Chapter 19 (Anna’s POV)

  Something shifted in the light before my eyelids even cracked. The cottage’s inner gloom, usually the color of bruised slate, had softened to a cool pearl grey—the hue that meant dawn had slipped a cautious finger beneath the barricades. I inhaled to the cotton smell of a new sleeping bag and stale gun?oil, then exhaled at the faint chorus of robins test?chirping somewhere past the dead maples. Morning, then. Time to switch watch.

  No boot?steps creaked across the floorboards. No whisper of Joshua’s hammer slinging into its leather loop. Odd. The last thing I remembered was him murmuring “I’ll take first shift,” while I burrowed under synthetic insulation still fragrant with factory dye.

  I rolled off the mattress—knees protesting—and crossed to the front door. One of Joshua’s solar lanterns glowed cold blue on the porch, showing me a cameo of disorder: our dented aluminum chair tilted against the rail, Joshua himself slumped in it like a scarecrow losing stuffing. His chin rested on his chest; his war?hammer lay across his lap, hands still loosely knuckled around the haft. A fine dusting of ash—maybe from last night’s smoke plume far off—silvered his black hoodie.

  So the heir had dozed off. An involuntary huff scraped my throat. Out here, a sleeping sentry was an engraved invitation to teeth and claws. Even if he had cleaned up three roamers overnight—judging from the reek of half?washed gore still clinging to him—that didn’t buy the right to nap on duty.

  I stepped onto the porch. The morning air was knife?cool, tinged with petrichor and the far?off musk of decay—the city’s perpetual aftershave. Beyond our hedgerow, mist laced the empty lane, softening the jagged silhouettes of collapsed brownstones. Somewhere down?wind, something burned: sweet, resinous, maybe an old phone?pole set alight for warmth. A single crow croaked from the power line, wings fluffed against the chill.

  Joshua’s breathing sounded steady, annoyingly peaceful. I braced a boot against the porch planks, shoved hard against the chair’s back leg.

  Crack—thud.

  Metal folded; the chair skidded out, dumping him sideways. The hammer clanged off the decking, bounced once, and his startled oath cracked the dawn open.

  “—what the—Anna!”

  He half?rolled, half?scrambled, eyes wide under the helmet of sleep?mussed hair. Dirt streaked his cheek; dried flecks of last night’s roamer sludge dotted his collar like morbid confetti.

  I wiped imaginary dust from my hands. “Morning, prince. Nice of you to keep watch with your eyelids.”

  He blinked, processed, then rubbed the back of his neck where the fall had jarred him. “I—uh—just rested them a second. Clear night. Six roamers down.” He gestured vaguely toward the lane as if their corpses were trophies someone had already mounted.

  I crouched, retrieved the hammer, and inspected the sticky black crust along the peen. Smelled like spoiled broth and rusted pennies. “I’m impressed,” I conceded, offering the weapon hilt?first. “But stay conscious, or the next feral that sniffs this will wear your face as a hat.”

  His grin twitched crooked. “Roger that.”

  Around us, the world was waking ugly. Gold?pink sunrise back?lit a skyline of broken ribs—crane booms frozen mid?gesture, window grids gutted and hollow. Wind funneled between row?houses, carrying the sour, tallow stink of long?rotted meat. It tugged at my greasy hair, lifted Joshua’s hoodie hem to reveal new bruises blossoming along his ribs—proof of last night’s training with undead bone.

  He dragged the ruined chair upright, inspected the bent leg, and sighed. “Add ‘new porch furniture’ to the requisition list.”

  I snorted. “Build one. You’re the carpenter now.” Then I hooked a thumb toward the interior. “Coffee before sunrise sweep?”

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  His eyes brightened. “I’ll fire the burner.”

  I stepped back inside, letting him limp behind me. Dawn’s light scraped through patched windows, laying pale bars across plywood and sheet?metal barricades. In its glow, the cottage looked almost domesticated: rolls of fresh sleeping bags, sealed tubs of peanut butter, rows of soap bars and neatly stacked tampon boxes—a ridiculous bounty in a land of rot.

  Behind us, crows erupted into ragged caws—perhaps at the scent of last night’s dead or the promise of new carrion soon enough. Joshua paused, listening, hand tightening on the hammer haft. Then he shut the door with a solid wooden thunk.

