Читать книгу Scorched - Erica Hayes - Страница 10

I awoke sluggishly, in dim electric light that hurt my eyes. Soft cushions squished beneath me, a whiff of dark vanilla. An ancient incandescent bulb swung above on its cord, an inch one way, an inch the other. The tiny breeze stirred my hair. The air smelled crisp, recycled. Overhead, I heard rushing water, and something large and mechanical rumbled distantly.

The subway, I registered dimly. I was underground. But where? And how?

I sat up on the bed, wincing. Thirst tore my throat, and my body ached like poison. I stretched, popping my vertebrae one by one. Bruises everywhere, purple and yellow. Those assholes had really kicked the shit out of me. And… uh.

I wore a man's white shirt. Soft and clean, buttoned over my chest. Underneath, I was naked.

My ribs itched, and when I scratched them I found gauze and white paper tape. Someone had washed me, tended my bruises. I touched my face gingerly, and my fingers came away clean and smelling of antiseptic ointment.

Whoever had tended me, they didn't necessarily mean well.

But hey, at least I wasn't wearing hospital scrubs and an augmentium helmet. That had to be an improvement. Right?

I swung my legs over the bed's edge and tried to stand. Instead, I fell, a six-foot drop. I landed, shaken, on a cool concrete floor. Roughly, I tugged the shirt down over my butt. Very funny.

The bunk bed was jammed into an alcove behind me. I squinted into the gloom. Large square room, low ceiling, walls fading into darkness. Next to the bed, in another alcove, sat a claw-foot bathtub with a rusted shower. Somewhere, a generator hummed, and a keyboard clattered as someone typed.

I swallowed, my throat crispy. Would I discover my shadowy rescuer's identity at last? I might not like what I found. Sapphire City vomited up new villains as fast as we could wash the old ones down the drain.

But I had to know. Mr. Mysterious had probably saved my life—not to mention my dignity—from the haters at least, and probably from Mengele's goons too. Presuming it wasn't all a trap, of course. If we didn't get along, I'd just flip him a quick thanks for nothing and run again. I was getting good at running.

I followed the clickety-clack of keys, tiptoeing past gray metal shelves loaded with books, files, boxes of photographs, newspapers, cables and electrical components I didn't recognize. Light flickered between the shelves. I clenched my fist, readying my power for a swift onslaught, and crept out.

A double row of screens gleamed—websites, television channels, CCTV—above a long desk covered in a mess of paper and photographs six inches deep. In a high-backed chair hunched a long lean figure, his shadow looming huge and monstrous on the wall.

He didn't stop typing. Didn't look up. Just jerked his head towards the corner of the room. "Door's that way."

So much for stealth. I cleared my throat, and stepped out where he could see me. But I still clasped my hands tightly behind my back, ready. "Excuse me?"

"You can leave whenever you want. I won't stop you. No need to break things." His voice was rough and rich, like old bourbon. His battered leather coat hung over the back of his wheeled chair. He finished whatever he was doing, and swung his chair around, skidding into the light.

Strong, lean, the same tight black T-shirt and jeans he'd worn before. A few days of beard shadowed his chin, dark against his olive skin, and his wild black hair had a single albino splash at the front. He wore a leather band buckled around one wrist, and a silver ring on his right ring finger.

Intriguing. Younger than I'd expected, for a guy who'd sent a gang of haters screaming. Warmer, somehow. I wanted to see the rest of his face.

But I couldn't. He wore a mask. A black one, like mine, tied at the back of his head and cut around sharp cheekbones that made him look feral or crazy. All I could see were his eyes, deep and starlit black.

Uh-huh. I wanted to fidget. Handsome devil, to be sure. The crazies often are, in that offbeat, intriguing sort of way. It's a rule of the universe, or something. Sick equals sexy.

But suddenly I was conscious of my scarred cheek, my bruises, the fact that I was wearing his shirt and nothing else.

I dragged in a fistful of power and swept a pile of books off his desk. "That's close enough."

Paper drifted in dust, and settled. He didn't move. Just glanced at the mess I'd made, and then back at me. His black-and-white hair stuck up in odd directions, like a skunk who'd partied too hard. He reminded me of my little brother Chance, only Chance was cheerful and careless. This guy looked neither. "Threat taken," he said calmly. "You done?"

