Читать книгу Scarred - Erica Hayes - Страница 11

By the time I got home, orange dawn slanted through the trees, and I was wide-eyed and popping out of my skin after a gutful of drink and a couple of hours of muttering sleep. I hadn't been followed, or detected by Sentinels. I was pretty confident of that. I was remorseful, disgusted, so furious at myself I could scream, but that didn't make me an idiot.

That guy from the bar—I'd filed his name under too much information—had been sweet, and totally on board with my sordid-brainfuck plan, but by the time we'd gotten down to business, he was too drunk to finish, and I'd been too restless. He wept on my shoulder. I threw up in his bathtub. Altogether a fitting experience. I should be satisfied.

But I wasn't.

Birds chortled and trilled as I stomped through the forest, and I scowled up at them with half a mind to tear their tree down. "What in hell are you so happy about?"

They didn't answer. Typical. The world's divided into two kinds: happy people, who don't need a reason, and the rest of us, who can't find a reason to save ourselves.

I slouched into the refectory, where the family Fortune (plus assorted hangers-on) were getting stuck into breakfast. Uncle Mike was sitting straight-backed at a table, munching peanut-butter toast and thumbing through messages on his Glimmer-hacked Blackberry. He waved at me, a wry grin on his lined face.

I shrugged, and Mike shook his head in mock scolding. My uncle looked as I imagined Adonis would in thirty years' time: weathered and wise but still handsome, a mesh of silver through his blond hair, his eyes clear with nary a blue twinkle faded. One of those hip older dudes who has to fight off ambitious young tarts with a scythe, if Mike was into that sort of thing, which he wasn't, and for good reason.

Silver anti-conducting don't-kill-everyone bracelets glinted around my uncle's wrists. Static electricity crackled over the pale metal, his latent power battling to escape. It's tricky to be a playboy when you're such a lethal weapon.

Mike can fire lightning bolts. He's a menace, really, and it was only good luck for Sapphire City that all those years ago he and Dad decided to fight crime, not commit it. Blackstrike and Illuminatus, merciless scourge of Gallery villains from Oakland to the Bay.

Dad was the eldest, and with his power over shadows and darkness, he'd always been the thinker in their ass-kicking double act. These days, Mike was content just to give advice and let Adonis take charge. One of those rare, lucky people who managed to sustain both an augment and a life, or at least he did, before all this happened.

I wondered if Razorfire had ever tried to recruit Mike, and snorted. Good luck with that. Dad had a dark streak—no pun intended—but Mike is one of life's genuine good guys. Not a saint. Just a profoundly sensible man, who instinctively understood the difference between right and wrong.

But as I looked at him, my heart twisted. Mike looked so much like Dad. Except Dad would've speared me on his shadow-licked blue stare, and made some cutting remark about how some of his children—he meant Adonis, who aside from failing to marry some “nice girl” and crank out a brood of grandkids could do no wrong in Dad's eyes—could party all night and still show up in time for work.

Dad had loved me. In his distant way, he'd loved us all. Didn't mean he'd put up with our shit.

Thankfully, Adonis hadn't yet made an appearance at breakfast. The smell of baked tomatoes and French toast churned my abused stomach, but it watered my mouth, too, and when Peggy—cooking, of course, apron and oven mitts and all—offered me a plate, I steeled myself and took one.

"Thanks," I muttered, dredging up a watery smile. "You're a champion."

Truth was, my vision still blurred and my head hurt like someone had mistaken my brain for a hockey puck. Peg's existence was particularly infuriating this morning. But aside from a few extra throbs in my temples, politeness cost me nothing.

"You're welcome," Peg chirruped, like she meant it. Perky as usual, in cargo pants and a clean t-shirt, her ginger hair pulled into a cute ponytail. She was one of those stray augments who'd run to us for protection when Vincent got elected mayor, and it took Adonis about five minutes and a flirty smile to latch onto her. Dad would've approved of Peg. A “nice girl”. Pretty face, I admitted. Good cook. One of those happy people.

But this was all I knew about her. I frowned. Who was this chirpy cartoon housewife who was screwing my brother? What was her augment, even: baking the perfect soufflé? Did Adonis know? Had he even asked?

