It’d been a week since that girl had been thrown in the cell, and Dante still didn’t know what to make of her.
Nor did he know why he was spending so much time with her. The first few days he’d barely interacted with her.
Now, he’d spend almost every other moment that wasn’t sleeping or cooking just sitting on the floor of the room, talking with her. Sometimes they didn’t even talk, he simply sat and relaxed.
The Mestizo chalked it up to guilt. It was a familiar emotion, one that he’d learnt to live with. Such burdens were to be expected, living life as an outlaw. When one had done nothing but take away, it’d make sense that, at one point, they’d want to give back.
Or at least Dante liked to think that. He had no real idea whether it was true.
“Thinking?” the Mestizo blinked, suppressing a shudder at the sound of Malcolm’s voice.
It sounded more like the grinding of sand than the voice of a man to him. He could only nod in response, staring up at the gang leader from his seated position.
He was wearing his standard outfit; a silver duster, black vest underneath, with brown town pants and silver boots. A silver drifter hat with a red velvet band shadowed his visage, constantly sporting a suspicious squint.
It was almost luxurious compared to Dante’s simple work jeans, white shirt, and brown waistcoat.
He merely managed a nod; any more would’ve betrayed his surprise.
“’Bout what?” the man asked, quirking an eyebrow underneath the hat.
“Life,” he shrugged.
“Specifically?” Malcolm grunted, putting a hand on his waist.
“I told you,” Dante retorted, “Life.”
The outlaw stared down at him, steel eyes burning into his brown ones, “Mhmm.”
The boy held the man’s stare, furrowing his brow, “Sadly, you can’t pluck my thoughts like a chicken egg out of my mind, so we’ll never know. Qué triste.”
Oddly enough, Malcolm’s rigid eyes gained an amused edge. The type of amusement of a predator would experience while watching prey flounder.
With that, Malcolm turned around and strode off, boots heavy against the packed sand and adobe. Each step seemed to mirror Dante’s heartbeat, the noise of which he hadn’t even noticed until then.
Once he saw the man step out of view, he felt his body shudder, as if he had just choked down a bottle of tainted water and was now trying to throw it back up.
It was all he could do to get onto unsteady feet and check the venison on the roaring fire. The steady popping and crackling of the fire calmed his nerves somewhat as he saw the cuts of meat sizzle.
For a moment, Dante pondered buying some arsenic and sneaking some onto the cuts in hopes that it’d kill the man, but he decided against it.
He had a general guideline when it came to these things; he’d avoid killing if he could.
It wasn’t because of any lofty morals or righteousness. Far from it. People didn’t have time for that in the dog-eat-dog American west; practicality reigned supreme. He simply didn’t want to make enemies if he could help it.
Plus, he’d probably get shot on the spot by the other gang members even if it worked perfectly.
Seeing that the cuts wouldn’t be done any time soon, he began a walk around the fort. He had quickly learned that taking the time to simply wander about the structure usually helped him calm his mind, even if only slightly.
It would be extra helpful on a quiet day like this.
No matter how much time Dante spent around Malcolm, the man always seemed like a snake in human skin. The image of a forked tongue flicking in and out of Malcolm’s lips was scarily easily to picture.
The entire man just felt like a snake in the grass, and his presence alone set off alarms in Dante’s head. Malcolm had had that affect for as long as he could remember, even when he was not much more than a child.
It’d only gotten worse when Dante had tried escaping over a year ago, being rapidly tracked down by Malcolm and two other members who, since then, had been shot and quickly buried. Since then, the gang leader had only become more determined to keep tabs on the Mestizo, deeming him a weak link.
He was pulled out of his thoughts as he abruptly pitched forward, the ground he was expecting his foot to meet on the next steep nowhere to be found.
His view became a swirling mess of browns and yellows, the movement too sudden for him to even think of making a noise. Resigned to his fate, he closed his eyes and braced for whatever impact may came.
The Mestizo wasn’t disappointed, his legs slamming against a solid wall and upper torso splayed out on the stone floor. Thankfully, his head was shielded from most of the impact, mostly just having to deal with the dull thud against the floor that came with his abrupt stop.
Dante merely laid there for a moment, trying to gain his bearings and will the pulsing pain in the back of his head away. It wasn’t much to complain about, really, he’d suffered worst injuries. It just came with the life of an outlaw.
Of course, it always seemed like the most minor of injuries seemed to hurt the hardest.