I studied him, wary. No reaction. No move to retaliate. Whatever his augment was, he was keeping it holstered for now. Was that stripe in his hair real? He didn't seem the type to make like a skunk. "For the moment," I said at last. "But you'll talk, or maybe I will start breaking stuff. Starting with you. Who are you?"

"You can call me Glimmer."

I recalled my assailants, clawing for their eyeballs though nothing was there. Glimmer. A hypnosis trick, maybe? "Is that what your friends call you?"

"I don't have any friends." He folded his arms, and muscles bulged in the sleeves of his T-shirt.

"Figures. You always wear your mask in the house, Glimmer?"

"I have a guest. It's only polite… oh, wait." He stuffed a hand into his back pocket and offered me a little black bundle. "This was in your jeans. I kept it for you."

My mask. I snatched it, careful not to touch him, and unrolled it, enjoying the warm softness in my fingers. It smelled of him: vanilla and danger.

Okay. So he knew I was augmented. I knew the same about him. Not a recipe for friendship.

Glimmer smiled, bittersweet. "Don't mention it."

"I didn't. How did you chase those idiots away?"

Strange watery shadows flickered over his face, from no light source that I could see. "I poured acid in their eyes," he said at last, and his black eyes gleamed with eerie starlight.

"No, you didn't," I accused. "I was there."

He scrunched his hair in one fist, and showed me a crooked smile. Bashful. Harmless. For an instant, I almost believed it. "Very astute. Of course I didn't. But they didn't know that. It's just a little illusion."

"A glimmer?"

"If you like."

"Okay." I fidgeted, relaxing only slightly. We had mindbenders at FortuneCorp. Adonis, for one, and our shifty cousin Ebenezer with the fear talent. If this Glimmer used his hypno-mojo on me, he'd be sorry. "Why did you help me?"

He shrugged. "I don't like haters."

"Not good enough." It came out harsher than I'd intended. I was grateful, after all, that he'd saved me from another round of Dr. Mengele's sadistic games. But it didn't mean I had to like this, or him. "You could've chased them off and left me."

"I was passing by. You needed help. And you were drugged, probably against your will. Somehow, I didn't think hospital was a good idea. I'm no medic, but…" He indicated my bandages. "You feeling okay? You've been out for two days."

Great. More lost time. I shrugged, brusque. "What've you done with my clothes?"

"There was blood. I washed 'em." He pointed to a pile on a chair, my jeans and T-shirt with boots on top. "You hungry?"

Inwardly I cursed, but too late. My stomach croaked audibly.

He laughed, warm whiskey. "C'mon, lady, chill out. If I was your enemy, you'd already be dead. Whoever you're running from, they haven't found you so far. Will a few more minutes kill you?"

I sighed, defeated. "Okay. Fine. Can I wash up? And can I, uh, use your phone?"

"You gonna call the cops?"

"No." Like I'd tell him if I was.

"Then knock yourself out." Glimmer tossed me a cell phone, swiveled back to his glowing screens, and ignored me.

I grabbed my clothes and headed out back to the bathroom. My wound dressings got in the way of having a shower, but I washed up as best I could with a towel. The water from the bath taps tasted coppery, but it was hot, and his soap smelled of vanilla and spice. My freshly washed jeans felt crisp against my skin. I didn't see a washing machine. Had he done them by hand?

I pulled my T-shirt over my head, uneasy. Maybe he truly didn't mean me any harm. Then again, I'd heard of serial killers who treated their victims like pets.

I tied my boots and smoothed my damp hair. The mask, I stuffed into my pocket. He'd already seen my face, and clearly knew I was augmented. Probably knew everything else about me, too. What did I have left to hide?

I studied the cell phone he'd given me. Full reception, even though we were underground. Maybe he had a repeater or something. I squirmed, suspicious. It was a risk. But I didn't know what else to do. No one at FortuneCorp had this number. If I didn't stay on the line for very long, they'd never find me. Right?

I held my breath, and dialed my brother's number, the only one of his four that I could remember. Despite everything that had happened, I couldn't believe Adonis would lie to me.

He picked up after three rings. "PR."

I swallowed, dry. "Hey. It's me."

"Jesus." A muffled sound, like he'd put his hand over the phone. "Where are you?" he whispered. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"The doctor from the asylum. Someone told her where I was. I…" Stupid tears blinded me. Fuck. I'd forgotten how much I'd missed his voice. How much he gave me strength. "Someone's after me, Ad. I don't know what to do."

