Chapter Text
The soft sounds of pages flipping, the subtle scratching of pen tips on paper, the clearing of a throat here or a hum there – noises that had been a constant soundtrack to every moment of her life for the past 300 years and ones she’d paid as much mind to as she had the feeling of socks against her feet inside her boots – were suddenly unbearably loud and intolerably irritating.
Alder grit her teeth against the anger welling up inside her and dug her fingertips into the edge of her desk until she was afraid her bones would crack under the pressure. That technique had been working for the past three days, but it’s effectiveness appeared to have worn off.
One of the biddies behind her sniffled, and Alder closed her eyes and pursed her lips, forcing herself not to lose her temper and snap at the poor woman. Or worse. Normally, she felt calm and composed. Not much rattled her anymore after all this time. Or so she’d thought. Then again, a lot of things had been happening lately that she hadn’t counted on and couldn’t possibly have foreseen. Things like the strangely intoxicating connection she’d shared with a certain red-headed cadet. Things like the sudden and unexpected severing of that connection three days ago just after the strike team had reported mass casualties and all communication with the operation had suddenly ceased. Things like the burning ache she’d been left nursing in its wake.
Someone to her left licked the tip of their finger and used it to page through the book they were holding, and Alder almost lost it. It probably didn’t help that she was effectively trapped in that protective circle in the basement. Or that her communication with the outside world was limited, at best. For centuries, she’d been the one with all the information, the one calling the shots. The one people came to when there was trouble. Now she had the sense that great, sweeping changes were taking place above ground and outside these walls, and she was being left behind and left out. It made her insides churn and ache. It made her feel angry and frustrated and helpless.
It made her feel alone.
And General Sarah Alder didn’t want to feel any of those things. Or anything at all, really.
She stood abruptly, and her chair flew back with a loud clatter. All action around her ceased as the biddies turned to stare at her. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. She could hear their confusion and concern and discomfort loud and clear through the connection they shared, which somehow made her even angrier. It also made the place in her soul where she used to be able to feel Tally Craven all that more empty.
Alder ignored them and stalked over to the small cart that sat on the easternmost edge of the circle. She attempted to channel and force her fury through the bottom of her feet and into the floor with each stomp of her foot, but even she had to admit that she probably looked like a petulant child doing that. The thought wasn’t enough to make her stop, though.
The clattering of crystal as she removed the stopper from the engraved decanter was satisfyingly loud, as was the clanking and jangling it made when she set it down on the glass top of the cart. It drowned out the hum of the biddies thoughts. Only for a second, but that second was blissful. As was the one she purchased for herself by setting the crystal tumbler down with more intensity than was necessary.
She narrowed her focus on the amber liquid cascading out of the decanter and into her glass, forcing herself to be present in the moment and forget about everything else that had been gnawing at her for days, even if only for a heartbeat or two. She stopped pouring when level had reached about two fingers worth of whiskey, but then she decided there was no reason to stand on ceremony or adhere to social convention. There was no one to see her. No one to judge her. No one to care or accuse her of trying to escape her pain. Well, no one else at any rate. So with a growing sense of satisfaction, she filled the glass all the way to the top.
The biddies had gone quiet and still again, and Alder’s lips twisted in a sort of disgusted sneer. She raised her glass, careful not to spill, and silently toasted before raising it to her lips, tilting her head back, and downing it all on one go.
The burning was exquisitely painful, and she revelled in the heat spreading throughout her limbs as well as the faint rush of light-headedness she experienced. She hadn’t been drunk in decades, and she knew better than to think she’d be able to achieve that now. Not when the effects of any alcohol she drank were distributed across seven other people. Still, there was a small part of her that wanted to try. What the hell else was there for her to do down here?
The sharp clicking of polished boots on stone reached Alder’s ears, and she took stock of them as she refilled her glass. Anacostia, definitely. She could tell that by the measured gait, her footsteps weren’t frantic or rushed, so that likely meant either that there was nothing new to report or that the news she was bringing was bad. Alder cursed under her breath in mothertongue and gulped down another full tumbler of whiskey.
The footsteps finally arrived in the main chamber in which Alder had been forced to hide and stopped just outside the protective circle. Alder did not acknowledge her Sergeant in favor of refilling her glass a third time, swallowing that, and going back for a fourth.
“General,” Anacostia Quartermaine’s voice sounded loud and clear from over Alder’s shoulder.
