”

“Hard to find a tutor we can trust. Although, to be fair, no one seems to care that she’s gone missing. They only care about Oskar.” Shirley scratched at what was left of her ear. “Perhaps I could work with her a little and drag Dixon into it. Tongueless fool can’t spook her if he can’t speak. He’s got a whole lot of book-learning in him.”

She picked up a wrench and pointed a half-knuckle at the door in the back. “The boss man’s upstairs. He’s not in a good mood. Telling Maria he’d failed…it damn near killed him.”

Lila dodged the tangle of cars and trucks to get to the shop’s back door. She climbed the staircase, marveling at how nice the building had become in the last week. Tristan had repaired everything from baseboards to doorknobs to windows, painting every wall and trim. With Maria around, the place sparkled and shined.

Lila opened the door to Tristan and Dixon’s apartment on the top floor and tossed her mesh hood upon the kitchen counter. It had been made from a thick slab of wood, which balanced on a pair of old wine barrels. The wood had been polished with a dark stain. Every other table had been made in the same way, leaving the room smelling of wine. Comfortable black couches swallowed the room.

Lila squinted at the dark purple paint on the walls, a project Tristan had finished only a few days before. Through an open door in the back, she saw Dixon’s room, painted in stripes of varying lengths and colors: green, blue, purple, the occasional swatch of orange and yellow and gold. Tristan had called the job tacky, but he had painted them anyway. It was a gift for his brother, an I’m-sorry-I-chose-to-rescue-Lila-instead-of-you present.

As a result, things were definitely weird and forced between her and Dixon. His normal good mood and banter had been replaced by thoughtful, brooding silences whenever she entered the room. Worse was when he tried to joke like he used to.

Things were just so horribly forced.

Hot, too. Dixon had cranked up the heat again, and Tristan hadn’t said a word against it. Neither would Lila. She took off her jacket and t-shirt, already prepared with a black tank underneath.

She then plopped between the pair, each sitting on either end of the couch. Tristan wore nothing but black cotton pajama pants, his dark hair mussed, his dark eyes heavy, his arms crossed tight around his chest like a pouting child. Dixon lounged in purple, rubbing his closely shaved head, his blue eyes exhausted.

The bright light caught the silver scars on their necks.

Dixon inclined his head, uncurling from his perch to study her face.

“Tired?” she asked.

Dixon nodded.

“Me too.” She dropped her head onto the back of the couch.

He pointed at the bruise on her jaw.

“It’s nothing a glass of wine won’t fix.”

Tristan took the hint and fetched a bottle of La Sangre de las Flores from a locker in the corner. Then he ventured into the kitchen. The freezer opened and closed with a sticky pop. “Did you see Maria?” he asked, handing her a bag of frozen peas as he sat back down.

“I see that she’s still here. It’s not safe for her. It’s not safe for you and your people either if you keep her.” Lila held the bag to her jaw, welcoming the burst of cold.

“She stays until I find her brother.” He uncorked the bottle of wine with a hollow thump and filled a Jolly Roger mug. Another sat on the coffee table in front his place, filled with whiskey, by the smell of Tristan’s breath. “She’s been crying off and on all evening.”

“I imagine so. She thought her brother would be free tonight.”

Tristan handed her the mug of wine. “You should have let us break him out of your family’s holding cells.”

Lila frowned, the sweet taste of the blackberry wine soured by his mood. Tonight, Tristan was the old Tristan. She’d been waiting for their truce to expire, for him to begin arguing with her once more. She had hoped things wouldn’t go back to how they’d been before, that they’d move to a new place instead, that they’d reach some new understanding.