"Okay. Verity, listen to me." Calm, collected, in charge, like always. "You can't come home. It's not safe for you here. Find somewhere to hole up, and I'll sort this out. Equity will listen to us once she's calmed down. I know she will. But I can't protect you unless I know who your enemies are."

Relief sweetened my blood, but at the same time, tiny poisoned claws pricked my heart, sour with suspicion. He would say that, wouldn't he? a harsh voice hissed in my ear. If he was in on it, that's exactly what he'd say. "She'll listen to you, Verity, just tell me everything…"

No. It wasn't true. If he was in on it, he'd say, "Come home, Verity, I'll take care of you, it's not safe for you out there. Come home."

Adonis loved me. He was on my side. I knew it in my heart.

But that didn't mean his phone wasn't tapped. I struggled to keep my voice low. "No. I have to do this on my own. I'll get to the bottom of this, I promise. I'll be in touch. I… I just wanted you to know I'm okay."

"But—"

"Talk soon, Ad." I ended the call, and broke the phone open with shaking fingers. Pulled out the SIM card, and crushed it beneath my boot. Now, no one at FortuneCorp could trace me. At least, I hoped not.

I wiped my leaking eyes. Enough with the self-pity. I had things to do.

Taking a steadying breath, I walked back into the room. The delicious smell of cooked tomato and oregano watered my mouth. Glimmer was messing about in his little kitchenette, his crazy hair sticking up like a mad scientist's. He looked like a cross between Dr. Jekyll and Pepé le Pew.

It was unsettlingly charming.

I held out the gutted phone. "I, uh, had to break your SIM. Sorry."

He shrugged. "It's okay. I go through dozens." He yanked a bowl from his microwave and shoved it across the cracked bench towards me. "Hungry?"

My stomach grumbled. Lasagna, my favorite, homemade, steaming hot and dripping with herbed tomato sauce and cheese. Beat the hell out of Pop-Tarts. "Um—"

"Eat," he insisted. "I've had a dozen chances to poison you already. You've got serious trust issues, you know that?"

I snorted. "Hey, pal, you're the one with the secret underground lair."

That crooked smile. "Yeah. Well. A little paranoia is an occupational hazard."

"Uh-huh. And what is your occupation, exactly?"

"I watch things. Record them. Do a little cleaning up. As you see." He extended his hand in an after-you gesture. His wrist was scarred on the inside, I noticed, old pale lines criss-crossed over the veins. I looked away, uncomfortable. He wouldn't be the first augment to loathe his own skin. Steel slicing soft flesh, warm blood spurting, the bitter taste of copper…

I took the bowl and spoon and headed back to his desk. He sat, bathed in his screens' pale light. I took a cautious bite of lasagna. Mmm. Delicious herbs and roasted tomato made my mouth weep, and I gave up and dug in.

"What's all this?" I mumbled, my mouth full. Touchscreens, data flows, a virtual display projecting fine white light in three dimensions. It reminded me of the set-up in Adonis's living room, only bigger, flashier, more sinister and a whole lot cooler.

"My eyes and ears." Glimmer's fingers darted over the keyboard, and real-time CCTV flashed up, fuzzy black-and-white video of bright-lit shelves of cigarettes and snack food, a security grille, logo-painted windows. "Will you look at this? That's the fourth time the Gallery have robbed that same convenience store in six months. Someone forgot to pay their protection."

Curiosity got the better of me, and I leaned over his chair. Twenty-four-hour news channels, local and national, video upload websites. Stock market watch lists. Sapphire City Chronicle website. Bank and tax records. Police department database, dispatch comms, vehicle movement maps. Custom search engines, automatically sorting and filing hits. An optical satellite tracking system, GPS, cell phone grid triangulations, all overlaid on a digital map of Sapphire City. His own files, reams of information, dates and names and events meticulously catalogued. And all of it about crime and criminals.

Here were images, filed and numbered, mug shots, security cameras, paparazzi snaps and surveillance shots. I swiped through them on the big touchscreen. Gallery hooligans, the unaugmented kind with shotguns and pistols, robbing banks and gas stations, holding hostages, fighting with riot police, whipping up violence at mass demonstrations against poverty or war. Torched housing projects, the charred shells of stores and warehouses. Corpses, shot, burned and mutilated, the victims of gang violence and other angry Gallery shenanigans.

