by Loren Walker
* * *
Law enforcement took Phaira in for questioning. Forensic evidence was collected. And, unbelievably, Phaira’s story was confirmed. Nican’s blood was full of chemicals, both legally prescribed and banned, including an amplified version of mekaline, a street hallucinogenic. The combination, the coroner ruled, would have made Nican violent and psychotic. Nican’s fingerprints were found on the rail, Phaira’s blood on the bridge. Her call to Nican was confirmed, but she had far more defensive wounds than Nican’s corpse. It should have been dismissed.
But the day after the official ruling, the military took her into custody. No one would say anything to either brother. Cohen begged Nox to find out where she was. But Nox couldn’t get any information out of anyone. Instead he came to their little apartment to wait and pace.
Three days passed with no word. On the fourth day, people began to gather outside Renzo’s apartment building. At first, only a few, but the numbers continued to swell. When it reached fifty, Renzo, Cohen and Nox kept watch at the window. The people glared up at them, silent, waiting.
Then an official police transport turned down the street. The crowd began to hiss.
Renzo grabbed Nox’s arm. “Get down there.”
Nox bolted out of the apartment. Cohen went to follow, but Renzo stopped him. “He’s an officer,” he reminded his brother. “They won’t attack him.”
Cohen nodded. His eyes flicked back to Renzo again and again. A familiar reaction, that instinctual deferral to his older siblings. Renzo gripped the windowsill so tightly the wood cut into his hands. He had to keep it together for his brother.
And for his sister, now being pulled from the transport by Nox. The crowds swarmed over them, grabbing at her clothes and hair, yelling obscenities. Phaira cowed over, hiding her face. Nox was yelling at everyone to get back, calling for the police escort to help. But the driver stood by his open door, watching the chaos, stone-faced.
Then a shot rang out. The crowd split off in every direction. Renzo leaned out as far as he could, frantically searching for Phaira and Nox, his heart ramming in his chest.
“Can you see them?” Cohen shouted.
The door burst open to the apartment, and two bodies fell through. Fumbling back to his feet, Nox shut the door and leaned against it, panting for air. Phaira remained on her knees. She looked like a ghost: unseeing, barely there. And there were blood on the side of her neck.
“You’re hurt!” Cohen gasped, pulling her up to stand.
“The shot grazed the wooden frame of the entryway,” Nox explained, mopping the sweat from his face. “It’s okay, I think.”
Renzo dug out the first-aid kit from the kitchen. When he hobbled back into the room, Nox was surveying the street below, one hand on the hilt of his Compact firearm. Cohen was next to Phaira on their lumpy sofa. Phaira just stared at her feet.
Renzo sat on Phaira’s other side. Then, bracing his nerves, he used tweezers to remove the pieces of splintered wood lodged in the side of her throat. So close to her jugular, Renzo thought, queasy as blood trickled from the wounds. Bigger pieces would have killed her.
They all jumped at the sudden roar of the crowd, screaming Phaira’s name. Nox turned from the window and swallowed, his skin pale under his freckles.
That night, someone tried to break into the apartment. Renzo was awake, staring at the clock when he heard glass shatter. As he emerged from his room, bearing his cane as a weapon, he saw a flash of metal and light, followed by a howl of pain.
In the living room, the windowpane had a hole punched through it. Cohen stood next to it, bearing a kitchen knife with blood on the edge, breathing heavily.
Nox was the one to find the online bounty system, and the series of photos framed by different colors to categorize: red for wanted, white for captured, black for kill on sight. And right at the top: multiple photos of Phaira, framed in black, with listings of her physical characteristics, known locations, even her genetic identification code. The reward: 250,000 rana.
It took several calls and a few threats, but Renzo was finally given access to the Macatia compound. Waiting to be seen, he surveyed the grand room before him: the sumptuous furnishings, antique furniture polished to a perfect gleam, the indoor waterfall. It all made him twitchy.
As he tapped his cane on the marble floor, his mind wandered in waiting. He had a sudden memory of his sister from some years back.
Pulled out of a critical theory workshop, Renzo came to the university callbox full of dread. Something was wrong. Child protective services had taken Cohen, who was still underage at the time. Renzo had forgotten to pay some bill. There was always something going wrong.
This call was different, though. Renzo remembered it because his defiant, snarky sister was trying very hard not to cry over the line.
Their father had shown up at their apartment, freshly released from the hospital, and Phaira was caught in his outburst. He’d hit her. Renzo could hear the tightness in her voice, how she tried not to sniff too loudly. He was stunned that she called him in this state, so vulnerable. He remembered how he cradled the Lissome, as if to hug her through the connection, telling her again and again: “Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let him affect you like this. It’s not worth it, Phair.”
The memory of fleeting closeness dissipated. Renzo stared at his cane in front of him and swallowed hard. Things had to change. He had to make it happen, for all their sakes.
Finally, an elaborate door swung open and a servant gestured to him. Renzo made his way into the next room, where Nican’s parents waited, perched on an uncomfortable-looking but expensive lounger. The father had the same black hair as his son, that same sneering expression. The wife was wispy and graying, shriveled into herself.
Renzo chose to stand as he spoke, despite the pain of his prosthetic. “You know why I’m here.”
The father snorted. The mother twisted one of her rings around her finger.
A hot lick of anger flared in Renzo. “You know what your son did to me. You know he should have been punished for it.”
“My son,” the father spat, “did nothing to you.”
“Don’t insult me,” Renzo growled, striking his cane on the floor for emphasis. “He should be in jail, but you made sure that he never answered for his actions, didn’t you?”
The mother crossed her arms tightly. The father said nothing.
“Take the bounty off of my sister,” Renzo repeated, with as much authority as he could put into his voice. “It was ruled an accident. Your son took away my livelihood. Phaira has lost hers as well. Leave us be. Let us rebuild what’s left.”
The father remained silent. Was he considering what Renzo said?
But it was the mother who raised her eyes, her voice limpid, but ice-cold. “There is no comparison. Leave our property.”
This won’t stop, Renzo realized with horror. They have the money and the resources to hunt her down, for as long as it takes. She’s dead.
The same thought must have occurred to Phaira. When Renzo returned to his tiny apartment, she was gone.