by A A Woods
Aquila sighed, releasing Eliza to rub his neck. “I know. But I can’t.”
“I know,” Eliza said softly, almost to herself.
Sometimes she wondered if things would always be like this with Aquila. The weight of his responsibility, of all the things he took upon himself, was like a wall between them. In the months since October, they’d barely been relaxed enough to kiss, much less do anything more intimate. Eliza wanted to, oh how she wanted to. But Aquila’s brain was only ever half there, the other half following four young men as they careened through the world like wrecking balls.
One in particular…
Eliza forced a smile. “I haven’t forgotten. I’m still going to figure out what you’re not telling me—”
“And I’m still going to tell you there’s nothing to figure out.”
“—but I’m willing to stage a truce. Because I’m really craving some Pad Thai.”
Aquila opened his mouth, thought better of it, then returned the smile. He stuck out his hand. “Truce for Thai? I like the sound of that.”
“Truce for Thai,” Eliza agreed, gripping his hand and jerking it once.
Then, without warning, he pulled her in, cradling her in his body and tilting his head down. Before she could even release a surprised oh, his lips were on hers, warm and sweet and slow. She melted against him, letting his arm hold her up as his other hand curled around her neck and the base of her skull, keeping her against him, tethering her to the world. His kiss was a distraction, and she knew it, but she didn’t care. In that moment, she didn’t care about anything but the heat of his body cocooning her in warmth.
After a few moments of blissful oblivion, Aquila pulled back. His eyes were molten, smile impish. “Still hungry?”
Eliza blinked, grinning back. “Ravenous.”
Chapter Twenty-Two: Tick Tock…
The diner was busy, as all diners are at dinnertime on a weekday. Joe stepped in, closing the door behind him with a rush of cold air that made the nearest patrons shoot him a grumpy look. He ducked his head in apology as he scanned the inside of the restaurant. Vinyl seats, old-school signs, neon lights. It was everything a classic 50’s diner should be, complete with bustling waitresses wearing aprons and hats. The tables were full of people in suits or construction clothes, some laughing, some talking seriously, all of them leaning over enormous plates of food.
Joe’s stomach rumbled, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to eat with how nervous he was to meet Tasha again.
Adjusting his coat, he approached the hostess with as much confidence as he could muster. “Two for dinner please. My friend will be arriving shortly.”
Too professional? Joe wondered, but the woman hardly blinked. She flashed him a bright, fake smile and grabbed two menus, leading him to a small booth in the corner, wedged between the wall and a supporting beam.
Perfect, Joe thought as he slid in, grateful for the privacy. No one would overhear their conversation here.
And then caught himself.
When did he become so secretive? Were his parents rubbing off on him? Was he getting used to hiding so much, holding so much back?
Could he ever untangle himself from the messy knot of publicity that was his life?
Joe sighed, shrugging off his coat.
One thing at a time.
Looking down at the menu, Joe tried to find something his nervous stomach would be able to handle.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
It took everything Joe had not to leap in surprise as Tasha appeared in front of him as if by magic. She was dark-skinned today, with pretty brown hair and matching brown eyes. The untrained observer might take her as Hispanic, maybe Indian. But Joe recognized the shape of her jaw and the small button curve of her nose.
“I could say the same,” he responded with manufactured cool, pushing the menu aside. “After all, you’re the assassin here.”
She didn’t shush him or look around the diner. She only smiled, leaning back in her seat as the waitress came to take their drink orders. Sprite for Joe, black coffee for her.
“Isn’t it a bit late in the day for caffeine?” Joe asked as their server bustled away.
“What are you talking about? My day’s just getting started.”
Joe narrowed his eyes. He wanted to ask who her target was tonight, what innocent party she would be sneaking into under cover of darkness.
But he felt like that would be starting off on the wrong foot.
“So, Tasha,” Joe said instead, folding his arms. “You have powers.”
She tilted her head in concession.
“Are there more like you?”
“Yes.”
Joe blinked. He hadn’t expected that answer to come so easily. “How many?”
She shrugged delicately, pausing to let the waitress slide the drinks in and offer to give them a few more minutes to decide. Only when the woman had left did Tasha spread her hands. “Who knows? I exist. You exist. There are more. That’s all I know.”
“I sincerely doubt that’s all you know.”
Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “You’re right. I also know that you’re an idiot.”
Joe rolled his eyes. “Oh please, you’re hardly the first person to call me that.”
“Using your powers in public? Flaunting your association with the Vagabonds? That’s dangerous, Joe. Everyone knows that attracts the wrong kind of notice.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Those who pay attention.”
“Pay attention to what?” Joe asked, unable to hold back his exasperation. “Who are you even talking about?”
She leveled her gaze on him, unsmiling for the first time since she’d walked through the door. “I’m talking about the Circus,” she answered.
Joe felt a chill run down his arms, giving him goosebumps. “What’s that?”
But the waitress was back, smiling brilliantly and holding a notepad. Tasha ordered the Thanksgiving Dinner with a double order of fries. Joe picked a burger at random, desperate for the server to leave.
