by Zoe Chant
“Oh, they did. But it’s one thing to hear it and another to believe it.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Justin’s hand still rested on her shoulder, warm and reassuring. She wished he hadn’t had to leave back then. If he’d been there, she was sure he could have convinced her that Shane would recover.
She wished she’d known Justin earlier, period. She didn’t flatter herself that if she’d met him immediately after he’d escaped from Apex, she’d have been able to convince him to join Protection, Inc. Shane had told her he’d asked Justin, and he’d refused. But if they’d met before that, before he’d been captured and she’d... gone wrong... maybe everything would have been different for both of them.
And now it’s too late.
As if in answer to her thought, Justin stepped away from her. “Let’s get some coffee before we get our costumes. This is where they invented espresso, right? Bet it’s good here.”
Putting on another one of the perfectly convincing fake smiles she’d grown to hate, Fiona said, “All those fancy drinks you order in Starbucks were invented in Italy. Espresso. Cappuccino. Macchiato.”
“Pumpkin spice latte?”
“No, that one’s all-American.”
“Unicorn frappucino?”
Her fake smile melted into a real one as she realized he was teasing her. “Order one of those here and see what happens.”
“Maybe we can find the guy who invented it. I’ll look for a princess-pink awning.”
“And a sign with a horn.” She slung her purse over her shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Hang on.” Justin put on a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap, then tilted the visor down to cast a shadow over his face. It was a simple disguise, but it was a good one; no one would recognize him unless they got close, and he’d hardly allow Bianchi to do that. It also made him look much more like the tourist he was supposed to be.
“Nice,” said Fiona.
Justin tipped his cap to her. “Thank you.”
They found a café right outside their apartment. Unlike American coffee shops, it had no tables. You stood up at a polished wood bar as you drank your coffee.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“A unicorn frappucino, of course.” When she stepped on his foot, he said, “But if you’ve taken me to the wrong place and they don’t have one, I’ll take a cappuccino. And that, and that, and that.” He pointed to several pastries behind glass.
Fiona, who spoke a little Italian, ordered for him and herself, then fished out the correct amount of money from his wallet to pay for it.
“You can do anything,” he remarked. “Except make these yourself. Tragic. I could, of course.”
She cast a skeptical glance at his almond cake, crisp pastry ribbons sprinkled with powdered sugar, and little fluffy buns topped with candied fruit. “You could not.”
“I could. Really. I mean, I’d need a recipe. Baking is very precise. You can’t just improvise how much flour and how much butter. But sure, I could do it. Ask Shane.”
Fiona bit her tongue on “I could if you’d let me tell him you’re alive.” Instead, she said, “Did you bake cupcakes for your—” She couldn’t say “Air Force buddies,” so she smoothly substituted “Car wash buddies?”
Justin, who obviously wasn’t used to being undercover with a partner, looked completely blank for a second. Then he said, “Absolutely. Always had a tray ready for when we went on... uh... business retreats.” He looked irritated, and she stifled a giggle when she realized why: he’d wanted to say something like “combat missions,” and had been forced to ruin his own joke with a substitution that made it not funny.
“Seriously, did you?” she asked.
“I did.”
“Literally cupcakes?”
“Literally cupcakes. Some of my buddies were dads. Or moms. Their kid had a birthday, I’d make custom cupcakes. I’d do little drawings of Darth Vader or Rainbow Dash or Harry Potter in icing.”
“You really need to meet my friend Grace,” Fiona said. “She just married another friend of mine. They had cupcakes instead of a wedding cake. Their friend Paris baked them, in something like twenty different flavors. Red velvet. Pink lemonade. Key lime pie. Rose.”
“Forget Grace, I want to meet Paris. We could trade recipes.”
Fiona nudged him. “Stop talking and eat. You haven’t touched your pastries. Or your coffee.”