Rubbing his head, he got back to his feet, trying to figure out where he’d gone in his stupor. To his surprise, he found himself in the entrance to the prison room.
Mumbling to himself, he walked in to find the familiar sight of Eva sitting in one of the corners with one of the books he’d brought her. They’d had quite a few around the camp, usually miscellaneous that some members grabbed during heists.
“Hello,” he greeted, strolling over in front of her cell and plopping himself down in his usual spot, grunting at his still sore back, “How’s the book? Te mantiene entretenido?”
She merely shrugged, “It’s Jules Verne, so I can’t complain.”
Dante blinked, curious, “Verne?”
“You don’t know about him?” her voice spoke of genuine surprise.
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He shook his head.
“Verne is one of the most famous authors in Europe! My father used to have people translate his works into Swedish just so I could enjoy it. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea is my favorite, though I’ve only read it in Swedish.”
The Mestizo filed away that tidbit of information for whenever it may be relevant, “Well, what’s the one you’re reading right now?”
“Journey to the Center of the Earth. It’s the oldest one, and I’ve read it several times before, but never in English,” she replied, “Have you read it? You should’ve, considering that you just handed it to me.”
Dante shook his head again, “You don’t get the chance to read for fun much out here. I can count the number of times I opened a book for fun on two hands. Probablemente uno, en realidad.”
He raised his hands as emphasis, letting them fall to the ground again after a moment.
Eva sat still for a moment before abruptly snapping her fingers, “Oh! You can’t read.”
A few blank blinks were all that Dante could really think of as a reaction to that statement.
She stared at him for confirmation with those strikingly blue eyes of hers, and he conceded as the answer was pried out of him, “Not much, no.”
“I’ve no idea how you could get so far into life without knowing how to read,” Eva said. Her voice was mostly filled with shock, though Dante definitely noted a condescending edge. Whether it was intentional, he couldn’t tell.
“Well, I don’t to need to read much. All I need to recognize are names and numbers, that’s really it,” he shrugged.
“How about this; if you let me out, I could teach you how to read,” she offered.
“Real tempting but no,” Dante deadpanned, propping an arm up on his knee.
Eva merely shrugged, “You’re going to let me out eventually. You might even be able to join me.”
Dante felt himself pause, only able to blink, for the umpteenth time in mere minutes.
Taking this moment as a sign of persuasion, Eva kept pushing, “What’s a gang of twenty or so going to do against several hundred trained mercenaries?”
The Mestizo tried to imagine a future separate from the gang, one where he had complete and utter freedom in what he did. Try as he might, he simply couldn’t picture it. While the gang was oftentimes the source of many of his stresses, it was also the only thing he really knew.
Riding across the dusty plains of the American west and setting up camp for a few months or years at a time, near constantly glued to his cooking station, was all he could imagine.
Even if he were to leave, what would he do?
He didn’t exactly have many marketable skills beyond cooking, and even then he had a very niche “frontier” taste that he doubted would be seen in some of the fancy bars and dining areas he’d seen in the occasional picture book.
“Go… with you?” Dante mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.
It wasn’t the first time she’d said things like this, but it was the first time he hadn’t brushed it off immediately. Whether it be from his previous encounter with the snake known as Malcolm or just him in a general low point, he didn’t know.
“With me,” she reaffirmed, her comparatively loud voice making him flinch slightly, “I’d wager that within a few months, you’d find yourself a cozy niche with us in the city as a chef or something of the sort.”
Dante immediately frowned when she mentioned the city. While he’d never been anywhere like that in person, he’d heard descriptions and seen pictures. It didn’t look nice at all, in his opinion. Maybe he was just biased due to being raised on the plains.
Eva smiled, “Either way, I’d make up my mind if I were you, since I reckon the first week is nearly done. The cavalry is most likely gearing up as we speak.”
“Mhmm,” he hummed, letting his head lay back against the stone wall, “Seguro que están. Bet they brought in the Swedish army, too.”
X-X-X
The following days passed mostly uneventfully, with Dante either being in one of two places; in the cellar or at the pot. Thankfully, it seemed that Malcolm was a bit busy communicating with the guardians of their hostage, so the Mestizo was spared having to deal with the man for the time being.
Eva continued to protest whenever someone was within earshot, and the gang continued to ignore her; even after a such a short time, the routine felt strangely natural.
Now said protests were for show despite it not being too obvious. Dante had spent enough time with his own lies of control to know that the whole army thing was mostly just a way to keep herself feeling superior and in control in such a hellishly out-of-her-hands environment.
