Incorruptible, Page 3

  “All right, I’ll go tell her. Get finished.” He tucked the toothpick in the corner of his lips and ambled away.

  “Yessir,” Michael repeated, as if his pulse hadn’t kicked up several notches. He watched the old man tack across the diner, straightening small things on the tabletops as he went and berating Ace and Henry, who both grinned and took it in stride.

  Bob was, however, much gentler with Jenna, leaning on the other side of the table she’d just finished clearing, his tone dropping and the toothpick back in his fingertips. She listened, her expression unchanging, and when her dark gaze flickered over Bob’s shoulder Michael felt it all along the marks even with his head down. Should he try to look unthreatening? Just threatening enough to handle a petty thug? Some women liked a breath of danger, but instinct told him this one might not.

  He was about to find out where she lived. She’d survived to adulthood—had the Breath awakened in her yet? There were diaboli all around; he knew where they gathered in this city, feeding on civilians since rarer meat was denied them. When they met, he had enough grace and training to teach them the Legion still lived, if only in one place.

  If only in one man.

  Funny, Michael was thinking of himself as almost mortal. The marks moved over him, a dance invisible to the uninitiated. He could barely remember what came before his arrival, twin streams of fire down his back and the marks vibrating with distress as he landed on the hard, cold, inimical floor of an Eyrie thousands of mortal miles from here.

  No, he couldn’t really remember what came before, just the long sensation of hope draining away, grace weakening, the Principle turning silent.

  Now, none of that mattered. There was an Incorruptible, alive and breathing out grace. Already he felt stronger, and the thanksgiving poured out in the secret chambers inside his chest was almost enough to deafen him.

  The hosannas lasted until Jenna set off down the damp sidewalk at a good clip, her head down, staring at her cell phone. Michael had to lengthen his stride—she moved quickly, for a woman. “Jesus,” she breathed, dabbing at the phone’s glassy, glowing face with her thumb. “Everyone knows.”

  “Huh?” Fortunately, there weren’t many people around, so he didn’t have to bump them out of her way.

  “Everyone’s blowing up my phone.” She glanced up just enough to get her bearings, stretching those long legs as if she hadn’t been using them all day. “Look, we’re out of sight, now. You don’t have to walk me home. Bob’s just…well, you don’t have to.”

  The marks drank in grace from her, but she didn’t seem conscious of the pull. Her shoulders were tense, curved inward, and whenever his step brought him too close she half-skipped sideways, a habitual move that said a great deal about this ex-boyfriend. Michael watched the sidewalk in case she tripped, and the oncoming traffic as well. The diaboli clustered in the rougher areas of town, but they were drawn to Incorruptibles just as Michael’s kind. How had she survived?

  Not, it seemed, unscathed. “I’d like to,” he said finally. Keep it short and simple. You’ll mess up anything else. “Good exercise.”

  “Yeah.” The faintest hint of an eyeroll stopped just in time and turned into a shrug, that dark gaze stuttering to his face to read his emotional status. She was painfully sensitive, far too hesitant. “I’ll bet exercise is what you really like after a day of being on your feet.”

  As if she hadn’t been on her feet all day, too. “I have a truck. Could drive you.”

  She shook her head, stopping so suddenly a man behind them let out a curse, veering wide. It would have been simple enough to take a step back and send the gray-suited businessman into the street, but instead, Michael simply froze, looking down at the top of her head. Her phone slipped back into her pocket, and when she tipped her chin back, dark eyes flashed in the glow from a leaning, half-cockeye streetlamp that had tangled with a veering car and somewhat won the battle.

  Honeydark hair and velvety eyes, that beautiful skin with sweet clarity leaking through to fill the thin-etched marks on him with warmth and fresh strength—it was enough to make a legionnaire fall to his knees and beg the Principle for mercy.

  “Look, Mike. It’s really nice of you and all.” Jenna glanced at the businessman, but he continued on his way, already forgetting the momentary inconvenience. Her dark eyes glowed, and this close faint reddening around the lids—and the tenderness of her nostrils—was visible. Maybe she’d cried in the bathroom. “But Eddie doesn’t know where I live now. All right? If he cares enough to find out, he’s going to be furious seeing me with a guy. He’s got a bad temper, I don’t want anyone hurt.”

