Chapter Text
The weight wasn’t the worst part, though that was getting her down way more than she’d expected -
He was so cold.
She’d gotten so used to it, the rank heat from him that’d been the source of much colourful back-and-forth. She might be decaying, but a living body could stink pretty bad when baths were not a priority. As it was with Sweeney.
Had been.
She stumbled.
Fuck.
Crouching, she unslung him from her shoulders and he flopped into the dust, the red stain on his shirtfront glaring at her accusingly.
If she could’ve cried, she would have. But that wasn’t an option. She could kick something. Kick him. But no. That wouldn’t help her in her task, booting the ginger shit in half wouldn’t get him back on his feet.
Laura looked down at the dead man lying in the dust.
This was nothing like in New Orleans, when she’d found him passed out. Back then, his shit-eating grin had been right there beneath the drunken stupor, just ready to appear. Now there was nothing at all.
And there never would be again if she didn’t do something.
What was the plan again? Laura had only thought as far as getting him out of that fucking vipers’ nest.
Doubt nagged as the sun crept higher. Maybe she should’ve waited til Jacquel had embalmed him. She was more than five hundred miles from New Orleans, carrying a seven fucking foot dead leprechaun. She doubted she’d be able to hitch a ride.
No, forget New Orleans. She wanted nothing more to do with that voodoo prick and his mind games.
Who else could help? What about the Easter lady? She hadn’t joined the party, for all Wednesday’s wheedling. And it was Shadow who’d done this. By accident, he said - and Laura believed him - so there should be none of that ‘oh but you were killed by a god’ bullshit.
But no, it wouldn’t work. Easter would be as slippery as the rest of them - she would find some excuse or other not to help.
Laura spat into the dust. The absence of wrigglers was barely a consolation. She was fucked. They were both fucked.
Besides, she had no idea where in Kentucky that house actually was. She’d just been following Shadow.
No, this was on her.
Not his death. No. That wasn’t her doing. If he wanted to dash off and get himself killed that was his choice. She might’ve goaded him, called him a coward, but that was no excuse for not using his brain.
Laura surveyed Sweeney’s face and a shivery thrill ran through her.
That wasn’t someone who’d been beaten. He wore as much of a ‘how’d you fucking like that?’ look as a dead man possibly could. Had he dealt a blow to Wednesday in the end? Laura bared her teeth in savage sympathy. Something like pride flared in her, but shame with it.
She’d called him a coward. That was the last thing she’d said to him. Which was why she was not gonna leave it like that.
It was on her, because she wanted this gangly bastard back more than anyone else did. Those gods didn’t give a shit about Sweeney, they only cared about themselves.
Laura stopped herself just in time, just before she self consciously chewed a chunk out of her own cheek. Bad habit.
Yes, she did care about Sweeney. That was the only card she had left to play right then. And if it worked - well, she didn’t exactly have to advertise the fact. He probably didn’t know how the Baron’s resurrection juice worked anyway. Just gotta stay away from New Orleans, that was all.
Thus she reasoned, dragging Sweeney by one scuffed boot into the undergrowth. This wasn’t about Shadow anymore. It wasn’t even about Wednesday. This was personal.