Still, unwanted sympathy nibbled my toes. Adonis had high standards, and I couldn't help wondering if she'd heard what he'd said about her last night. Give her a chance. It's not her fault she's…

Dumb? Boring? A lousy lay?

She'd definitely heard the part about the Stepford wife. I hadn't exactly been keeping my voice down, and besides, subtlety was never my specialty. She already knew what I thought of her. And sure, Adonis had lowered his girlfriend bar lately. He wasn't exactly dating celebrities and models right now, the way things were… but still, as I glanced sidelong at Peg again, my senses stung with nameless warning.

I found a seat on a table with Ebenezer (pasty-faced, greasy; situation normal) and Jeremiah (skinny and blond, coughing as he hunched over his coffee; looked like shit, in fact, damp and shivering like a waxed yeti) and plonked down my plate, reaching for the ketchup.

"Nice of you to join us." Eb shoved a clean knife and fork at me. "Get it out of your system?"

"Screw you, zombie boobs." I squirted ketchup onto my French toast and forked a slice into my mouth. Didn't look like Eb had moved since last night, except to pop a few pimples and swap his dirty tablet game for scrambled eggs. Dude could use a shower.

So could I, for that matter. My shirt was good and crusty, to say the least, and my trousers were probably a biohazard. I sniffed the fug around me and winced. I stank of… well, we all knew what I stank of. Better attend to that, before…

Flushing, I shrank into my seat. Too late.

Glimmer, fresh from the bath. Black jeans, plain black t-shirt, same as every day. Even after only a few hours’ sleep at his desk, he still managed to look great. He sat across from me—damn, why hadn't I picked a table without spare seats?—and gulped from a bottle of spring water. "Morning, all."

"Hi," I muttered. Munched another eggy mouthful. Waited for him to say, Jesus, Verity, you look like hell or what's that God-awful stink? or wow, here I was thinking you couldn't sink any lower but somehow you manage.

But he just drank his water, then cracked a can of high-caffeine cola. The white stripe in his hair poked up like a skunk's tail, and he ruffled it with a tired but cheerful yawn.

Goddamn it. He never said anything. Never judged me, at least not aloud.

I pushed my plate aside, appetite MIA all over again. He didn't need to judge. I did enough of that myself. Did that make it better, or worse?

Jem wheezed and barked a cough into cupped hands, ash-blond hair flopping wet over his sharp cheekbones. I grimaced in sympathy. He sounded like a sick Saint Bernard. His pale eyes were running, and his pointy face glowed pink underneath, like he was coming down with the creeping plague.

Glimmer pushed the water bottle toward him. "That sounds nasty. Take it easy, man. Rehydrate."

Jem twitched, and disappeared. Jem's secret name is Phantasm, and he's a lightbender, a trickster of the eye. Disappearing is what he does, and he does it more often when he's angry or confused or feeling just plain contrary. Uncle Mike's kids aren't exactly a well-adjusted bunch, but who am I to point fingers?

Glimmer eyed the shimmering Jem-space archly. "No goodbye? The manners of kids these days."

Ebenezer snickered, ratlike, and gulped coffee. "You spooked him, dude. You know he can't drink that water. He'll freak out unless he counts all the bottles in the shrink wrap first."

"What for?" I contributed, ever-helpful. "There are always twenty-four."

"He knows that," said Eb cheerfully, "but he counts them anyway. Why'd you think he's so antsy?" He leaned towards his big brother and raised his voice. "Hey, you: obsessive-compulsive. I can see your twitchy ass. Try harder."

The Jem-shaped shimmer cuffed Eb over the head, making him duck and wince and grab at his greasy hair, and then it slouched away, coughing.

Glimmer ate his Peg-fried tomatoes thoughtfully. "Hey, I saw that thing you brought me last night."

His voice was low and rough, yet sweet, like old bourbon. It took me a second to realize he was talking to me. "Oh, right. The museum. What a bust, eh?"

"Looked like a rough fight. You okay?"

"Sure." Automatic response. "Um… thanks for asking," I added belatedly, amid a searing rush of gratitude peppered with shame. What a bitch. I'd no right to be angry with him just because my own stupid antics embarrassed me.

