“You’d better appreciate this,” she grumbled to Jaxy as the car pulled up to their place in Elendel.
“You liked it,” Jaxy said, poking her in the side. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”
“Having fun gets boring too quickly,” Ranette muttered.
“Just think how refreshed you are,” Jaxy replied. “How many ideas flowed when you didn’t have to worry about deadlines or delivery dates!”
“I like deadlines,” Ranette said.
Jaxy eyed her.
“Fine,” Ranette said. “It wasn’t awful. It was almost enjoyable. Even if that place is weird. I wish Wax hadn’t discovered it. Then maybe we’d have gone to the Roughs.”
“The Roughs,” Jaxy said. “For our honeymoon.”
Ranette shrugged. “You’re the one who likes that dumb restaurant.”
Jaxy rolled her eyes as the car — strangely — didn’t stop at their place. It kept driving.
“Wait,” Ranette said, turning and looking back.
“There’s something you need to see,” Jaxy said.
“This isn’t more ‘fun,’ is it? I’m so full of it by this point, I feel like barfing it all right back out.”
“You are so romantic,” Jaxy said, taking her arm.
Ranette huffed. Well, she’d been careful not to spoil the actual honeymoon with this kind of behavior. She’d been nice and enjoyable and perky.
Okay. Not perky. But not grouchy. Most of the time. And admittedly, the Southern Continent had been something special. Even if tensions were … well, growing tenser. There was constant talk of closing the borders to Northerners. It seemed that tourism was at an end.
Regardless, they were home now. This was supposed to be her time to gripe. That was how a relationship worked. Push and Pull. She’d given. Now she could take a little. Now she could …
“What the hell?” she asked as the car came to a stop outside her shop. A little place on a small plot of land — which had been expanded somehow to a very large place on a small plot of land.
“A wedding gift,” Jaxy said.
“How in the world did you afford this?” Ranette said, throwing the door open and stumbling out.
“I didn’t. It’s not from me.”
Ranette looked back.
“Some nice men showed up,” Jaxy explained, “with a sum from Wayne. After … you know. They said I was supposed to do something nice for you, but — the instructions said clearly — ‘Not in a skeevy way.’ He suggested a renovation to the shop.”
Ranette couldn’t help smiling at that. She had been surprised by how much she’d missed Wayne. Once he had learned — shockingly, people could learn — how to not be slime, they’d actually become friends.
Of course, he’d gone out in the most incredible explosion ever. So she hadn’t felt that bad. If you had to die, then hell, that was the way.
She was still trying to figure out how to get her hands on some of those explosives. The things she could build with something that packed that much of a punch …
“He left a note,” Jaxy said, handing it to her.
Hey, it said. In crayon. These two fellows in suits told me I gotta write this and make decisions about this stuff, just in case. Apparently they think my job is “high risk.” I told them that if they wanted their jobs to become high risk, they should try pushin’ me harder to do stupid stuff.
But … I guess, if you’re readin’ this, I’m done and gone. Buried. Maybe burned. Maybe I got eaten. I dunno. Whatever happened, I hope it’s Marasi’s fault, because she’s always tellin’ me I’m gonna get her into trouble and it would be nice if that hat were on her head instead.
Anyway … I want to say thanks. For not throwin’ the Wayne out with the Wayne, ya know? Enjoy the gift. Build something real awesome.
“Damn,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I really do miss that little miscreant.”
Jaxy smiled, leaning into her, holding to her arm. “Ranette. That was almost kind.”
“I mean it. I miss him.” She smiled. “Wasn’t ever a person I’ve known who was more fun to shoot.”
MELAAN
NINETEEN MONTHS AFTER DETONATION
The messenger flitted off across the dark ocean of Shadesmar, glowing faintly.
MeLaan sat in a boat kept afloat by some kind of glowing substance on the hull. The blackness beneath was like a liquid, more viscous than water. It was supposed to be perfectly transparent — if a person slipped into it and sank, you were said to be able to watch them fall, and fall, and fall.
“Do you know,” MeLaan said, “what those messengers even are?”
“An Invested entity,” her guide said, “which can read Connection to find anyone, anywhere.”
“That’s … kind of unnerving.”
Her guide — Jan Ven — shrugged. She was a creature with four arms, chalk-white skin, and large almost reptilian eyes. Her white hair was wide, like blades of grass. Sho Del were apparently rare out here, but made excellent guides. Something about having a direct line to their gods.
The envelope was stamped with the words SILVERLIGHT MERCANTILE. Inside she found a note from Harmony. Short, to the point, empathetic. Wayne had stopped the attack on the city. And had died in the process.
Her breath caught. She found herself trembling.
Rusts. She was supposed to be better than this. Immortal. Stoic. Why couldn’t she be like the others?
She’d known she wouldn’t see him again. But this? She’d wanted him to find someone else. For his own good. And if she was being honest, for her own good. Because he made her forget what she was. Because with him the world was too interesting, and that made her forget what was smart.
Dead? He …
It was supposed to have been a mere fling. She was just too damn awful at being immortal. She folded the letter, then placed it carefully into her jacket.
“Bad news?” Jan Ven asked, paddling them softly across the infinite black expanse.
“Yes,” MeLaan whispered.
“Do you want to put off the landing?”
MeLaan turned. There was land ahead. And lights that seemed too alive for the cold fire of this strange place. People crowded around, hundreds of them, with strange outfits, many with odd red hair. Lost.
This was her task. To save those people.
“No,” MeLaan said, standing. “I have a duty here.”
After all, she could remake, rebuild, and regenerate her heart. That was what her kind did.
WAXILLIUM
TWO YEARS AFTER DETONATION
The most difficult thing about commissioning Wayne’s statue had been deciding which hat it should be wearing. In the end, the answer had been obvious. They had to make it changeable.
So it was that Wax and Steris stood before a remarkably accurate bronze depiction of Wayne wearing a removable bronze version of his lucky hat. He was larger than life-size, smiling slyly, with an outstretched hand. Likely so that he could pick your pocket with the other, but most people would think he was offering help.