He couldn’t blame her, though. Dante himself had oftentimes had to deal with such situations. Difference is that he’d already become so accustomed to things being over his head that he had stopped really bothering when he reached the double digits or so in age. You can only lie to yourself for so long before the façade shatters and oftentimes leaves you worse than before.
But perhaps the Mestizo hadn’t left that habit in the past.
The boy couldn’t stop thinking about her proposition as he absentmindedly stirred the stew in the pot. Maybe it really was a lie he was just hanging on to for the time being as a temporary reprieve. What would happen once it was gone?
He paused, mind grinding to a halt. Eva was going to leave.
Everyone knew that fact, even Eva herself. The two weeks she’d been locked up in a cage, with only the few knick-knacks he’d brought her, were never meant to last longer than that. Even if the universe conspired to keep her in the cellar, they’d barely get past a few weeks.
But she’d been so rapidly thrown into into his life that he had a hard time picturing what he’d do without her, since talking to her had taken up most of his time. Had he always been so lonely? Was he just clinging onto her because she was just a year older than him, instead of the ten or so he was used to in the gang?
He didn’t really know, and for many questions he had, he didn’t want to know.
Dante scooped up some stew, letting it drop down into the metal bowl in his hands. His mind wasn’t in his actions though, muscles just going through a routine he’d perfected over the course of years.
His thoughts began to drift to a life out of the gang. Hypotheticals seemed to lurk just beyond the boundaries of the well-tread ground which was why he was even still part of it in the first place.
Dante only really became aware again when he stopped in front of Eva’s cell. She was still reading, too engrossed to notice him standing there.
For once, he didn’t make a noise to alert her to his presence.
And it all hit him like a brick wall again; she’d be gone soon. It didn’t matter whether it was a few days or a few weeks dependent on how the negotiations went, she’d be gone.
All the time spent talking would leave with her, leaving Dante back to where he started. He felt emotion bubble up in his chest at the thought, but he couldn’t even really name it definitively. It was an odd mixture of fear, dread, and anger.
It came as a shock to him, honestly. Unlike some of the gang members, his outward calmness wasn’t a thin veneer, hiding all sorts of rage and nepotism. He had simply grown too tired to care for the most part, happy with keeping his head down as he cooked. Tangible emotions outside of discomfort were something incredibly rare.
He did his best to ignore it, clearing his throat.
She glanced up from the book, eyes lighting up in recognition again, “You brought me supper.”
“I did,” he drawled, quirking an eyebrow, “No quieres?
Eva leaned back on the stone wall in a pose he would best describe as haughty, head cushioned by her dirt-stained forearms, “It’s about three hours too early.”
Dante blinked, caught completely off-guard. Was it? It had been night when he finished cooking though.
He stood there for a solid minute, brow furrowed as he tried to figure out whether she was telling the truth or not. It didn’t help that the emotions he’d gone through prior had left him in a specifically disoriented state.
Dante thought me might’ve fainted right that minute had Eva not snorted and given a teasing smirk, “I was teasing, you’re actually ten minutes late.”
“Oh,” he deadpanned, all he could really say. How were you supposed to respond to that? He simply powered through, sliding the stew through the slit in the bars.
“You must be truly exhausted for that to have worked so well; it looked like your mind was about to pop an artery while you tried to figure it out,” she laughed as she ate her stew.
Dante plopped himself down at his spot, leaning against the wall that brought such an oh-so-familiar feeling.
“I am,” he admitted, followed by a shrug, “But eh.”
“‘But eh’? Why don’t you just sleep here? You’ve done it before countless times,” she asked, chewing a piece of meat in the meal.
“I would, but I think Malcolm was getting kind of suspicious before his time in ‘public’ got cut in half,” he stated, “I don’t want to give him any more of a reason to not trust me. Ya estoy sobre hielo fino.”
“You just said he’s preoccupied,” she replied, “So what are the chances he’ll decide to show up in the thirty minutes or so you’re sleeping?”
“Pretty good,” he deadpanned.
“Just rest; I’ll wake you up if he shows up. It isn’t as if I’m going anywhere,” she shrugged.
Dante mulled it over for a minute. Would be nice to have someone watch his back while he slept, and if he was being honest he trusted Eva more than a lot of the other gang members.
He finally chose to not look a gift horse in the mouth, and promptly decided to try to catch some shuteye.