I checked a sigh. Damn him for being the best friend in the world, when I was such a lousy one in return.

He winked, and I found a smile. Everything was okay. Well, as okay as it'd ever be.

"Haven't had time to do much digging," Glimmer added, "but I know the Latino guy with the glitter. Calls himself El Espectro."

"Specter," I supplied. "Nice brand. Unimaginative, but it definitely says villain."

"Pain in the ass is what it says. He jumped me once in some mansion's bedroom in Ocean Heights, long time ago. Cocky. Typical Gallery sticky-fingers."

"Yeah? What were you doing in the bedroom of a mansion in Ocean Heights, young man?"

"Nothing."

"Right. Same nothing he was intending, presumably. Thought you were above ordinary break and enter."

"Who said I wasn't invited?"

"Eww." I mimed sticking a finger down my throat. "I'm not even gonna ask. So did those storm troopers arrest this Espectro character last night, or just beat him to death?"

Glimmer finished his tomatoes and started on the eggs. He has this enviable ability to munch down food at any hour of the day. "Option A, bless 'em," he said with his mouth full. "They've got him in restraints. He's not going anywhere."

The PD had augmentium cuffs now, courtesy of Razorfire's City Hall. Perfect for banging up your discerning augmented crook. "Did you get a real name?"

"Arrest report says Jesus J. Flores, priors a mile long. Odd one to claim if it's false."

Gallery villains were notorious for taking a beating, pretending to give in and then giving the cops patently false information and smart-ass aliases, like Sawney Beane the short-order cook, or Dougal O'Pooball who works at the sewerage farm. They liked to play games. Still, you had to admire their intestinal fortitude. Sapphire City PD didn't exactly do Miranda warnings by the book these days.

But as usual, Glimmer had squeezed out the good oil. "You naughty boy," I said. "Thought your data-stealing gear was broken."

"It is." A piratical grin. "Depends on your definition of 'broken'. Still a few fakements I can pull."

I reached for coffee, but the jug was empty. Instead, I drank from Glimmer's water bottle. A faint curl of his vanilla-spice scent sweetened my mouth. "How goes the salvage mission?"

When we'd first met, Glimmer was Mr. Techno Nerd, with a secret underground lair full of shiny kit that would make Big Brother jealous. But a few months back, Razorfire torched the place and nearly killed him, and most of Glimmer's stuff was destroyed. He'd begged, borrowed and nicked mismatched bits of gear and had started rewriting his black-art search algorithms, but—a bit like retconning your memories of a time when you did bad things and liked it—the rebuild took time.

"Slowly," Glimmer admitted. "It's a big job. But Harriet's helping."

Just me, or a knot of frustration in that?

I snorted, glad to have something to tease Glimmer about. Harriet was Ebenezer's twin, smart but haughty, her life a teenage melodrama of galactic proportions. "Helping, is she? Or just pouting at you and playing with her hair?"

He tossed crumbs at me. "Whatever, wise-ass. She's good with code."

"Doesn't mean she hasn't got a crush on you."

"She does not."

"Does so."

"Does not… Fine, have it your way. She's a kid. I can take it." He shrugged, and ate his eggs, but I wasn't fooled.

For such a chick magnet, Glimmer is cute and awkward with girls. All I knew was that he used to be married—with a kid, no less—but his wife believed Razorfire's bullshit and broke Glimmer's gallant heart. He wasn't in a hooking-up mood. Maybe he never would be. But I'd bet he was too much a gentleman to embarrass Harriet by saying anything.

Well, I'd never had that problem. Time to have a word with Little Miss Lolita-zilla, before she mistook his refusal to engage for encouragement and started sexting him, or tagging him on naked selfies, or whatever hormone-crazed teens did these days.

I decided to have mercy on Glimmer, for now. "So, what about Huey and Duey at the museum? Seen them before?"

"Nope." Glimmer swallowed his cola. He hadn't shaved, and his olive-tinted throat was dark with stubble. As I'd frequently observed: it was a good look. He passed me the half-empty can. "You?"

