Читать книгу The Wicked City - Megan Morgan - Страница 11

A huge flat screen TV hung on the wall between the two sofas; June sprawled on one, Micha the other. They were watching a news program. She couldn’t pay attention though. Everything about her current situation bothered her—lying down, watching TV, cozy and safe while somewhere, in the depths of the foreign city surrounding her, her brother languished as a prisoner. If he still lived at all.

Sam’s bodyguard, Muse, had returned about an hour before, and she and Sam left together, Sam declaring he had “important business” to take care of. He gave them strict instructions not to leave the room in his absence. June had no intention of wandering around the hotel showing off a lack of common sense or taking a stroll down Michigan Avenue with a big target on her back.

“Does Sam live in this hotel or something?” June asked.

Micha wasn’t watching TV, either. He was stretched out, shoes off, arm propped on the back of the sofa. “I don’t know.” He sounded distracted and distant. “I don’t know a lot about Sam. Just that he’s gregarious. I mostly try to avoid him. I’ve only actually met him once before today.”

“Why doesn’t he like you?”

“Because I’m a normal. He doesn’t think I should be sticking my nose in paranormal affairs.”

“But you help paranormal people, right? All that activism stuff?”

“Not to his specifications.”

She gazed at the ceiling, at the dull afternoon light stretched across the swirled plaster. “So what’s Sam’s specialty? Besides belligerence? And clearly being insane. What’s his super-duper special paranormal power?”

“Not really sure about that, either. People say he doesn’t have any abilities. He’s just crazy and thinks he does. I know he’s got something, though, or his followers wouldn’t flock to him. He told a reporter one time his ability depends on subterfuge. It works better if no one knows about it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, he’s clearly not a mind reader, or he wouldn’t need that little girl. You think they’re screwing?”

“It’s hard to tell.”

They were quiet for a minute, the TV droning away on the wall, newscasters jabbering back and forth.

“I’ve been thinking about the Institute,” Micha's voice was soft.

“I’m trying not to.”

“All the years I worked with them, all the times I’ve been there…” He didn’t sound particularly distressed, more wondering than hurt. “They brought you there from the airport?”

“Yeah, they sent a driver to pick us up.”

“Did you see the big sculpture out front, in the courtyard?”

She tried to recall the details of their arrival. A small crowd of protestors had been gathered out in front of the tall, white building and they drew most of her attention. Some of them looked bored, sitting on the curb with their signs propped against their legs. The driver explained with a chuckle they were always around, every day, though they had little reason to get excited unless someone important or a news station showed up. The sculpture Micha was referring to rose from a broad circular fountain in the middle of the courtyard—a huge, granite angel with arms and wings gloriously spread. The sculpture was pretty. Jason had certainly seemed fascinated by it.

“Yeah,” she said. “Sorta. I was paying more attention to the protestors.”

“It’s called Benevolence.”

She snorted. “It should be called Irony.”

“A lot of people don’t like that the Institute is in the Illinois Medical District. Detractors say the Institute can’t be classified as a medical facility because they don’t do medical research. Supporters counter they study human physiology there, which makes it a medical facility.”

“If we’re lucky,” June said, “they’ll blow it up. Then everyone’ll be happy.”

Micha was silent. The revelation had to be difficult for him, his once happy place now a fortress of villainous bullshit. Unfortunately, Micha needed to learn no good deed went unpunished.

“How did you discover your abilities?” Micha asked.

She welcomed the change of subject, even if the subject they switched to wasn’t one she enjoyed discussing.

“Hell if I remember.” She hoped the words sounded casual enough that Micha wouldn’t pick up on the lie. “People didn’t know as much about supernatural stuff when I was a kid, so Jason and I didn’t know we were different for a while.”

“What made you realize it?”

She shrugged. “We were spoiled. Kids, teachers, even our parents, they’d just do whatever we wanted. We didn’t think it was strange. Then around second or third grade, people started noticing we were weird.” An old anxiety stirred in her gut. “Around that time we found out for ourselves we were screwed up.”

“People always find out. One way or another. I saw how my sisters were treated.”

“Yeah. Our parents split up because of us. Always fighting about discipline, about all the stress we put on them. They must have thought they were losing their minds. My dad hated us. He was afraid of us. Me, especially. Jason quit using his power around the time we realized we had it.”