She picked up her own coffee and took a sip, stealthily watching him over the rim of her cup. His black hair fell forward as he bent his head to drink. She wondered what he’d look like if he stopped dying it. Black eyes and brilliant copper hair: no wonder people stared at him.
The unselfconscious happiness that lit up his face as he tasted his coffee gave her a pang of joy and sadness, swirled together like the pinks and purples in a unicorn frappucino. She was happy for him that he was enjoying himself at last, and heartbroken that he’d suffered so much and for so long that something as ordinary as enjoying a cup of coffee was so significant to him.
Those feelings only grew stronger as she watched him try each of his pastries with startled delight, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was actually experiencing pleasure. As for her, she couldn’t quite believe that this was the same person as the expressionless, emotionless man who didn’t seem to care about anything, not even his own life. Why would being unable to feel pain or hunger or weariness also seem to take away everything else you could feel?
Oh.
Fiona felt stupid for not having figured it out earlier. Of course. Justin’s “invincibility” power was actually the inability to feel, period. Pain. Pleasure. Everything. No wonder he couldn’t shift while he was using it—he couldn’t feel his snow leopard, either.
She’d thought that power was bad for him even before she’d realized what it was, just on the basis that it was obviously damaging his health. But now that she’d watched him eat pastries and laughed at his jokes, kissed him and held his hand while he slept, a cold horror came over her at the thought of him deliberately erasing everything that made him who he was.
Justin glanced up, smiling, and she made sure to erase any trace of her thoughts from her expression. He offered her a twist of sugar-dusted pastry. “You have to try this. It’s delicious.”
She took and crunched it. “Thanks. It is.”
Encouraged, he broke off bite-size portions of his cake and buns for her to try, then quizzed her on her favorite. She offered him a bite of her biscotti in return.
But all the while, she was thinking about his invincibility. It allowed him to power through hunger and injury and weariness, but because of that, he let himself get hungry and hurt and exhausted when he didn’t have to. Why not just eat and sleep and exercise more caution? He called it a power, but it seemed more like a Devil’s bargain. And using it at the cost of his health—worse, at the cost of his very self—was sheer madness.
Fiona dabbed the last crumbs from her lips. “Let’s get those groceries. I warn you, I’ll be expecting genius after all that baking bragging.”
“I only have a hot plate,” Justin protested. “Genius requires an oven.”
She made herself smile, but his playfulness and ease made her heart ache. It seemed so fragile and temporary, and he was so willing to throw it away.
Well, she wasn’t going to stand by and let him do it. As they walked out, she silently vowed to make sure that he never used his invincibility again.
The nearest market was a set of docked boats. They stood on floating wooden platforms to examine baskets of plump tomatoes and pink shrimp, violet artichokes and tangerines with leaves still clinging to their stems. She had to stop him from buying more than would fit in their small refrigerator and narrow shelves.
They returned to the apartment and unloaded their groceries, then set out to get their Carnival disguises. Despite her GPS and maps, they got lost. Venice was a maze of twisting alleys, and it was impossible to walk in a str
aight line. Again and again, they’d head in one direction, then have to walk out of their way to cross a bridge arching over a canal, make a few more detours, and find themselves back where they started.
But there was no rush. She kept an eye out for trouble and Justin obviously did too, but she had an eye for the beauty of the city as well. Everywhere they went, there was something lovely to see: an ancient cathedral, a window box of blooming poppies, a gondolier plying his boat down a green canal, a statue of a winged lion, a glimpse of a woman dancing through a foggy window. The streetlights were made of pink glass. The air was fresh, with a hint of salt. A chilly wind blew, but the sun shone bright. Some of the gondoliers were singing.
And through it all, Justin was beside her, walking so if any danger struck, he’d be perfectly positioned to place his body between her and it. But while he did, he also cracked jokes, pointed out gargoyles on rooftops, and tossed saved biscotti crumbs to the pigeons. She knew he’d been through terrible things, and she’d seen some of the scars he bore. The one on his chest was probably the least of them. But despite all that, he was so vibrant and funny and engaged with life. So alive. It made her feel like she’d lived her whole life behind a sheet of glass, never getting her hands dirty or her feet wet.