I gulped, relishing the sweet fizz. "Never. I, uh, did a bit of digging myself," I added casually, making sure I met his gaze. "They go by Sophron—that's with a P-H—and Flash."

Sickly, I waited for him to call me out, ask me where the hell I'd found that out when he couldn't. I'd have to tell him everything, and I'd cringe and blush and then at last it'd be out there, and no longer this wretched silence between us, the kind where you talk all the time but don't ever speak what needs to be spoken…

"Okay," Glimmer said mildly. "I'll see what I can find."

Damn. Thank fucking God. But damn. I swallowed, warm. I still didn't get why Vincent had told me their names. Even supposing he wasn't making it all up to amuse himself… what if I was leading us all into his trap? "Did you see 'em teleport?"

"Yeah. Nice. Why can't I do that? No more waiting at traffic lights, no more splashing through rat-infested sewers…"

I snickered. "Missing the point, Sherlock. They both teleported, at the same time. Didn't you see? Slam, blam, no more emo teenagers. Beam me up, Scotty."

"Two people with the same augment? Not possible."

"That's what I thought."

He considered. "Maybe one of them teleported and took the other along for the ride."

"I don't see how. They were on opposite sides of the room. That's one hell of a forcebend."

"Or, they didn't teleport at all. Maybe they just obfuscated and made it look like they teleported to confuse everyone." Glimmer knew his subject. An illusionist himself, he could pull the best mindfuck tricks ever. It still gave me the creeps when he did that watch-me thing, even when I knew he was on my side.

But I'd felt the breeze last night in the museum. I'd heard air whooshing to fill the vacuum. They'd moved, and fast. "Or maybe we're looking at something new…"

A commotion across the room jerked me to my feet. My thighs hit the table. Plates clattered, and the cola can spilled, along with Jeremiah's half-finished coffee.

Jem thrashed like a grounded trout on the floor, eyes bulging. Drool frothed on his chin, and he shimmered in and out of view, like he'd lost control of his lightbend. The air around him rippled and stung, a malignant haze of augment gone wild.

"Jem, talk to me." Frantic, Uncle Mike dropped to his knees at Jem's side. Jeez. I grimaced in sympathy. His kid was having a fit, choking for air, and what could he do? Not a damn thing.

It's the irony we live with every day. I never met an augment who could heal the sick or feed the hungry or bring on world peace. All the special powers in the world can't hide the fact that when it comes to the crunch all we can do is destroy.

People fidgeted, wondering what to do. Peg darted forwards with a blanket, and Mike eased it beneath Jem's head so the kid wouldn't hurt himself. He cradled Jem's half-invisible face, stroking the pale hair as it shimmered alarmingly, now-you-see-me-now-you-don't. "It's okay, son. Take it easy."

"What the hell's wrong with him?" I muttered, aside. "Thought he had the flu."

Glimmer bit his lip. Ebenezer wore an odd expression, like he wanted to feel something but didn't know what. Times like this, I envied him his cluelessness.

Gradually, Jem's convulsions subsided and he fell limp, his breath shallow and fast. Sweat slicked his cheeks. His eyeballs had rolled back, sick pearls shot with crimson. One was leaking blood.

This wasn't any flu I'd ever seen.

"Someone give me a hand." Mike started to lift the boy. Glimmer jumped in and they carried Jem upstairs.

They must have passed Adonis on the way up, because my brother emerged from the stairwell glancing over his shoulder. He looked faded, somehow, his vibrancy rinsed thin. Another sleepless night? He'd looked like that a lot lately. Somehow, I didn't think it was Peg keeping him awake.

"That's not good," Ad said unnecessarily. "Anyone see Jem take anything?"

Everyone shook their heads.

"He was eating breakfast and he disappeared and then he fell," I rattled off. "Could be that God-awful cold he's got. Or he's finally popped a sanity valve."

Ebenezer opened his mouth and shut it again.

Adonis fired him the ice-blue stare of doom he'd inherited from Dad. That part, at least, hadn't faded. "What?"

Eb just grinned his mad-leprechaun grin, because he was socially challenged and had no idea how to show remorse. "We smoked a pipe last night. But I had some too. It can't have been bad stuff."