  What, except herself? It was, as far as he could remember, typical of an Incorruptible to feel that way. The Principle guided them and gave them many a virtue, including kindness. “Isn’t he your ex? I mean, him seeing you with someone else might make that clear.” He knew, even as he said it, that he was getting fancy, and that was a bad idea.

  Getting fancy only got a grunt in trouble.

  Her chin lifted slightly, and those large dark eyes flashed. She could break a window with that look, if she really wanted to. “I didn’t visit him in prison, I didn’t get together the money to bail him out, so he might not know he’s ex and that’s not a discussion I’d care to have with him. At all. Okay?”

  “Understood.” Michael didn’t move, the stinging awareness of every object, moving or still, on the street drawing him harpstring-tight. “All the same, I’ll walk you home.” Finding out where she lived, not to mention a good spot to stand guard, was his first objective. It was a relief, and a relaxation, to have a clear-cut mission instead of trying to fill time on his own.

  Setting your own tasks was a good way to deviate, and no legionnaire wanted that.

  “Look.” Jenna’s arms crossed defensively, her thin blue canvas jacket starred with tiny fog-gems. “I’m trying to be nice, here, okay?” Irritation, well-camouflaged, sharpened under her tone.

  “Don’t.” He couldn’t say it any more plainly. “There’s no need.”

  “I really don’t want anyone to get into trouble.” An unwilling, unsteady smile tilted up both corners of her mouth, and the flash of relaxation turned her from almost-plain into pretty. Not that it mattered—as soon as she relaxed fully the Principle would shine from her. So much grace filled the air around her anyway Michael wasn’t sure his marks could take increased intensity. Her force was all but visible.

  One of the blessed, indeed.

  “Then just let me walk you home.” At least he had a subtle way of overcoming her objections. “Bob said he’d put my head in the deep fryer if I didn’t.”

  “He’s really fond of that threat.” She still didn’t move, studying his face. The deepening fog glistened on her cheeks, dotted her chapped lips. Her cheekbones stood out alarmingly. This close, you could see the stress and fine trembling in her, the way cords in her slim neck stood out.

  Full of grace, yes. But that gift could be broken, and could burn the bearer from inside if not given proper care.

  “Look at this.” Michael brought his hands up. Folded them into fists, slowly, so he didn’t spook her. The knuckles stood out, and the scars he’d chosen to keep crisscrossed the working surfaces. Each one was a reinforcement, and a reminder. “See those? Know what they say?”

  Jenna studied his hands, intently; finally she looked up at him, her expression unreadable. The marks slid over the backs of his hands, too. Some paralleled the bones, reinforcing, strengthening. Did she see them move?

  “They say I can take care of myself.” Michael dropped his hands—but slowly, again, to avoid frightening her. If possible. “Okay?”

  “Fine.” Her shoulders sagged under the thin jacket. She needed a better coat, winter was on its way. “I’m too tired to argue.”

  “Okay.” He doubted that, but he also knew a victory when he saw one. “So let’s get going.”

  Type, Bad Luck

  The only thing better than closing her own
door and sliding her wet jacket off was checking her entire apartment, top to bottom, and making sure it still held not a single trace of Eddie.

  Or any other man.

  The new cook had seen her right up to the building door, watched while she unlocked it, and didn’t try to come inside. Instead, he’d just watched from the other side, and no doubt he meant his smile to be encouraging. When added to the tattoos and the scars on his hands, the short hair, and how big his shoulders were…well, none of it was exactly comforting.

  Nothing was.

  Her phone was full of people texting to let her know they’d heard. Of course they had, Rach had done everything but send up smoke signals. She loved Sam, and she loved drama almost as much.

  Jenna rubbed at her forehead, her fingernails bitten ruthlessly down. There was nothing in the fridge and takeout meant someone at the main door, knocking, wanting to be buzzed in. God, that was the last thing her nerves needed.