Micha turned his face to her, frowning. “That must have been rough.”

“Yeah, well. When we were fifteen, we moved with our mom from Rhode Island to California to get away from him. She got an offer from an opera company in Los Angeles. Singing’s her passion. Fitting, huh?”

Micha smiled faintly.

“California gave me a place to rebel like crazy. I lied about my age, got an apprenticeship in a tattoo shop, learned my skills. Then I filled my head with holes and covered my skin with ink. My mother was relieved, I think. Normal teenage bullshit versus being a freak of nature.”

“You’re not a freak of nature. Paranormal abilities are not a disease.”

“It’s easy for you to say that.” She tried to keep the bile out of her voice. Micha probably heard it enough. “Our mother got this guy to come over to our apartment and talk to us a couple times a week. He was impervious to our abilities, so he could teach us how to control them. That was when, you know, all this stuff started to become ‘science.’”

“Was he a vampire?”

“A vampire?”

“Vampires can block most paranormal abilities.”

“Hell, I don’t know.” She heaved herself into a sitting position. “Doesn’t matter, though. It was what it was. It is what it is.”

“Eloquently put.”

She sat quiet for a moment, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them. “What about you? What was it like being the odd one out?”

“You don’t want to hear about that.”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

Micha rubbed his face. “It’s boring and inconsequential. Another time.”

“Unfair. After I just told you my darkest secrets.”

“Life isn’t fair. And you wouldn’t want it to be. That would mean all the bad stuff happens because you deserve it.”

She grinned. “It’s a good thing you’re hot. Otherwise, by now I would have punched you in the face for all these gems of wisdom you keep flinging at me.”

Micha sat up too, on one elbow. “So are you in a relationship? Got a special lady?”

“Oh my God, stop.”

Micha laughed.

She feared she might actually blush. “No. I don’t want a boyfriend. Not right now.”

“I don’t remember introducing you to my wife. I do remember meeting you. I remember what I thought of you when I met you.”

“You thought I was an uncouth, nasty little punk girl, didn’t you? Most people do. You probably still think that. Because I am.”

“I thought you were absolutely fascinating, and I still do.”

“I bet you say that to all the supernatural girls.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t really know me, Micha. You don’t really know yourself right now.”

Micha sat up fully and swung his long legs over the side of the sofa. “There you go with ‘you don’t know me’ again. I know you’d like me to kiss you.”

Heat swiftly shot up her neck and into her cheeks. “Why do you think that?”

Micha opened his mouth, but then hesitated, before titling his head and giving her a smile. “I can tell. I have amnesia, but I’m not stripped of my perceptions.”

“Oh really? So you’re into dirty punk girls?” She struggled not to start mocking, her natural defense mechanism. “’Cause whether you know it or not, you were married to a very austere, beautiful woman.”

“I don’t have a type. I think you’re interesting.”

She winced. “Oh God. Wrong, wrong answer. You have no idea how wrong.”

“Is it?” Micha sat back and patted the cushion beside him. “Why don’t you come over here?”

Very bold. She could appreciate that. But…

“Micha, you have no idea the guilt I would suffer if I made a pass at you right now.”

“It’s a good time, though. I don’t remember my wife.”

“What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“What kind of guy do you think I’m not? I can’t remember, so it’s now or never.”

This had to be the worst, most obscene, wonderful logic she had ever heard, like allowing drunkenness to facilitate getting it on with a best friend you’d been wanting for years. The consequences ran the gamut from amazing to horrible—and she knew from experience.

“Come here,” Micha repeated, softer. “I won’t hate you even if my memory comes back.”

“Micha.”

“Come. Here.”

The tone of his voice, a hook in the gut, and she was caught by chemical urges.

She lost the ability to gauge the good idea-ness of the situation somewhere between her sofa and Micha’s sofa, upon which she found herself instantly tangled with him and kissing hungrily. He pushed her back and crawled on top of her. So much for romance. His lips were incredibly soft, silky and wet, agonizingly intimate. He gripped her hair, and she liked the gesture. She kissed him harder, parted his lips, and plunged her tongue into his mouth. The barbell through her tongue clicked against his teeth. She had no conscious control over her hands, letting them roam without timidity, over his broad shoulders, down the curve of his back, onto his ass. Micha slid his hands down her sides to the top of her jeans.