"Jesus." Adonis yanked his hair at the back of his head, frustrated. "One, you're an idiot. Two, don't ever do that shit in my place again. Three, where did you get it and who gave it to you?"

"No one," insisted Eb. "Some guy. It was just a score—"

"Nothing is 'just a score' anymore." Adonis dragged up a chair and sat. Quietly, Peg brought him coffee and a smile. He had the grace to smile back and whisper thanks. "Don't you get it, Eb?" he added wearily. "Anything could be a trap. Everything. It's all just…" He took a long swallow of his coffee—I'd bet on triple-shot latte, three sugars, just how he liked it—and waved a long-suffering hand. "You know what? Fuck it. I don't care. Just buy your sugar candy from Wal-Mart next time, okay? Get a receipt."

Eb flipped him a bug-eyed salute. I swallowed a guffaw.

"Goes for you, too," Ad muttered, too softly for anyone else to hear.

I blanched, guilty. He knew I didn't do drugs, beyond alcohol and caffeine and the occasional sugar binge.

What does he mean? He doesn't know. He can't possibly. None of them can… but the ghost of that forbidden fire-mint scent sprang from its grave, crawling along my skin to make me shiver, and I couldn't help but enjoy it.

Vincent was my drug. And I was a hopeless addict. Hi, I'm Verity, and I crave being BAD… Like any prohibited substance, the more it was forbidden, the harder I wanted it, and the more intense my delight when I tasted it at last.

I cracked my neck, resigned. No point crying over what's done. I can't change who I used to be. The important thing was what I did now.

I could resist. Go cold turkey, sweat it out, face the heat. Or, I could die. Simple as that.

Simple, my friends, is not the same thing as easy.

I shoved hands in gritty pockets. "Well, I'm for the shower—"

"Thank Christ for that," whispered Eb. "You stink like a frontier whorehouse. Who the fuck are you: Calamity Jane?"

I flipped Eb and his slippery grin the finger. "And then let's talk, Ad. We have a situation. Glimmer, you want to fill him in?"

Glimmer shrugged. "Sure. Breakfast in my room, boss?"

I snickered. He always called Adonis boss. Partly to annoy him. Partly because he meant it. The two of them had reached a workable truce in the months since I'd dragged Glimmer into our family problems. Glimmer thought Adonis was a talented but corruptible asshole; Ad thought Glimmer a useful if frustratingly honorable idealist. Ad respected Glimmer's opinion; Glimmer respected Ad's authority. Working relationship: go.

Adonis drained his latte. "Thought you'd never ask. When are you going to stop calling me 'boss'?"

"How about the day you aren't giving the orders?" Glimmer arched dark brows. "But don't think it's because I fall for your bullshit charm. I know you only want me for my data."

"Likewise," said Ad. "Those smoky bedroom eyes cut no ice with me, boyfriend. If you drop crumbs in the bed? We are so over."

I grinned—they were so cute together—and stomped upstairs to grab shampoo and a towel.

The bathroom, an ugly stainless-steel jail of a place. We'd put up some stalls for privacy, but to me it still stank of ice baths and suffocation and bad memories. I showered with my eyes squeezed shut.

But it did feel great. Hot soapy water sloshed the stains from my body, rinsed my gritty hair, washed away the smells of despair and disgust and shameful deeds in the dark.

If only it were that easy.

Afterwards, I wiped the fogged mirror and dragged a comb through my knots. The roughened scar tissue curling over my cheekbone was reddened, angry. The other eye wore a dark raccoon ring. I looked like I could use a good feed and about a hundred hours of sleep. Situation normal.

Back in my room, I re-dressed in my costume coat—somehow it had escaped the worst of last night's excesses—and fresh jeans, plus my lace-up boots. My only clean t-shirt sported a photo of a gigantic green cactus that wore a scribbled sign reading FREE HUGS. I felt better already. My headache was in retreat to a distant battlefield, if not entirely vanquished. Another of Glimmer's caffeine colas and I'd be set. I pocketed my mask and grabbed a banana from my stash (stinky, black and withered, but hey: potassium is potassium) on the way out.

And crashed into cousin Harriet.

Just when I was starting to feel good.