  He won’t show up. He’s got other problems.

  The thing about Eddie Rayburn, though, was that he liked to make his problems other people’s problems. Spread the wealth, so to speak. He was generous like that.

  Jenna, leaning against the kitchen counter, examined her right forearm. There was the scar, tracing up the underside, the little ladderlike divots where it had been sewn shut. Still there, big and ugly, a reminder—as if she needed one—that she was bad luck, and deserved it.

  She deserved it all.

  Still, the tiny studio was welcoming. It was even warm, because everyone around her had their heaters on. The end of summer had been awful, but she peeled out of her clothes as soon as she hit the door and got out a cheap spray bottle. Ninety-nine cents’ worth of cheap mass-produced plastic bought a constant supply of artificial sweat, even when there was no breeze through the unscreened windows to make it worthwhile.

  Like all blessings, the warmth was only situationally pleasant.

  He was interested, Mike the new cook. She could tell by the way he strayed too close, and even by the way he just stood there and let the foyer door close on him, peering through the glass to catch one last glimpse.

  Jenna could, she supposed, use that. Maybe if Eddie saw her with a guy who wasn’t too weedy, he’d decide to go elsewhere. It was probably worth a try except it made her feel like a prostitute, and who needed that? Waitressing was honest, at least. So was working a pole; at least, that would definitely bring enough money in to move out of her current rathole. Still, exotic dancing was how she’d met Eddie, and the heatless fume of danger on him, like the shimmers over a hot grill or summer pavement, was all over the new cook, too.

  It was no use. She had a type, and it was bad luck. Better to just keep her head down and forget about everything. Just do her job, and the cook would latch on to one of the other waitresses.

  Probably Amy, she enjoyed notching her belt.

  When the water boiled, she used a chamomile teabag. It was supposed to be soothing. It just tasted like sticks and dandelions to her, but that didn’t matter. She was committed to healthy choices now, better choices. The bad ones were easy, it was health and tofu and good boundaries that were hard. You had to work for it, and an instant of letting go could slide you back down the hill for miles.

  Just like everything else.

  Still, when she wedged her living room window open, settling on the sill and tilting so she could see a slice of glimmering citystars instead of the dark confines of the alley, something inside her eased. It wasn’t bad, with a cold night wind slipping past full of grimy exhaust and cold rain. Even the thought that Eddie might be hiding in the darkness, looking for her or even making plans to stop by the SunnyTime, wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

  Sooner or later, things turned out all right—or so Mom had always said, and her daughter believed along with every other childhood truth.

  The stupid, awful optimism that kept Jenna going instead of finishing the job and slicing open her other arm to match the first scar just kept returning, no matter how many times she tried to stamp on it, burn it, or pull it out by the roots.

  Still, it didn’t do any harm to think that maybe, just maybe, Eddie wouldn’t show up at all.

  As long as Jenna prepared for the worst, she could hope all she wanted.

  Another night without bloodcurdling-bad dreams meant she was up early and feeling rested, for a change. The good feeling lasted until Jenna left for work the next morning. She spent a long while looking out the foyer’s glass door, scrutinizing every visible bit of the gray street lingering under a heavy fog with pretensions at becoming wintry drizzle. When she finally darted out and set off down the street, her head down and the hood of an ancient black jacket pulled over her hair for insurance, an engine roused and crept closer, closer.

  The low throbbing growl pulled up right next to her. Jenna whirled, her hands fists, her eyes wide, and her skin suddenly two sizes too small.

  It was an ancient red Dodge pickup with an antique canopy, the outside looking too battered for its engine’s buttery purr. The man behind the wheel wasn’t short or dark-haired, though. Instead, Mike the cook’s blue eyes blinked at her, and he smiled tentatively. His window, rolled half-down, showed her own pale cheeks and the black hood, her wide, distorted eyes, a mask of fear.

  “Hey!” He sounded cheerful. “Want a ride?”

