Damnable Grace
Page 54
In minutes, I was in my bed and drifting to sleep. My burdens felt slightly lighter somehow. And there was only one man to thank for that: the devil’s man with angel eyes.
Chapter Fourteen
Phebe
I woke to the now-familiar sounds of birds chirping and the breeze rustling through the leaves. I braced myself for the sickness, for the exhaustion I had felt every day since we had arrived, but I smiled in relief when I felt only muted tones of those pains today.
I had been sleeping on and off for two days. I slept, ate, showered, then slept again. I had purged more than I ever thought possible, and slowly, I began to feel better. I breathed more easily, walked more easily, talked more easily. Everything just felt . . . easier. The weight in my chest a little easier to bear.
I showered and dressed in my favorite one of the dresses AK had packed for me; it was olive green. I ran a comb though my hair, then made my way outside, where I knew AK would be. Since our arrival, he had spent most of his time outside. It was as though he could not stand to be inside this home. Sometimes, when I had awoken to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I had seen him outside, awake in a chair by the fire pit. Not sleeping again.
He was sitting at a table at the side of the house. A large rusty trunk sat beside him, and several pieces of black metal and plastic were strewn about the tabletop. His hair was pulled back off his face and tied back in a bun. I could not recall ever seeing his face so clearly before.
His concentration was fully on the task as he cleaned the pieces in front of him with excruciatingly meticulous detail. I walked to where he sat and saw him flicker his brown eyes to me. “You look better,” he said and carried on cleaning the small, fat piece of metal in his hands.
“I feel better.” I looked down at the worn trunk at his side. It was full to the brim with shapes I thought I recognized. A thick layer of dust lay over each one.
“Are those guns?” I asked in confusion, wondering why he owned so many.
AK stopped cleaning, but he didn’t meet my eyes. “Yeah.”
“They look old,” I said, wanting him to speak, needing some form of conversation. He had been so quiet and subdued since we arrived here. I did not know him that well, but I sensed that he was not usually this quiet.
AK shrugged. “’Bout fifteen to twenty years old. Some are newer, ’bout seven years.” His expression was tight, as were his muscles. Each one was corded and strained. He was dressed in a black tank and dark jeans. As he recommenced cleaning, I allowed my eyes to scan over his skin. His tattoos were many, boasting many different images. A large depiction of a gun, not too dissimilar to the one he was cleaning, stood out most.
“You like guns?”
AK’s lip hooked up at the corner. “Could say that.”
“Why is that amusing?”
AK laid down the final piece of metal he was cleaning, and then, at a breathtaking speed, proceeded to join all the pieces together. His gaze was intent on his task, his lips pursed. Even when a strand of hair fell from his bun he was not distracted. In what felt like seconds, the random metal fragments that had once littered the tabletop had morphed into a gun. AK pulled something on the top of the device, and it clicked into place. He placed it down on the table and sat back, sighing deeply.
“That was . . . impressive.” I could not help but smile. I had never seen anything like it before.
Seeming suddenly shy, AK lowered his eyes, but I saw the flicker of a smile on his lips. He leaned back in his chair. “You know what this gun is called?”
I shook my head. “I know nothing of guns at all. The prophet’s disciples would carry them in the commune, but the females did not touch them. They are only for men.”
“One”—he held up a finger—“they ain’t just for men. And two, this here gun is called an AK-47.”
AK-47. Realization dawned.
“AK,” I said, feeling as though I had just solved a huge mystery. “You were named after a . . . a gun?” I was confused. Who would do that to a child?
“I have a name, Phebe. AK just became my nickname at the Hangmen. ’Cause I’m good with guns. Styx’s old man saw me shoot, and my road name was born.”
“That is why you have so many guns, because you are good with them?” He nodded, but stiffly, as if that was not the entire story. “So what is your real name?” I asked.
AK shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Xavier. Xavier Charles Deyes.”
“Xavier.” I smiled. I liked how it sounded on my tongue. “I like this name.” I repeated it in my head once again. “I prefer it to the gun name.”
“But I ain’t that person no more, so I go by AK now. Suits who I am now. Xavier died a fucking long time ago.”
“And who are you now?” I asked, confused by the dark turn this conversation had taken.
“A Hangman. And not Xavier fucking Deyes.” AK leaned down, clearly ending the conversation, and took another dusty gun from the trunk. With the same speed as he had put the other together, he pulled it apart. I watched in silence as he made quick work of cleaning it and putting it back together. He placed it down, and I saw that he had a pile of glistening guns on a blanket to the other side of his feet.
“You like to shoot?”
My question stilled his movements. “Yeah.” He cocked his head to the side. “You?”
I laughed. I could not help it. “No,” I sputtered. “I have not even held one in my hands before. I would not even know where to begin.”
AK picked up a gun from the pile beside him and laid it before me. I stared at the large gun and screwed up my face. “I would have no idea how to operate such a thing.”
AK took another gun in his hand. “Then I’ll show you.” He got to his feet, and any awkwardness he had harbored minutes ago seemed to have disappeared. He was confident with the gun in his hand, transformed. He picked up the gun he wanted me to use. “Come with me.”
I rose from my seat and followed his retreating form. AK led the way through the trees, stopping at the edge of a small field. Five trees were in the distance, a brightly painted wooden plaque affixed to each trunk.
“Targets,” AK said, as if reading my mind. “You aim, shoot and try to hit one.”