  Satisfied, I sank onto the floorboards beside our growing tower of supplies, crossing my legs and nursing the bruised ache in my thigh. Damp morning light slanted through a hairline gap at the northern window and flashed across the row of MREs I’d arranged like sentries: thirteen left now, labels faded but still legible. Peanut?butter jars rose behind them in a neat pyramid, each one glinting like miniature bullion. I reached out, traced the embossed lid of the closest jar, and let the texture ground me. Real food. Real trade.

  Joshua padded in from the kitchenette, two steaming tin mugs balanced in one hand, the other cradling a chipped enamel bowl filled with boiling water and a sliver of peppermint soap. He set the mugs down and knelt opposite, eyes intent as he lowered the soap into the bowl. A sweet?sharp mint scent unfurled, mixing with the coffee’s dark edge until the cottage felt almost civilized—like a Sunday kitchen instead of a war bunker.

  “Finger dips,” he said, sliding the bowl toward me. “Clean cuts mean fewer antibiotics.”

  I dipped my fingertips; heat stung tiny splinters I hadn’t realized were hiding beneath my nails. “Feels decadent,” I murmured. “Mint and coffee—can’t remember the last time I smelled both in the same room.”

  His smile ghosted. “Just yesterday I could get a peppermint latte on every corner. Changing worlds leaves me with whiplash hurts if I think too hard, about it.”

  “So don’t,” I said, scooping hot water over my palms and reveling in the sting.

  We drank in silence for a minute. Outside, a gust rattled the patched shingles. Somewhere farther off, a single gunshot cracked—a dull pop swallowed by distance. The city clearing its throat. Joshua’s shoulders twitched, but he focused on sipping his coffee. I recognized the discipline; he was learning to let distant horrors slide off until they grew teeth and came closer.

  But inevitably the talk curled back to ghosts. “You asked about Dean,” I ventured. “I told you the short version.”

  He nodded, fingers tracing rim of the cup. “If you want to close that file, I’m here.”

  So I told him more. Told him about the high?school hallway still reeking of disinfectant when the first evac orders came. How Dean insisted on grabbing his little sister’s clarinet from the band room, said music would keep spirits up in the shelter. How the roamer burst from the nurse’s office before we could bolt, jaws already cracked apart like a snake unhinging for a bigger prey. How the clarinet case thudded against tile, snapped open, reeds scattering like confetti in blood spray.

  Joshua listened—silent, eyes shadowed—but his posture radiated attention, not pity. When I finished, my pulse no longer jack?hammered; grief had transmuted into a hard, polished stone I could pocket.

  “Your world,” I said, voice rough, “keeps mementos in velvet boxes. Mine keeps them in scars.”

  He reached over, set his Warhammer on the floor between us like an offering. “Then let’s keep adding tools instead of scars.”

  The sentiment was earnest, awkward, and exactly what I needed. I nudged the hammerhead with my toe. “Deal.”

  A rumble sounded—my stomach reminding me coffee wasn’t breakfast. I grabbed an MRE: chicken and rice this time. We shared, trading spoonfuls like children passing contraband pudding. In the lull Joshua glanced at the copper door again. “End of this cycle, I want to bring back a real stove. Propane, cast?iron top. We’ll cook eggs that don’t taste like chemical powder.”

  I pictured it: flame hissing under a cast skil-let, real yolks reflecting copper engravings. It felt implausible and wonderfully reckless—like hoping for spring in mid?plague. I tucked the idea away.

  Outside, daylight had shoved aside gray. It spilled through the window seam, illuminating the soap bowl—water now milky, flecked with grime. Joshua lifted it, carried it out back to dump. I settled near the supply shelf, readying arrows for real patrol.

  When he returned, mint still hovered faintly in the doorway. “Branch trimming,” he said. “Want to perch with bow for overwatch?”

  “Already on it. But we need a safety word for incoming friendlies.” I paused. “How about clarinet?”

  His eyes softened; he gave a solemn nod. “Clarinet it is.”

  He stepped past, shoulders squared, hammer ready. I slung the bow, feeling its weight settle like a trusted limb. In the fragile hush before work, I allowed myself one heartbeat of improbable calm. Sunlight, coffee, mint—three small luxuries bridging two impossible worlds.

  Then I moved to the front window slit, arrow nocked, scanning the front lawn for the next threat.

  Watch rotation completed. Day two of the reunion had begun. I allowed myself a thin smile. Even spoiled heirs could learn—after enough bruises and broken chairs.