“You have a nice body,” Micha murmured against her mouth, when they eased up on the kiss. “Nice and…”

He dug his fingertips in above her hipbones, under her shirt, clearly at a loss for an adjective and making her forget how to speak English as well. He slid a hand lower, and his fingers crept under the edge of her waistband.

“And an amazing ass,” he added. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

The only words she could find in her hormone-scrambled brain made no sense, words like “Kentucky” and “racquetball.” “I think so?”

Micha chuckled.

Of course, the door opened.

The two of them scrambled apart like naughty teenagers caught in a backseat. Judging by the look on Sam’s face, they hadn’t moved fast enough.

“That’s what his ability is,” June muttered. “Cockblocking.”

“I’m glad to see you two kept yourselves entertained.” Sam spoke pointedly.

Muse walked in behind him. June tried desperately to think of something else in case Muse turned out to be as much of an invasive jerk as Robbie, sticking her nose in other people’s heads. June pictured her mother’s little flower garden behind her house, but suddenly Micha was pushing her into the tulips and getting on top of her.

Sam walked between the two sofas. He stopped and stood over her. He had a newspaper in his hands.

“I have news, good and bad,” he said. “I’d give you a choice of which to hear first, but the bad won’t make sense without the good.”

She tensed. “What is it? I don’t think I can handle any more bad news.”

Sam thrust the paper at her, a magazine-type deal. An entertainment paper. She took the offering tentatively. Muse sat on the opposite sofa and clasped her hands in her lap, watching them. The corner of her mouth jerked. She blinked rapidly.

“That him?” Sam asked. “I mean, obviously you’re fraternal.”

The headline at the top of the page said, MYSTERY TWINS ARE IN TOWN. Underneath the headline were separate pictures of her and Jason.

“I don’t know how they got one of Jason’s head shots,” June said, “but yeah, that’s him.” Her picture was from one of the advertisements for her shop. She didn’t care how they got it. She did wonder what the hell made them “mysterious.”

“They ran those pictures in the Tribune earlier this week,” Micha said. “You have no idea how tenacious reporters in this city can be, especially Ethan Roberts.”

June looked up at Sam, her stomach jumping. “He’s alive, isn’t he? You saw him.”

“I didn’t. But the telepath who talked to John McKormic did.”

She dropped the paper in her lap. She feared she might do something stupid, like start crying. “Did he look all right? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know the state of health he’s in, but he’s definitely alive. My spy couldn’t talk to Mr. McKormic too long without arousing suspicion.”

Micha gripped June’s shoulder.

“Wait… What’s the bad news?” Her stomach dropped.

“The bad news is, I don’t know how the hell we’re going to get him out of there.” Sam scowled darkly, as if this were more a personal affront to him than an agonizing revelation for her. “They’re keeping him in the Special Projects department, which is under heavy security. And I don’t have any people in the Institute who have clearance for that floor. They’re extremely paranoid about who has access.”

“I’ll go in there myself if I have to,” June said. “I have to get him out.”

“Sure you will. Going in there is not going to save him. The only thing that’ll happen is you’ll be caught as well.”

She wanted to punch something, hard. Hard enough to break all the bones in her hand, make the pain distract her from the horrible sickness in her stomach, the certainty she had made the wrong decision running away. Micha still had his hand on her shoulder, and he squeezed again, tighter.

“Just hold on to your panties,” Sam said. “I’ll come up with something. I’m the smartest man in this city.”

* * * *

Evening fell, the world outside the windows murky and dotted with glittering lights. Micha had dozed off on one of the sofas. Sam had been making phone calls—she assumed—beyond a set of closed French doors on the other side of the room. He had sent Muse off on another mysterious “patrol.” June couldn’t stay still, pacing and smoking, getting dangerously close to running out of cigarettes. Finally, the doors opened and Sam strode out. She glimpsed a bedroom beyond.

“There’s going to be a press conference in half an hour,” Sam said. “They’re going to talk about Rose Bellevue.”

Some political talk show was on right now. “That ought to be interesting.” Maybe they would talk about her and Jason as well.