  Her heart almost exploded, her knees turned to cooked noodles, and she almost fell down next to last week’s garbage piled out near the curb by the building’s silent, sclerotic super. As it was, she took two steps backward, her morning GrapeNuts threatening to exit in a spectacular breakfast fountain. If she puked, would the pressure behind it make it all the way across the street and splatter the truck?

  She could try. There were animals who used projectile vomiting as a defense, and at that moment, Jenna thought they had the right idea.

  “Jesus.” In defiance of all acceptable traffic behavior, Mike the new cook popped the truck into park and opened his door, almost stepping out in front of an elderly but very well-maintained Cadillac that, predictably, laid on the horn.

  Jenna bolted. It took her half a block to realize she was running flat-out, but she didn’t stop until she’d almost tripped on the old, slick stairs of West Riverview Station and plunged into the morning commuter crowd.

  No Worries

  Stupid, careless, brainless… Michael had made his supply run to the warehouse, picked up what he needed to run close-guard on an Incorruptible until he could extract, and stood guard outside her apartment building last night without a whisper of the unclean showing up. He’d even been feeling good about his preparations—until he’d fouled everything up at the last second, like the dumb grunt he was.

  The steering wheel creaked; Michael tried to loosen his fingers. Castigating himself wasn’t an efficient use of energy, but he couldn’t stop. Traffic wasn’t helping either, but at least there was a cure for that—he could waste grace on opening chinks in probability, sliding through and snapping them closed to tangle other drivers in his wake. The exercise, with the fresh force granted him by a Lumina’s nearness, was unexpectedly satisfying; wonder of wonders, he made it to the diner before she did. At least Bob was happy to see him, and even happier to get out from behind the grill himself.

  As a result, Michael was already elbow-deep in prep when she arrived; the Incorruptible was breathless and flushed, her ribs heaving and her dark eyes so wide he almost curled his fingers under the grill to heave it skyward. Jenna didn’t even glance in the kitchen’s direction, hurrying for the dressing room. Her long flow of wavy dark-honey hair was a banner, her chin tucked and her shoulders bowed, she ducked through the employee door and was lost to sight but not his other senses. The throbbing of her terror along his marks shortened his own breath, and he was beginning to think he should set some of his resources to finding this ex-boyfriend of hers.

  It would be satisfying, but against the rules. If others of the Legion had remained in this city, some coul
d stand guard while others moved to bring the Incorruptible to safe haven. Since Michael had no backup, both duties rested on his shoulders. On the bright side, the amount of grace running through her would strengthen him immeasurably—a gift that renewed itself when shared, a hallmark of the Principle.

  “Hey.” Ace’s face worked, a series of dynamic grimaces meant to express concern and trepidation at once. His damp hair was combed back from a ferocious widow’s peak, and it suited him. “You okay, man?”

  “Fine.” Michael loosened his fingers, shook out his hands. The last thing he needed was to frighten his coworkers as well as the lumina. “Just thinking.”

  “Yeah, well, be careful with that shit.” Ace rubbed at his right wrist, a quick, reflexive movement. Today it was a red and yellow plaid button-down over a black T-shirt and jeans—at least he didn’t have to wear a uniform or cook’s whites. “Only leads to trouble.”

  Wise, for a young mortal. “Don’t I know it.” Michael took a deep breath; the aggressive redheaded waitress was at the window, peering through and chewing a wad of gum big enough to dislocate her jaw. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Good,” Sarah the soft-hipped redhead snapped, blue eyeshadow glittering on her lids. “Because I’ve got a crowd coming through the door and no time for bullshit.”

  Michael exhaled, softly. The Incorruptible was going to need whatever reserves of mortal politeness he had, not this woman. Still, there was no reason for anything other than strict reserve. “Better get them seated, then.”

  Sarah gave him a scathing look, one of many she no doubt reserved for people who talked at the theater or did not offer their bus seats to pregnant women; as if that could not express the depths of her irritation, the waitress did a military-smart about-face and marched off.

  “Oh, man.” Ace’s sotto voce was pretty good, a thin thread of sound under the humming of a kitchen ready to be pressed into service. “She’s gonna be pissed now.”