Will Stutely (sly_stutely) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2023-09-26 09:55:00 |
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He hadn’t thought he was getting complacent. He still counted the exits every time he walked into a room. Still mapped escape routes in his head whenever he stepped outdoors. He watched people on the street with half an eye, always a part of him looking out for the man who stared too long, or turned away too fast, or whose demeanour promised trouble. He varied his commutes to work, tried not to rest too heavy on routine. Marian had said he was reckless and selfish, said it from the start. They moved in a crooked world, always had, but these days it wasn’t the switch and the noose they had to beware, it was a cabin with a concrete cellar in the winter, a wet rag to the face and water burning in your windpipe, a bullet that might end you for a week or end you for good. It was smiling gods who knew only how to take and implacable demons with hands of fire; every man who thought a Muse’s blessing was his to claim and not hers to bestow. He’d sworn whatever that world lobbed at him, he’d not allow it to follow him home. But somewhere along the way, he’d fucked up. He must have done, else he wouldn’t be here now. At fifteen months, Hazel had ginger curls and wide brown eyes and (to the surprise of nobody, for she was the child of a Muse) a truly impressive set of lungs. She screeched like a jackdaw when Will lifted her over his head, eager arms flailing like a nestling’s stumpy wings. She chattered with everybody, magpie warbling with few distinguishable words but boundless breath. When Clio sang to her, she joined in with a skylark’s burble. And whenever she succeeded in scoring a hit on Will with the robin redbreast plushie she so loved to throw, she let loose a jay’s cackle. (The Merry Men all continued to deny coaching her to aim for Will, but there were more than a few likely suspects. The chorus of cheers whenever the toy found its mark certainly hadn’t discouraged anything.) Despite his silent fears, his daughter was growing up happy and well. Business was going well, too, though slightly to his chagrin. Athena’s doing. He’d known she had something else in mind back in October when she’d commissioned a table and dining set, but he’d thought it’d been about getting a look in at Lyra. She’d made it clear without saying as much that she knew who and what Will’s apprentice was, and he’d made it equally clear by saying exactly as much that he’d not be entertaining drop-ins at his workshop. And she’d smiled like he’d made an amusing joke and said that was fine, and because she was Clio’s sister he’d taken the commission, and because liking heroes wasn’t the same as being on their side he’d felt no guilt in charging her an additional god tax. She could afford it. The first enquiry had come not a fortnight after he’d delivered the order. They’d continued at a steady drip ever since. Wealthy folks, art collectors, politicians, doctors. They’d seen his work, been recommended him by an acquaintance. Athena insisted she’d only ever answered what she was asked. Clio had simply snorted at his hand-twisting frustration and told him to triple his price and think of it as highway robbery. He’d tripled it, then tripled it again, then discovered to his consternation that to a certain set, an outrageous price tag lent prestige. He’d been curt in his responses, even rude, and they’d opened their wallets the wider in reply. (Authentic, the collectors would say behind his back, and, reclusive, eccentric.) But Clio was right, as she usually was: one bullshit commission could pay for a lot of hot dinners at the soup kitchen. A lot of patched walls and sturdy doors for folks who didn’t feel as secure as they ought in their own homes; a lot of honest, reliable tables and chairs and cabinets for those who truly needed them. And it was a chance to teach Lyra some of the finer points of the craft, he supposed – though he’d an inkling she preferred the patch jobs, too. He was… happy. And on account of that, he’d made the mistake of dropping his guard. Later, Will would pore over that morning, searching for the telltales he must have missed. Had there been a sound from inside the workshop? A sign that the lock had been tampered with? The smell of splintered wood? How many shadows on the street had he wandered blithely past? If he’d had his eyes open, he’d have surely seen. But he hadn’t. He didn’t. Didn’t see a damn thing till the door was closing behind him, till all at once he felt a crunch beneath his boot, glimpsed the blur of motion at the corner of his eye, and with tightening fists he swung round towards it. That spared him the full force of the hit, which clipped his jaw where it’d plainly been meant to catch him full on the back of the neck. He felt the click in his jaw, the stinging pain that erupted as sparks across his vision, the taste of copper against his teeth. His feet moved faster than the rest of him, no stopping to think. Half-blind and head throbbing, he lunged for his attacker. Collision. He seized two fistfuls of shirt, using his momentum to slam the man backwards into a tool bench, heard a grunt and the clatter of something hitting the concrete. Weapon? Will blinked hard, trying to make his eyes focus. Stocky guy. Thinning hair. Ugly smile. A sudden, stomach-dropping feeling of recognition he didn’t understand, till his attacker said, “Told ya we weren’t done, Bill.” Bill. “Wh—” Pain exploded. The intensity of it cut his knees from under him and for an instant his vision went black. Then he was on the floor, gasping in air, tasting bile and sawdust. Vicious red tendrils stabbing through his middle, wrapping round his gut. Kidney shot, he realised. Come from behind. And then, Two of ‘em. Two</i> of ‘em, fuckin’ doddering idiot!