If he took my hand and led me to the water, I’d go in with him, she thought. Into the ocean. Into the mud. Into the fire. Anywhere.
Her GPS beeped, startling her. They’d gotten so lost that they’d come across their destination by accident.
“Honey,” she said, reminding him of their masquerade, “We’re here.”
Quick on the uptake, he put his arm around her waist. She shivered involuntarily. That was why they hadn’t touched coming here. Every time they did, it made it difficult to focus on anything but how much she wanted to be able to touch him all she wanted. How much she wanted him to take his other hand and cup her breast. How much she wanted him to run his fingers through her hair, and kiss her as passionately as he had at the Ritz, but not stop this time. How much—
Goddammit.
She pushed open an old wooden door, beautifully carved with men and women in elaborate costumes and masks. Inside, exquisite masks hung on the walls, some decorated in feathers and others with jewels, each one a work of art. Mannequins wearing beautiful costumes stood like frozen party-goers.
An old man sitting at a work table greeted her in Italian.
Haltingly, Fiona replied in the same language. “I and my—” She didn’t know the word for ‘boyfriend,’ so substituted “—the man I love want Carnival costumes and masks.”
The man I love. No way was she ever telling Justin that was what she’d said. But now that she’d said it, the mask maker was smiling at them the way old people smiled at young lovers.
He answered her in a flood of rapid Italian. She only understood about a third of it, but she got that his name was Mr. Toscani and that this was a rush job so it would cost them much more than it normally would and his wares were expensive to begin with because they were the best, and by the way this shop was three hundred years old and passed down from father to son. Had he mentioned that it was very expensive because it was the best?
Fiona assured him that she had plenty of money, and she was there because it was the best.
That seemed to please Mr. Toscani, who spoke faster than ever. All she could understand was that he wanted to know if she had something specific in mind, or if she would be wise and let him design something perfect for the two of them.
The thought of attempting to describe specific costumes and masks in Italian was so appalling that she gratefully said, “You design. But we are... um...” She searched for the words for “street performers,” then finally said, “people who play for money on the road.”
“What!?” Mr. Toscani exclaimed. A flood of Italian, plus hand gestures, made her realize that she’d apparently said that they caught roadside mice for dinner. Or maybe lizards. There was definitely eating and small scurrying things involved.
“What?” echoed Justin. “What’s he saying? Wait. Never mind that. What did you say?”
She made a face at him, then tried again. “We are like... Cirque du Soleil.”
“Ah!” In English, Mr. Toscani said, “Acrobats!”
“Yes, acrobats,” she said gratefully. In Italian, she added, “You design. But we must...” She made a hand gesture that she hoped conveyed a backflip.
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Toscani in English. “I can do.” Then he yelled, “Chiara! Giovanni!”
A man and a woman appeared from the back of the shop with tape measures. The woman seized Fiona and the man seized Justin. Next thing she knew, they were being measured more thoroughly than she’d ever been measured before, and she’d been fitted for custom ball gowns.
When Chiara was done with the measurements, she held up a thick sheet of moistened paper. Carefully, she said in English, “For mask. Hold breath. One minute.”
Fiona held her breath, and Chiara pressed the paper against her face. It was cold and wet, and it clung unpleasantly to her mouth and nose. Sixty long seconds ticked by before it was removed. An impression of Fiona’s face remained on the paper, which Chiara carefully set aside.
Fiona looked over just in time to see Giovanni approach Justin with the same paper. The briefest flash of alarm widened Justin’s eyes before he held up his hand to ward off the paper.
Giovanni said something in Italian, in a reassuring tone. In English, Chiara said, “Is safe. Do not worry.”
“I know it’s safe. I just...” Justin looked at Fiona, clearly hoping for some kind of rescue.