“Eric Greerson wants to say something, since today was her funeral. So kind of him.”

“Who’s Eric Greerson?”

Sam made a face, as if something vile had been shoved under his nose. “Eric Greerson is the head of the Institute. The second one in the decade it’s been open. The former head, Michael Paulson, was known for being indecisive and didn’t like confrontation with dissidents, so they replaced him. Eric is just another fool in what’s sure to be a long line of them. He doesn’t know what’s going on at the Institute right under his nose.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’ve met him. He’s a self-righteous asshole. He believes in what the normals running the Institute want the place to stand for. The Institute’s governing board keeps the PR machine rolling so they can continue blinding the public. Eric’s their pawn. There’s a legend he threw a huge party for the Institute’s supporters the day Alan Jenkins died. Probably untrue. Or I like to believe it is, since I didn’t get an invite.”

She recalled what Cindy had told her that morning in her apartment. “Alan Jenkins. That’s the guy who ran the SNC?”

“Yes, before his son Aaron took over and we hammered out our treaty. Not that the treaty makes us best friends. But I force myself to tolerate him.” He walked over to the sofas. “I want to see this press conference.”

“We need to get my brother out of the Institute,” she reminded him.

“Give me time.”

“I don’t have time. My brother doesn’t have time.”

“And I don’t have a magic wand.” Sam stood between the sofas, in front of the TV. “We’re going to order some food and sit down and watch this press conference. You want a beer? You sound like you could use a beer.”

“Fuck beer. Give me some wine.”

“Wine?” Sam raised both eyebrows, then narrowed his eyes. “Red or white?” He clearly believed he was dealing with an amateur.

“I’m sure a fancy hole like this has a Paul Hobbs Cabernet Sauvignon. That’s red.”

While Sam called room service, June gently shook Micha awake. She didn’t want him to starve.

Micha opened his eyes and it seemed for a moment he didn’t recognize her. Then he shifted and winced.

“Hey.” His voice was gravelly. “How long have I been asleep?” He sat up on one elbow, looking around.

“Not long.” She sat down on the edge of the sofa and touched his knee. “You all right?”

He rubbed the side of his head. “A little disoriented.” He slipped his hand down his neck, squinting at the TV. “I feel weird, like I might be coming down with something.”

“Disoriented could be my fault, but my power doesn’t make people sick. I think you probably just need to eat.”

The food arrived, as well as the wine.

“Do you know how much that stuff costs?” Sam asked.

“Yes, I do.” June swirled the wine in her glass and took a sip. Full bodied. Well-balanced. “Don’t assume shit about me.”

June wasn’t interested in the press conference, but clearly couldn’t escape. Micha sat next to her on the sofa, nibbling on a piece of bread. Sam sat on the opposite sofa. On the screen, Eric Greerson appeared as a thin, narrow-shouldered man with silver hair and a solemn face. He stood at a podium, surrounded by several official-looking people.

“As you all know,” he said, “today we laid to rest one of the finest researchers the Institute for Supernatural Research has ever known, our head vampire researcher, Rose Bellevue. Her death was the result of a brutal murder, the perpetrators of which are still to be found. The police are working in close contact with us. We are also attempting to find her husband, the well-known paranormal activist Micha Bellevue, who, in conjunction with her death, has gone missing.”

June was cringing for Micha, but Micha just stared blankly at the screen.

“We have very little information, unfortunately,” Eric said. “Security footage shows intruders bypassing the Institute’s security systems and attaining access to the vampire research floor. We believe they were specifically targeting her, but because their faces are covered we cannot identify them.”

June gaped. “That’s not what happened!”

“Do you really think they’d let Eric give the police the real footage?” Sam said. “Someone doctored it, of course.”

“We’re sending a special group of our own choosing to Old Town to gather information. The police are aware of this, but are not leading, nor condoning, this separate investigation.”

“Of course.” Sam scoffed. “They think militant vampires did it.”

“What’s in Old Town?” June asked.

“The Nocturnal District,” Micha spoke up. “A place where vampires hang out. Everything’s open from dusk ’til dawn. The less PC refer to it as ‘Blood Row.’”