</i> Two of them, and one was Eddie Pittman. Ed didn’t know Will Fletcher. He sure as shit didn’t know Will Stutely. No, Ed only knew Bill Stewart the thief, the partner he’d trusted to have his back on jewellery store gigs, till the night somebody had dropped the cops a tip and Bill had mysteriously disappeared. Last time they’d crossed paths, Eddie had wanted to kill him. Shit, shit. He had to get out. Still fighting nausea, he struggled to stand, got almost as far as pushing himself up from the ground when the boot connected with his ribs, three sharp kicks, till he lost his purchase and dropped again. “Stay down, shithead.” Will groaned. No escape. None, unless he could convince Eddie and his goon to let him walk out of here alive. Were they here to murk him? Ed was a safecracker, not a killer, but you never could be sure what a man would do— and he’d not even copped a look at the other guy. Eddie, then. Focus on Eddie. Find out what he wants, keep him talking. “Ed— Eddie—” He was cut short with a sardonic snort. “Now he remembers my name.” “No, it’s— Ed. I wasn’t— It wasn’t me that squealed. I dunno who did. Didn’t see much of anything after it all went tits-up.” A shuffle of boots at— ten o’clock, call it. Scrape of wood against concrete at four. As he spoke, Will began to raise his head again, just a fraction this time, enough that if he craned his neck he could begin to get the lay of the room. “Barely got away with my skin. Took it, took it as a sign—” He glimpsed the movement, heard the footfalls, braced for another blow, but the kick didn’t come. Then, almost lazily, Eddie brought his boot down on Will’s hand. Pressed down, and down, till the pain throbbed with a fire and Will could near feel the bones grinding against one another. The nausea rose again. “How’s this for a fuckin’ sign, Stewart?” No more humour in his voice. Eddie’s smile had been nasty, but the expression that had swallowed it up was nastier still. “Y’know, for a guy who just made it out with his skin, sure as shit looks like you landed on your feet. Hear you’re a regular family man these days.” Bile in his throat. (no) Don’t react. (no fuck no not again) Don’t fucking react, you bastard. Don’t give him what he’s after. He could only be fishing for all you know. Then Eddie said, “What? Nothing to say? Hey, Stewart— does your Park Slope honey not know she’s fucking a felon, or is that just what she’s into? ‘Cause if she likes playin’ in the gutter, I got a few—” “Don’t—” it came out in a snarl, on a surge of fury and fear engulfing all his better judgement, “you fucking—” Sharp, throbbing pain as Eddie pressed his weight down on Will’s hand again, but Will kept on, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “Nothing— to do— with—” “Of course they don’t. And we both wanna keep it that way, right? So let’s talk about how you’re gonna make up what you owe me.” They trashed the workshop before they went. Or maybe they’d done that first, before he’d arrived. Will couldn’t remember. But at the end of it, he was alone, splayed on the concrete floor, surrounded by the ruined shards of chairs and cabinets. The sawdust burned in his lungs; splinters dug into his palms. Everything hurt. He’d sworn. He’d sworn, and not even two years gone by— and he’d not known, not even suspected. Even with all the looking over his shoulder. How easy would it’ve been for Eddie, for anybody to walk up to the front door and— Mistake. Selfish. Marian’s old words, a hiss in his ears. Selfish. Selfish. He had to— had to get up. Call Clio. No. Clio was home alone with Hazel, he’d only put a fear in her. Was going to put a fear in her regardless, but if she heard his voice just now— and hell, didn’t she deserve better than her man limping in the door with another garbled story and another target on his back? No. No. No. This was his failure, and he owed her a plan to make it right. Not Tuck, either. Tuck would come running over in a heard beat, gunshot wound or no, but that weren’t the point. The man was just barely out of the hospital, he needed peace and space to heal; he wasn’t in any kind of condition to deal with other people’s fuckups. But Tuck was the only other person who knew about— before. He called anybody else, Scarlet, Much, Alan, Johnny, they’d come in with questions. Who’s gunning for you, what’d they want, and why? And what could he say? And Marian— (Mistake, selfish.) —no, he couldn’t trouble Marian. There was only one person he could call on. He knew it, but the prospect of having to explain himself to that person made Will feel sicker than even the blow to the kidneys had. With a slow, painful shifting, he hauled himself upright and retrieved his phone.
need you workshop now
no danger bring ice
By the time Robin Hood arrived, Will had managed to hobble across the room to where the first aid kid was stashed under the sink. He’d dragged it out onto the floor and then, his energy exhausted, had simply sunk down beside it, resting his aching back against the cabinet. He stared half-seeing at the smashed furniture, tallying up the hours of work lost, the commissions destroyed, and wondering how he could hope to fix any of it. |