As soon as she was gone, he leaned in. “What’s a circus?”
Tasha was sitting ramrod straight, hands in her lap, looking at him with narrowed eyes. For a long, tense moment, Joe was certain she wasn’t going to answer. Despite her candor with virtually everything else, he had the sensation he was treading close to secrets that mattered. Things even worse than the fact that she’d been skulking around a balcony to kill people.
Finally, she looked down at her hands.
“You deserve to know,” she said, almost to herself. As if trying to talk herself into speaking. “You should know, at least to the degree you’re involved.”
There was another tense silence.
Joe broke it first. “Look, I’m not going to tell anyone. I just want to understand what’s going on.”
Her eyes slid up. “Do you? Really?”
The question felt heavier than three words should be, like an unforgiving mantle Joe had to shoulder, one he could never take off.
Before he could think better of it, Joe nodded.
“Alright then,” Tasha said, swirling her coffee. “I guess I’ll start at the beginning.”
Joe kept perfectly still, barely touching his Sprite as Tasha stared into her mug.
“I was born in a lab. Like your friends, I suspect.” Her lips twitched with a strange blend of regret and wry humor. “I don’t know who my parents are, only that they signed some paperwork so their genes could be used in human experimentation.” She shrugged, rolling her neck. “Cuttlefish DNA, chromatophore skin, and a human baby get you…”
Joe watched, fascinated, as she flexed her fingers on the table, the taut skin swirling until her delicate hands blended in almost perfectly with the old-fashioned vinyl tabletop.
It took a huge effort to keep his mouth from falling open.
She looked up at him, that same smile tugging up one side of her mouth. “What I mean to say is that I was born i
nto the world of Abnormals. Raised among them. It’s all I know.”
Joe cleared his throat, risking a question. “Who, um, made you?”
She winced. “Hans Schneider.”
He couldn’t help it now. Joe’s mouth fell open. “You mean the guy my parents threw the big party for?”
A bitterness tinted Tasha’s eyes, dark as a storm. “The one and only.”
“But…” Joe realized after starting his sentence that he didn’t have a defense. He wanted to say his parents would never associate with someone who would perform that kind of illegal human testing. He wanted to say Hans was too famous to get away with something like that. He wanted to say the world would find out.
Instead, he stayed quiet as Tasha turned her mug around, grasping the handle like a lifeline.
“The Circus,” she continued, “is what Hans so lovingly calls us. His creations, raised and trained to serve his purposes.”
“What purposes?” Joe asked in a small voice.
“Power. Money. What else do people like him want?”
Joe tried to come up with an answer to chase the sadness out of her eyes, but at that moment the waitress returned with their food.
“Enjoy your meal,” she said brightly, her expression dimming a bit when Joe only stared at Tasha and Tasha kept her eyes fixed on the black coffee.
She left them alone.
“So you’re telling me that Hans is out there creating superheroes, and no one’s found out about it?”
Tasha’s eyes brightened now, but it was an angry, vengeful kind of light. “Oh, people have found out. Journalists. Videographers. Kids in small towns.” Joe fidgeted. “But Hans has spent his whole life and more money than you and I can imagine wrapping his fingers around the media’s throat. No one goes against him and lives. No one.”
“Except you,” Joe pointed out.
Tasha scoffed. “Only because I’m too expensive to get rid of. He’s still hoping I’ll come crawling back to him.”
“But instead you’re trying to kill him?”
Tasha’s smile was a blade, sharp and glittering. “Exactly.”
Joe settled back in his seat with a whoosh of air leaving the cushion. It was so much to process. Too much. He shook his head, trying to organize the flood of questions cascading through his brain.
“My parents… do they know?”
“Yes,” Tasha said with some sympathy.
Too much, Joe thought, blinking at the table. Come back to that.
“And what about me? You said I was in danger.”
Tasha released a breath. “I don’t think Hans knows you have powers yet. If he did, he’d be trying to collect you already.”
Which is why my parents have kept such a close eye on me, Joe realized with a jolt.
“But my friends, the Vagabonds. He’s not trying to collect them.”
Tasha frowned. “You don’t know that.”
Joe went cold. “Look, this is insane. I don’t know what to make of this, I…” He looked at her, breathing like he’d just run a mile. “Why are you telling me all this?”
She leaned over her untouched plate. “Because I’ve tried everything, Joe, but there are certain things that are easier from the inside. You’re on the inside. You can help me.”
“Help you do what? Kill this guy?” He was embarrassed by the slightly shrill note in his voice.
“Or stop him. It doesn’t have to be an execution. But there are others like me, others who weren’t lucky enough to escape. The world deserves to know the truth, Joe. They deserve to understand who’s been ruling them all this time, not with government but with information.”
There was an addictive brilliance to Tasha when she spoke like that, when she leaned in and whispered her plans. Joe wanted to agree. A huge, loud part of him wanted to go along with whatever this strong-minded young woman with powers wanted to do.
But he shook his head, clutching his fork. “I can’t kill anyone. That’s not right, I’m no judge, jury, and executioner.”