Alder quickly drank glass number four and took a deep breath against the burn and the swimming sensation in her head. She hummed to herself. “Not bad news then.”
There was a beat. And then, “I’m sorry, General?”
Alder took only a small sip of her next glass as she turned to face her foster daughter. She smacked her lips and tipped her chin in Anacostia’s direction. “If it were bad news, you would’ve been content to wait until I’d acknowledged you. No, I would imagine you have no news to impart. Am I correct?” She took another small sip as she eyed Anacostia over the rim of her glass.
If Anacostia was shocked or offended by Alder’s words, she didn’t show it. Her face bore almost no expression whatsoever, although she did dip her head slightly in deference. “You’re right, General. The unit we sent to the last known location didn’t find much. And what they did find was useless and confusing.”
Alder sighed and looked toward the whiskey in her hand, swirling it in the tumbler as she thought. She’d suspected as much. Even as she’d been giving the order – and struggling to keep the desperation from her voice – she’d known it’d been a fool’s errand. Nicte was too clever to have left any sort of trail. Still, she’d had to try something. And Petra Bellweather hadn’t had any better ideas, so that was what they’d gone with. She rubbed the center of her chest with the fingertips of her free hand, but the gesture did nothing to soothe the hollow ache residing there.
“Out with it, Anacostia. What exactly did they find?" Anacostia’s brow crinkled, and her eyes drifted slowly around the room. “Blood. Not a lot. Not enough to indicate someone had been killed or lost a limb, but enough to be noticeable. Some scraps of fabric of unknown origin, though it was determined they were not from military uniforms. The head of a severed scourge was embedded so deep in a tree trunk it was impossible to dislodge, but there was no handle in sight. There were also some scorch marks, some weirdly disturbed earth, and a lot of downed trees in the general area. But no bodies. No drag or tire marks. And even stranger, no footprints. At all. In any direction. It was … weird.”
“But no one else has been…” Alder trailed off. She didn’t want to utter the word ‘taken’ because even though it was looking more and more like that was exactly what’d happened, she was still trying to convince herself the evidence was only circumstantial, and there could still be another explanation. If she didn’t say it out loud, it couldn’t be real.
Anacostia seemed to know what Alder had been unable to ask. She shook her head. “No, General. Although, General Bellweather was thinking—”
Alder scoffed and took another swig of her drink. “When is she not?”
Anacostia’s expression was confused. “General?”
“Thinking. Planning. Plotting. Scheming. Figuring out the best way to undermine me.” Her words were acid, and she spat them from her lips like they’d scalded her on the way out. “Tell me, Anacostia. Exactly what strings is General Bellweather tugging on while I’m stuck in here? Whose? And why?”
“Surely you don’t think General Bellweather is doing anything other than trying to find out what happened to her daughter.”
“Don’t be a fool. Petra is smart. She’s ambitious. And she’s ruthless. I wouldn’t put it past her to use this situation to usurp me.”
Anacostia’s eyes went wide for a brief instant before she remembered herself and adopted her stoic non-expression. “General Alder. Is it possible that the confinement is getting to you? Making you paranoid?”
Alder clenched her jaw tight, and the biddies hissed. She was beyond insulted that Anacostia could think so little of her. That she doubted her judgment. She levelled a glare in Anacostia’s direction. “I think you need to re-evaluate your choice of words, Sergeant.”
Anacostia took a step forward, clearly not intimidated in the slightest, and her expression softened. “And I think that—” she broke off and tilted her head slightly as though she were listening. Her eyes went wide again, and this time she didn’t try to hide her surprise. She glanced at Alder. It grated on Alder that she could not hear the report directly.
“What?” Alder spat, her patience non-existent. “What is it?”
“We’ve just received word from the gate.” Anacostia’s frown deepened. “Craven is back. But Collar and Bellweather aren’t with her.”
Alder’s heart did somersaults in her chest, though she tried to tell herself it was only the effects of the copious amounts of alcohol she’d drank. Still, what she couldn’t and didn’t try to deny was the relief she felt upon hearing those words. So relieved, in fact, that it took her a second to register how strange it was that she’d returned without her unit.
“Did she say why she was alone?” Alder wanted to know. She was torn between longing to see Craven immediately, to verify with her own eyes that the cadet really was okay, and worrying about the implications of Anacostia’s answer.
Anacostia shook her head. “I didn’t say she was alone.”