Stalemate

Chapter 42

When Doon left the villa, he did not stop running until he made it to the alley. Once there, he pressed himself against the wall, stepping out of the light, and sagged against the cool brick siding. His hands turned to fists at his sides, and he shivered in the night air. The avenues on either side of the alley were ghostly quiet. He glanced to the right, out at the row of townhouses. None of the windows were lit. There were no distant footsteps or echoing conversations. Only the sound of Doon's haggard breathing. He felt completely alone.

    He waited for Dinor. Dinor, who would probably be even more angry with him for wasting his time and risking their lives to save a girl who didn't want to be saved. Who stared back at him like he was a rat she'd found in a gutter. And he felt so foolish because he'd known. He'd known all along that she would not come; he'd felt it in his stomach during the whole journey to Concord, that feeling like an expectancy, an objective truth he'd wanted so badly to dispute.

    He'd known because he had seen it long, long ago when they were still young children and she was different. She hummed their melodies and read their histories and regarded their god. Even her ritual of watching the stars ; Minarians did not care for the stars. She worshipped them, the people who came to her land and took it away. Who bled all Minara's resources and then destroyed it and killed her people. The savages who left marks on her own brother's back—marks she'd studied every single night—and still she loved the Dordans.

    He thought of Dinor, then, who'd managed to become an exception, not the standard. Then he thought of the similarities between them, how he'd seen Dinor differently that night when Dinor had told him about his life. About his own scars and sufferings. And now he wondered if the Dordans truly had it much better than Minarians. They'd come to Doon's country out of desperation, after all. Because they were starving and their land was dying. But it had not been Dinor or the people residing in these townhouses. It had been the Gibson House, fortified by the Budrenes. He knew this. He knew he could not blame Dinor simply because he looked like the people who battered him and did those terrible, awful things on Cherry Hill.

    But Ashtin could. Because she was with those very people who did the terrible-awful. She wore their clothes and spoke their language faultlessly, and she was here doing their bidding. Doon didn't understand her. He never had.

    On the empty street to his left, Doon suddenly heard a rush of footsteps streak past him. He saw blips of their clothes, heard their labored, tired heaving. He sensed their haste, their panic. He pushed himself off the wall and carefully peered out from the alley to watch them run down the street. His eyes trained over their dangling suspenders and muddied skirt hems. They were headed towards the villa.

    "What's going on?" one of them called, his voice a distant echo.

    "I don't know! Something's happened at the villa!" a breathless female voice returned.

    Doon stepped away from the street, receding back into the safe darkness, and paused there. Now to his right, on the next street, another clump of confused residents rushed past the alley. Front doors were opening, crying babies were being shushed by questioning mothers.

    Feeling suddenly vulnerable, Doon crouched down beside a lonely crate. Dinor. Where was he? He should've been here by now. Doon shook his head at himself. His heart was beginning to jolt again, his breaths quickening with worry. Something was wrong, something had happened.

    Had Dinor been caught? Had they killed him where he stood? And it was his fault. If Dinor was dead, it was all Doon's fault.

    Doon couldn't stop a noise from escaping his throat. He put his head in his hands and pulled his knees to his chest. What had he done?

    He waited there for a long time. Too long, much longer than they'd planned. All he could do was stare into the opposite wall, his mind occupied with all the possible scenarios which involved both Dinor's demise, and Doon's part in it.

    On both sides of the alley, now, there were shoes clacking hurriedly against the cobblestone, a dissonance of voices and slamming doors.

    "Daddy, where are you going!" A young girl's voice.

    "By God, I hope it's not true! It can't be true!" A distraught woman.

    Doon's hands pulled on strands of his hair. He pulled them until it hurt, then released, then grabbed fistfuls. What would he do? How would he make it without Dinor?

    And how could he leave him here?

    Doon stood to his feet. His trembling legs nearly buckled beneath him. The streets were emptying again, but he could still hear the distant tremble of hasty footsteps. Windows were alighting with smoldering yellow light. The moonless sky ____. A breeze chilled Doon's back, and a shiver traveled up his spine.

    "Dinor," he hissed in a whisper, hoping to hear a familiar answer. "Dinor, I'm here."

    An eerie silence. There was silence again. He was alone. A tin can rattled against the street.

    Then Doon felt a presence behind him, like he was being watched, and slowly he turned to see a black silhouette standing in the alley, backlit by the streetlamps.

    Doon's shoulders relaxed. He let out a relieved breath. He nearly smiled. "Dammit, Dinor, you almost gave me a heart attack. I thought you were gone."

    But, strangely, Dinor did not respond to him. He merely stood there, heaving, staring at Doon.

    Slowly, Doon approached the figure. "Dinor, you're scarin' me," he ventured, his voice trembling.

    Doon balked. This person was not Dinor. Doon's eyes traced over the unfamiliar build, which was not lean and tall like Dinor's but shorter and stockier. "What... who... who's there?" Doon listed his head, squinting into the darkened face.

    The person said nothing. Only did a quick nod.

    "What's goin' on—" Doon stumbled backward.

    Footsteps approaching from behind. The figure stepping closer. Then, before Doon had the time to process it, a sharp pain to the back of his head.

    No sound could escape him. He crumbled to the cobblestone, a black ring closing in around his vision until it shrunk to nothingness. Only a deep, endless blackness.