“Like I said, there are ways to destroy someone like Hans without killing him.”
“Then why were you there with a knife?”
“Because I didn’t have access to those ways.”
“And I do?”
“Yes,” Tasha said bluntly.
“Why?”
“Because of who you are.”
Joe grit his teeth, glaring back at her with a set jaw.
Growing up rich, with access to almost every famous person in America, Joe was aware that some people only valued him for what he could provide. He’d long ago gotten used to being seen as a walking ATM machine or LinkedIn algorithm. Can you connect me to so-and-so? Do you really know him? Have you ever seen her house? But somehow, Tasha felt different. What she wanted was more serious, more conniving, and much more honest.
He wasn’t sure if he liked it any better.
“You know, I’m not sure I trust you,” Joe said, stabbing his fork into a fry.
Tasha lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t trust anyone who eats their fries with a fork.”
Joe waved the fork around, making the fry wobble. “Then why are we here? We don’t know each other, you clearly don’t like my family, you—”
“Can prove it,” Tasha cut in, silencing him. “I can prove everything.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. But first you have to do something for me.”
Joe chewed down on the fry, waiting for the shoe to drop.
“I need you to commit. These secrets don’t come cheap and I can’t have you spooking off under mommy’s skirts.”
“I don’t do that,” Joe muttered.
“I know you love your parents, Joe, but they’re the enemy. Hans is the enemy.”
“And the Vagabonds?”
“Are bystanders. For now.” The way she said those last two words made Joe wonder what else she knew… and what else he was missing.
While Joe was still puzzling through what she’d said, Tasha waved down the waitress.
“I’m sorry, but can you box this up for me please?” she said, voice suddenly dripping with a thick southern accent. “I’ve just remembered a meeting I have t’ pop off to.”
“Of course, I’ll get that for you right away,” said the smiling, confused waitress.
“But…”
Tasha’s eyes cut to him, hard as stone again. “I don’t eat in public.”
Joe frowned. “Then why did you invite me to a restaurant?”
“How else was I going to get a free meal?”
It should have bothered Joe.
It didn’t.
Somehow that was more worrisome.
“Go home,” Tasha said, pulling on her coat. “Think through this. Decide what kind of life you want to live.”
“What do you—?”
“It’s not easy to stand against the world, Joe. Not everyone is cut out for it.”
Joe winced. “I’m not cut out for much.”
To his surprise, Tasha grinned at him. “You’re doing fine so far.”
For some reason, that made him flush.
The waitress brought back Tasha’s massive, untouched meal, sliding it onto the table with a, “Hope you enjoy, miss.”
“Thank you,” Tasha said, doing such a convincing impression of a southern lady that Joe was sure this waitress wouldn’t recognize Tasha again, probably wouldn’t be able to pick her out of a lineup. He wondered what it must be like for her, to shift skin tone and hair color and effectively vanish into the city as if she’d never existed.
How lonely…
“If you decide you want to, let’s say, get involved,” Tasha said, buttoning her coat. “Meet me in the alley on seventh, between thirty-fourth and thirty-fifth.”
“Is that where you live?”
“No,” she said, shoving to her feet. “But it’s where I’ll find you.”
“What time?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll know you’re there.”
&nb
sp; Joe stood too, towering over her small, compact form. No amount of color-shifting could change her gymnast physique. “How can I be sure you’re not going to kill my parents or anything?”
“You can’t. But I promise that if I do, they’ll have deserved it.”
“Wait!”
But Tasha was already sweeping toward the door, her curly wig disappearing behind a cluster of businessmen coming in for dinner. Joe watched, dumbfounded, as the strange, rogue journalist flashed through the glass double doors, ducked onto the street, and was gone.
Joe plopped back into the booth with an explosion of breath.
“Damn,” he said, half to himself. He shook his head, staring at the whole burger with only a few fries missing. “Damn,” he said again, savoring the word and everything it encapsulated.
Joe wasn’t sure how to feel. Should he go home and warn his parents that a maniac was on the loose, hunting one of their biggest benefactors? Should he tell the Vagabonds there were more like them, a whole world of—what had she called them?—Abnormals hiding among them? How many were out there? What did they want?
What did they do?
When everything had gone down last October, Joe thought he’d fallen into Wonderland. The events on Fitzgerald had been weird even by Joe’s standards.
Well if that had been Wonderland, this was the weird sub-world below that, where things got even stranger and more sideways. Chewing contemplatively on another fry, Joe pondered his options. Really, there wasn’t much to ponder. He’d always been the kid who looked under rocks, who couldn’t help but Google the answer to the question. Eliza broke rules because she enjoyed the rush of causing trouble, but Joe broke them because he couldn’t not know. He craved the security that knowledge brought.
Right then he felt very, very unsure.
The waitress came over, a sympathetic look on her face. “Can I box that up for you too, sir?”
“What? Oh, yeah, yes please.” Joe rubbed his face. “I’d better be getting, er, back to things.”
He missed her kind response as he offered his parents credit card, wondering what, exactly, he planned to be getting back to.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Comfortable Lies