“Impossible.”
“Not at all, Red. You just need a good teacher.”
Chapter Fourteen
Phebe
I woke to the now-familiar sounds of birds chirping and the breeze rustling through the leaves. I braced myself for the sickness, for the exhaustion I had felt every day since we had arrived, but I smiled in relief when I felt only muted tones of those pains today.
I had been sleeping on and off for two days. I slept, ate, showered, then slept again. I had purged more than I ever thought possible, and slowly, I began to feel better. I breathed more easily, walked more easily, talked more easily. Everything just felt . . . easier. The weight in my chest a little easier to bear.
I showered and dressed in my favorite one of the dresses AK had packed for me; it was olive green. I ran a comb though my hair, then made my way outside, where I knew AK would be. Since our arrival, he had spent most of his time outside. It was as though he could not stand to be inside this home. Sometimes, when I had awoken to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I had seen him outside, awake in a chair by the fire pit. Not sleeping again.
He was sitting at a table at the side of the house. A large rusty trunk sat beside him, and several pieces of black metal and plastic were strewn about the tabletop. His hair was pulled back off his face and tied back in a bun. I could not recall ever seeing his face so clearly before.
His concentration was fully on the task as he cleaned the pieces in front of him with excruciatingly meticulous detail. I walked to where he sat and saw him flicker his brown eyes to me. “You look better,” he said and carried on cleaning the small, fat piece of metal in his hands.
“I feel better.” I looked down at the worn trunk at his side. It was full to the brim with shapes I thought I recognized. A thick layer of dust lay over each one.
“Are those guns?” I asked in confusion, wondering why he owned so many.
AK stopped cleaning, but he didn’t meet my eyes. “Yeah.”
“They look old,” I said, wanting him to speak, needing some form of conversation. He had been so quiet and subdued since we arrived here. I did not know him that well, but I sensed that he was not usually this quiet.
AK shrugged. “’Bout fifteen to twenty years old. Some are newer, ’bout seven years.” His expression was tight, as were his muscles. Each one was corded and strained. He was dressed in a black tank and dark jeans. As he recommenced cleaning, I allowed my eyes to scan over his skin. His tattoos were many, boasting many different images. A large depiction of a gun, not too dissimilar to the one he was cleaning, stood out most.
“You like guns?”
AK’s lip hooked up at the corner. “Could say that.”
“Why is that amusing?”
AK laid down the final piece of metal he was cleaning, and then, at a breathtaking speed, proceeded to join all the pieces together. His gaze was intent on his task, his lips pursed. Even when a strand of hair fell from his bun he was not distracted. In what felt like seconds, the random metal fragments that had once littered the tabletop had morphed into a gun. AK pulled something on the top of the device, and it clicked into place. He placed it down on the table and sat back, sighing deeply.
“That was . . . impressive.” I could not help but smile. I had never seen anything like it before.
Seeming suddenly shy, AK lowered his eyes, but I saw the flicker of a smile on his lips. He leaned back in his chair. “You know what this gun is called?”
I shook my head. “I know nothing of guns at all. The prophet’s disciples would carry them in the commune, but the females did not touch them. They are only for men.”
“One”—he held up a finger—“they ain’t just for men. And two, this here gun is called an AK-47.”
AK-47. Realization dawned.
“AK,” I said, feeling as though I had just solved a huge mystery. “You were named after a . . . a gun?” I was confused. Who would do that to a child?
“I have a name, Phebe. AK just became my nickname at the Hangmen. ’Cause I’m good with guns. Styx’s old man saw me shoot, and my road name was born.”
“That is why you have so many guns, because you are good with them?” He nodded, but stiffly, as if that was not the entire story. “So what is your real name?” I asked.
AK shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Xavier. Xavier Charles Deyes.”
“Xavier.” I smiled. I liked how it sounded on my tongue. “I like this name.” I repeated it in my head once again. “I prefer it to the gun name.”
“But I ain’t that person no more, so I go by AK now. Suits who I am now. Xavier died a fucking long time ago.”
“And who are you now?” I asked, confused by the dark turn this conversation had taken.
“A Hangman. And not Xavier fucking Deyes.” AK leaned down, clearly ending the conversation, and took another dusty gun from the trunk. With the same speed as he had put the other together, he pulled it apart. I watched in silence as he made quick work of cleaning it and putting it back together. He placed it down, and I saw that he had a pile of glistening guns on a blanket to the other side of his feet.
“You like to shoot?”
My question stilled his movements. “Yeah.” He cocked his head to the side. “You?”
I laughed. I could not help it. “No,” I sputtered. “I have not even held one in my hands before. I would not even know where to begin.”
AK picked up a gun from the pile beside him and laid it before me. I stared at the large gun and screwed up my face. “I would have no idea how to operate such a thing.”
AK took another gun in his hand. “Then I’ll show you.” He got to his feet, and any awkwardness he had harbored minutes ago seemed to have disappeared. He was confident with the gun in his hand, transformed. He picked up the gun he wanted me to use. “Come with me.”
I rose from my seat and followed his retreating form. AK led the way through the trees, stopping at the edge of a small field. Five trees were in the distance, a brightly painted wooden plaque affixed to each trunk.
“Targets,” AK said, as if reading my mind. “You aim, shoot and try to hit one.”
“Impossible.”
“Not at all, Red. You just need a good teacher.”
