And maybe he had, in some way. Because Wren had never sensed Asher again. Until yesterday, on the rooftop.
He’d wondered from time to time what might have happened to Asher, of course. And now, though Wren still didn’t have the exact answer, he felt he had at least some clue. Whatever Wren had done to him, Asher had managed to undo. To reclaim his consciousness. Or reassemble it, maybe. Outside the bounds of usual storage. Unsecured.
Wren guessed Asher had interfaced with the machine plenty of times before. He might in fact have been connected to it in that last moment. And from there, it would’ve been a small thing for someone like Asher. A small thing to infiltrate the minds of the Weir, already slaves to some other purpose, and bend them to his will.
The first time, the only time, Wren had connected to the machine, what he’d seen had reminded him of Asher, but it’d never occurred to him then that Asher might really have been there. Wren wondered now what he could’ve done differently, if only he’d recognized it sooner. The system or systems that Underdown’s machine created, or tapped into, had been overwhelming. Underdown’s machine. His father’s machine. His father’s creation had given Asher a place to dwell, to grow in power, and Wren had sent him there. A dark legacy, his to bear, made darker by his own foolishness.
It was his fault. Really and truly. Wren had brought Asher to Morningside. And Wren had released Asher too. And now wherever Wren went, he was sure to attract Asher’s wrath.
He had to fix it. He had to make it right. And that meant Wren had to get back to Morningside to shut the machine down.
Painter sat balled up at the head of his bed, hunched in the corner with his back against two walls and his chin resting on his knees. He’d been sitting that way since before the sun came up, and even though he knew everyone else was up and about, he couldn’t bring himself to leave his room. Not yet.
His mind felt splintered. Not confused, but tangled, like Painter was holding too many contrary thoughts in his head at once. He’d seen the way Cass had moved. The way she’d carved through the horde of Weir. It had awed him. And horrified him.
On one hand, he’d been… what, grateful? Relieved? Emboldened? Some strange mix of emotions had filled him when Painter had come through the front doors of the building, expecting to see the Weir coming from every side. Instead, they’d been pushed back and, carrying Wick, he and Mouse had had a straight and clear path from the door to Lil’s people.
But as they’d approached, Lil had changed. They all had. And they had taken on some new, terrible form. And then they’d gone among the Weir. That was when he’d seen it all from a new perspective. The Weir had ceased to be merely appalling creatures in his eyes; they’d become something more. A community defending itself from some unholy vengeance that had come upon them without warning.
And somehow they hadn’t seemed so different from anyone else. Only a few months ago, he could’ve been among them. Even now, his sister could be. What if Snow had been there? Would Cass have hesitated to strike her down?
And yet. And yet. No matter what he thought, there seemed to always be some other thought alongside it, swirling, countering. Wren was good. Cass was good. Lil was good.
And yet.
The only thing Painter was certain of was that he didn’t belong. Not here with them. Not in Morningside. Not even among the Weir.
Where was Snow? Where was his sister? He missed her more than he’d thought possible. He wished she’d never gotten caught up in whatever game was being played in Morningside. Even when she’d rejected him, at least he’d known she was out there somewhere, alive. There’d still been hope.
There seemed little of that now.
I can’t promise that, Wren had said. I’d try, Painter, he’d said. A far cry from hope. And though Painter didn’t understand what it meant that this Asher had been in control of the Weir somehow, he knew it was something dreadful. Could Asher jump from one Weir to another? Or was it that he could control many at once? Whatever the case, the thought that Snow might be out there as little more than a puppet for Asher’s malevolence…
Maybe he should’ve just buried her after all. He finally realized how desperate it had been, how foolish. It seemed all too likely that now the only outcome would be that he’d never really know what became of her. He made a decision then, in his heart.
Whatever might come, whatever the consequence, he would return to Morningside. Whether Painter had to live inside the wall or beyond it, he would find her. And then he would do whatever it took to help Snow find her way back.
It was midafternoon before Cass found the strength to come out of her room. Lil had brought her food a little after noon, and Mouse had stopped in to check on her. Gamble, too, had visited for a short time. Cass was relieved to know that she’d managed to cling to Gamble’s knife through the battle. Apparently Mouse had had to pry it out of her hand at some point.
Out in the hall, Cass heard Wren’s voice in one of the other rooms and followed its sound to a door that was cracked open.
“…because the bridge cuts off this loop here, see,” a weak voice was saying, “so it’s actually faster. Just not the safest way.”
Cass knocked lightly on the door.
“Yeah, you can come in,” the voice said. Cass nudged the door open and found Wren sitting in a chair next to Wick.
Wick was propped up on some pillows in bed. He hardly looked like himself, his face was so pale, and his eyes were darkly ringed. An IV bag hung on a makeshift apparatus, the line running to his right arm. “Hey, Lady. How you feeling?” Wick said, smiling broadly. He tried to sit up, but she motioned for him not to.
“I’m good, Wick. How are you?”
“Milking it,” he said. But his voice was thin and didn’t have the same smooth timbre it usually did. “I don’t remember the last time I got to stay in bed all day.”
“Hey, baby,” Cass said to Wren.
“Hi, Mom,” he answered. He glanced at her when he said it, but then went to looking at his hands in his lap. It made her feel like she’d interrupted something.
“What’s the prognosis?”
Wick shrugged about halfway and then grimaced. It took a second before he could respond. “Mouse says four or five days, but he worries like a grandma.” He waggled his arm with the IV in it. “Got me all juiced up out of fear of infection. But I figure I’m up and about tomorrow, maybe day after.”
“You just do what Mouse tells you to. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Likes to give that impression, anyway.”
Cass paused a moment, looking at him there. Grieved by his pain, grateful he was alive. “You had me really worried there, Wick. More than grandma worried.”
“Yeah. I’m really sorry about getting poked, Miss Cass. I’m better than that, I promise.”
Wick seemed genuinely upset with himself, and his apology was sincere. Cass shook her head. “Don’t apologize. I’m just sorry it happened.”
“It shouldn’t have.”
His expression went dark when he said it. Remembering. She could almost read his mind, or at least guess at his train of thought. If he hadn’t gotten hurt, no one would’ve had to carry him, and if no one had had to carry him, there would’ve been two more shooters, and if there’d been two more shooters, maybe Cass wouldn’t have gotten overwhelmed… Nothing she said was going to make him feel any better about how things had gone. She decided to change the subject.
“Wren’s not keeping you up, is he?”
“No, not at all. He’s good company. We were just getting the lay of the land, seeing where we are in relation to everything else. Sharp kid. You should keep him.”