A burst of white-hot fury burned through her as she realized what the problem must be. One of those sadistic monsters at Apex must have put something over his face to cut off his breathing—suffocated him or waterboarded him or something like that—and he was afraid of having a flashback.
She stepped between him and the mask makers. In Italian, she said, “The man I love is, is—”
“Claustrophobic,” said Mr. Toscani, in English.
“Yes,” Justin said with relief. “I’m claustrophobic.”
In Italian, Mr. Toscani said, “It’s common. We can wait. Would he like some water? Fresh air? An herbal remedy? Brandy?”
“Wait,” said Fiona, and pulled Justin into a corner.
“Sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I keep tripping over these—these fucking random land mines in my head.”
Fiona didn’t stop to think. She just put her arms around him. His muscles were hard and tense, but they relaxed under her touch. “What can I do?”
She felt him take a shaky breath, then a steadier one. “Well. Seems like that’s good.”
“Mr. Toscani also offered you water, some sort of herbal medicine, and brandy.”
Justin managed a smile. “You don’t get customer service like that in the US. Actually... If he was serious, I’ll take the brandy. It might help if I had something in my mouth that’s really different from—” He broke off.
Water? A gag? She wished, not for the first time, that she had those Apex sadists in front of her now. She’d smother them and see how they liked it.
But her anger wasn’t what he needed right now.
“Brandy, and I keep my arm around you?” she suggested.
“Yeah. I think that’d do it.” Justin sighed. “You’d never believe I used to—uh, do extremely manly things.”
Fiona turned, making sure he was looking her in the eyes as she said, “Yes. I would. And there’s no ‘used to.’ You still do.”
She wasn’t sure he quite believed her. It’s one thing to hear it and another to believe it, she thought.
But he straightened up anyway. “Hope it’s good brandy.”
“In Venice? Of course it is. It’s probably been aging in a cask for a hundred years.”
Mr. Toscani sent Chiara for it, all the while telling Fiona to let Justin know that customers freaked out over the mask imprint all the time. He included a v
ivid pantomime of a big, tall, strong man passing out, which got a half-smile out of Justin. When Giovanni returned with a small glass of brandy, Justin drank most of it, then held the last sip in his mouth and gave the mask maker a nod. Fiona kept her arm tight around his waist as Giovanni pressed the damp white sheet over his face.
Justin stood stock-still, his body rigid. Sixty seconds ticked by like an eternity. But he didn’t move until Giovanni took off the paper, and she felt him sag in a sudden release of tension.
The mask makers congratulated him on his courage, which she could see embarrassed him. She paid and got a promise that it would all be ready in time for Carnival, and then they hurried out.
Justin went straight for a sunny spot, glanced around, then took off his hat and sunglasses. He looked up into the blue sky, breathing deeply. Fiona supposed he was reminding himself that he wasn’t in that underground torture chamber at Apex, and was livid with rage all over again. If she ever got her hands on those monsters, they’d regret the day they’d laid hands on him. They’d regret the day they’d ever been born.
Tear out their throats, hissed her snow leopard.
Don’t worry, Fiona replied. We’ll get our chance.
Chapter Six
Justin
Justin stood in the sun, focusing on its warmth on his skin. The lab had always been so cold, and the metal table and instruments colder. The lights were a bleak fluorescent white. But he wasn’t underground anymore. The sunlight proved it. If he just stayed in it long enough, maybe all of him would believe it.
Fiona put her arm around him. He leaned into her, thinking all the while that he shouldn’t even do so much. She deserved a man who was undamaged, whole.
He didn’t want to talk about what had happened. But no one was around to overhear, and she needed an explanation. “They called it an experiment. They strapped me to a table and put a cloth over my face, and Dr. Mortenson poured water over it until I—”
“I know what that’s called,” Fiona snarled, sounding remarkably like his snow leopard. “And it’s not an ‘experiment.’ It’s torture.”