“The old vampires, and some of the young ones, aren’t happy with his wife’s discovery,” Sam said. “Not that I blame them. They don’t like having their mystique ruined. It makes a good cover for the Institute, though.”

“I’m only vaguely aware of what she did,” June admitted. “I think I might have read about it somewhere.”

“Like the nosy little normal she was, she isolated the bacteria responsible for vampirism,” Sam said. “Found out the bacteria creates enzymes that cause accelerated cell reproduction, which is why they can live indefinitely unless an essential organ is destroyed. It also affects their skin cells; that’s why they’re sensitive to sunlight.”

“It won’t kill them,” Micha said. “It’ll just make them sick with prolonged exposure.”

“The reason vampires have other abilities has more to do with the structure of their society,” Sam went on. “They almost always choose people who already have some level of paranormal ability. However, once they turn, they become impervious to everyone else’s abilities. Scientists are still not sure why. I’m sure some other normal will come along and pick up where she left off so we can all find out.”

June wasn’t into the biology crap supernatural people liked to go on about these days, but the explanation intrigued her. “So why do they drink blood?”

“If they don’t,” Micha said, “the bacteria will deplete their own blood.” Apparently he could remember the science, just not the scientist. “The fresh blood gives it an environment to live in. Since the discovery, they’ve actually found transfusions sustain them better than drinking. Some vampires have decided to be more humane and stop feeding altogether in favor of transfusions.”

“A kinder, gentler vampire.” June sucked in a breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“You seriously don’t know any of this?” Sam shook his head. “You’ve never picked up a copy of Paranormal Scientific Weekly?”

“No. You ever pick up a copy of Inked?”

“She was looking for a cure,” Micha said softly.

The two of them looked at him. June's skin crawled.

“What makes you think vampires want to be cured?” Sam asked him.

“A few of them do. Some of them don’t realize what they’re getting into. You have to educate non-vampires as well. It’s an infection, so there’s a possibility you can get it from things other than bites or ingesting infected blood. There’s a small chance it can be sexually transmitted.”

“The next great STD.” June stood. “I can’t watch any more of this. I need a smoke.”

She hoped she would feel better after a cigarette. She didn’t. She hoped she would feel better after she ate. She didn’t. She glowered at Sam every chance she got.

“I have to figure out a plan,” Sam told her. “You have to be patient.”

“I can’t be patient. My brother might have been alive when your spy saw him in that dude’s head, but that doesn’t mean he’ll stay that way.”

“If you think you could pass the time more easily in a coma, I’ll be glad to put you in one.”

“I'd like to see you try, tough guy.”

Sam planned to leave for the night and once again instructed them not to wander out of the room. They were allowed to call room service, but he told them not to pick up the phone if it rang.

“I won’t contact either of you by phone, ever,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“So you’re just gonna leave us here,” June said.

“You’ll be safe. I keep refugees here all the time. I don’t need to hang out and baby sit; I’ll be back in the morning. Besides, don’t you two want to be alone?”

June scowled. “Good night.”

They made sleeping arrangements after Sam left. Micha inspected the bedroom. “There’s a huge bed. We can both sleep in here.”

June was harboring more than a touch of guilt. “No, that’s all right. You take it. I’ll sleep out here on one of the sofas.”

“That’s silly.” Micha walked out through the French doors. “I’ve been sleeping on a sofa all week. It sucks.”

“I know, it’s just…” She didn’t know what it was “just.”

She searched for some pillows and blankets and located said items in a closet near the door. Micha didn’t argue further. He stood and watched while she made up a bed for herself on one of the sofas.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked, avoiding his gaze.

“I guess so.”

She unfurled a blanket. “Glad one of us is.” She hesitated before saying, “I thought for a second earlier you were remembering your wife. Is anything coming back to you?”

“Hm. I…remember coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“I always took a thermos of coffee to seminars. The swill they serve at those things is awful. I think she made it for me. I was always raving about it. I seem to remember telling people she made it.”

June sat down on the sofa. “I guess that’s a start.” She had another knife fight with her guilt and once again, it stabbed her in the eye. “Guess we better try to get some sleep.”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

June was convinced she would never be able to fall asleep given the turmoil in her head, but her body, exhausted by stress and many previous nights of scant and sketchy sleep, decided otherwise.