He said nothing. Ami looked up from her compact, and he was gone. Her breath left her in a heavy sigh. She'd make time to process later; tonight she had shit to do.
The next night, after band practice, she went out to the lighthouse where she'd spoken with Lefty. She sat on the steps like she'd done the night she'd seen Archer for the last time. But there was no shifting of the light this time, no comforting arm around her shoulder, no smell of new leather and old swamp. She knew even as she called the Nightmare's name that she was alone. Alone, head bowed, heel tapping, she lit a cigarette and smoked it to the filter. She did that until the pack was empty. And then she stood up, walked to the edge of the cliff and hurled the empty package into the sea.
Ami never quite made a conscious decision to ignore the vampire's request; aside from the moment of doubt that had brought her to the lighthouse seeking advice (How deep could his ire run? What if he came after her friends?) Ami had never considered quitting a viable option. It wasn't the quitting itself that was the problem, but what it would mean if she did it, just for him, just because he asked her to. If she gave him this, what else would he see fit to take from her?
Ami spent the rest of the week getting her affairs in order, though she didn't think of it as that. Pen cap in her teeth, she revised the handwritten will she kept in a notebook in a bedside drawer. Just in case, maybe, Cicero's disappointment was as dangerous as she feared. Then she had a smoke. She slept less than she should've. She spent time with her friends that would have otherwise been devoted to frivolous things: she braided Vivianne's hair, because the other girl asked her to, even though she sucked at it; she went train-jumping with Morgaine; she jammed with Joe; she got into a fistfight with Chance. Maybe it wasn't that different from a normal week, but in her own way, she said goodbye to them. She played their weekly show at Risk with a cigarette between her lips.
On the last night of the week, when Cicero still hadn't come for her (and she never allowed herself to think that he wouldn't – though she had no way of knowing when it would happen) she tended to her instruments – polishing the lacquered wood of her acoustic, tuning the electric, touching up the black-and-white stripes painted across the body of the double bass.
Then, for the first time since Archer had stopped returning her calls, she took her banjo from its case. She paused, blinking down at the case as she held the instrument. The cover of the case was covered in a thin layer of dust, disturbed only now by her the smudging of her fingertips. Had it really been so long?
She sat down on the edge of her bed and ran her fingers over the strings, then plucked out a simple phrase. Her lips tightened into a grimace at the jarring notes that came out of the banjo's belly. Yes, it really had been that long.
As she set about tuning it, she forgot about Cicero for the first time since they'd met. Her hands went through the motions of lighting up automatically, barely interrupting the familiar rhythm of her task. Tuning fell easily into playing once the instrument was singing with its real voice, and Ami sang with it – though the words weren't hers – voice low and throaty around her cigarette.
Was there ever a winter so cold and so sad
The river too weary to flood
The storming wind cut through to my skin
But she cut through to my blood
I was looking for trouble to tangle my line
But trouble came looking for me
I knew I was standing on treacherous ground
I was sinking too fast to run free
With her scheming, idle ways
She left me poor enough
The storming wind cut through to my skin
But she cut through to my blood
I would not be asking, I would not be seen
A-beggin’ on mountain or hill
But I’m ready and blind with my hands tied behind
I’ve neither a mind nor a will
With her scheming, idle ways
She left me poor enough
The storming wind cut through to my skin
But she cut through to my blood
It’s bitter the need of the poor ditching boy
He’ll always believe what they say
They tell him it’s hard to be honest and true
Does he mind if he doesn’t get paid?
With her scheming, idle ways
She left me poor enough
The storming wind cut through to my skin
But she cut through to my blood
This is how Cicero would find her when he came – seated on the end of the bed, one leg – bare except for the frayed black denim shorts clinging to her thighs – propped up, head bent so her shaggy hair shielded her face, with the song dying in her throat as her fingers found a new melody. She paused only to light another cigarette.