But also the augmented, masked and costumed. I leaned closer, spooning in another tomato-drenched mouthful. Damn, he could cook. This image showed a skinny African-American woman, in a fish-tailed black Goth skirt criss-crossed with scarlet ribbons. Her arm was cocked back, long-nailed fingers bent like talons, midway through hurling a cloud of screeching insects at a fire engine. Her hair flew in a bright crimson tangle, and her eyes were painted with cruel black makeup like a mad Egyptian queen.

"That's Witch," Glimmer said absently, typing as he talked. "She's Gallery. Real name Patience Crook. Owns an occult shop, crystals, tarot cards, all that quasi-Wiccan stuff. Only she's the real deal."

I raised my eyebrows. Nice. We'd never been able to track her true identity down. I swallowed the last of my dinner—mmm, delicious, he'd make some woman a good wife one day—and left the bowl on the desk. "You got some good info here. How come I never heard of you?"

"Maybe I don't want to be famous."

"Give it a rest, Glimmer. You know what I am. We're in the same game. How come we never met?"

He shrugged, but his black gaze darted away. "I keep to myself."

"Right." I flicked to the next image. Another Gallery villain, a stocky guy with long greasy hair, slamming his fist through a shopping mall's glass ceiling and freezing it to glittering icicles. "Awesome," I remarked. "My good buddy Iceclaw. Charming son of a devil. Nearly lost three fingers to frostbite one time because of him…"

I bit my tongue, appalled. Jeez, did I just share? What was this, a crime-fighters' coffee club? For all I knew, this Glimmer character was Gallery too, and playing sly tricks with me.

But I didn't think so.

Call me naïve, but some fragile instinct warmed my blood about him, and it wasn't just that he was sorta cute and smelled great and cooked like a punk-ass Jamie Oliver. He was good-guy material, no question.

And I had to admit, it felt good to be back in the game.

"Likewise," Glimmer said, either oblivious or pretending not to notice my discomfort. "Iceclaw's real name is Declan Finney. He doesn't have a regular job. Just hangs around the docks, crushing knuckles and collecting tribute money from the Dockside Boys."

I wrinkled my nose, disgusted. "Charming. One of those guys who just likes wrecking stuff. He giggles when he freezes things, d'you know that? Like an evil little boy killing ants with a magnifying glass."

The next image popped up, and I had to bite my tongue again. My uncle Mike, masked in silver, his bracelets alight with charge. He crouched on the roof of a trolley car, blue lightning crackling from his fingers.

I stiffened, unwilling to speak. How much did Glimmer know about our family?

"Illuminatus," supplied Glimmer. "With an augment like that, he could be a terror. I'm still figuring out who's who in the zoo around here. Luckily, this guy seems to be on our side."

I snorted. Fishing for information? Good luck with that. I wasn't about to tell him, for instance, that Uncle Mike was basically a human lightning rod, and that if he ever took those bracelets off, there'd be charred ground and broken glass from here to Oakland. "Our side?"

"Yeah." Glimmer slanted warm dark eyes at me. "Y'know. Truth, justice, freedom from violence. That sort of thing?"

"Uh-huh." I folded my arms, defiant. "Let me give you some advice, young Jedi. Be careful who you trust. You don't know me from a kipper. For all you know, I'm the Gallery's latest trick. What makes you think I give a damn for truth and justice?"

That quirky smile again. "I've had plenty of chances to hurt you, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, we've covered that. Thanks so much, and all. What about it?"

"Well, so have you, lady, and you haven't come at me yet. That's good enough for me." He tilted his chair back. "Now can we move past the Mexican standoff and get down to business? You have enemies, so do I. Maybe we can help each other. But if you want to leave, go right ahead. I won't stop you." He spun back to his screens, dismissing me.

In the screens' eerie glow, his shadow loomed on the wall, distorted, a stick insect with crazy hair. I dragged a hand across my chin, frustrated. He was right. At least he hadn't tried to kill me, or throw me in an asylum, at least not yet. And—be realistic—what other choice did I have?

I had no friends left. I couldn't trust my own family. Adonis's phone was probably tapped. And my power was erratic, at best. I was damaged. Until I recovered from Mengele's screw-your-mind tricks, I wasn't operating at full capacity.

Razorfire, on the other hand, was unharmed, and wreaking havoc unmolested. Apparently, I couldn't defeat him even at the height of my powers, let alone half crippled like this. Add to that his fanatical Gallery chums, augmented and normal, who'd cheerfully hunt me down in a heartbeat on his say-so…

Maybe—just maybe—I couldn’t do this alone.