He grinned. When he was a kid, he had flipped a lot of wheelies on his grandparents’ gravel drive, but in those innocent days, he had never imagined . . .
He froze. He stared into the eternal night of the underground.
But . . .
He saw his bike, the best blue mountain bike ever made. He saw the nubby tread on the front tire, saw it start spinning as he pushed off. He leaned over the handlebars. Heard the spit of gravel behind him. Felt the wind in his hair as he picked up speed. Saw the flash of green and brown as the forest whipped by on either side. He broke out into the valley. The grapevines. The garden. The milling crowd of people.
Independence Day. Fourth of July. The annual picnic.
Right in front of the house—right in front of it—he shifted back on the seat, pulled on the handlebars. The front tire lifted smoothly, and he rode past his parents, his grandparents, the whole crowd, thirty feet down the road and into the grapevines. Then he smoothly lowered the tire and lay low, because when his mother and grandmother got ahold of him, they were going to shriek.
But while they were scolding, he knew his father and grandfather and uncles would be giving him the secret thumbs-up. And his cousins would never top this. When he thought about how—
He heard the sound of soft feet pattering behind him.
The stench of rotting garbage wafted to his nose.
He was cloaked in darkness, below New York. And something hit him from behind. It knocked him onto his knees.
Bruises on bruises, and all for one lousy leftover demon.
Getting painfully to his feet, Guardian plucked the little rodent off his neck, dangled it in the air, and then dropped it down a shaft that went to China.
It shrieked all the way down.
Then he sought in his mind for that moment on his bike on the road on Independence Day in front of his family. . . .
His family . . .
Somewhere he had a family. A human family. Family who cared enough to grab a boy and lecture him on the dangers of popping wheelies. He saw his mother and grandmother shaking their fingers at him, while in the background Grandpa gave him a thumbs-up.
The vision had vanished. But the faces remained.
He remembered no facts, only a moment in time.
But it told him so much—and he had remembered.
He remembered his family, and he wanted to remember more. To explore his mind, to find the ragged remnants of sanity and recollection and weave them together into a whole life. His whole life.
But right now, no matter how much he struggled, he was here. Underground. In the dark and the still heat, and his mind would not cooperate.
So he would move on to his next priority. He had to go square things with Charisma.
If he handled this right, he could be popping wheelies with her all night long.
Chapter 23
Guardian stood by the table in the middle of the cave and stared, and listened.
The stone walls stretched four stories into the air. The rock ceiling was lost in the dark, but closer to the ground, the stone lights glowed with soft phosphorescence. No movement, no human voice disturbed the quiet. Even the stream seemed to babble more quietly.
Was Charisma gone?
Probably. He had been a real piece of shit last night. A big, dumb, male POS.
It didn’t seem fair. Say one or two stupid things about not wanting to have sex with a woman who was just using his body for thrills, and she took him seriously.
Now he was never going to get laid again . . . and it was more than that. He’d grown accustomed to her face. He liked coming in and knowing he was going to get to talk to someone who didn’t believe he was a mythical Guardian. Or maybe she did believe it, but she was some kind of Chosen Ones legend, too, so it was like Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl at home after fighting all the battles.
If she were still here, this evening he might have suggested they cuddle in his extended-length, extra-wide recliner and watch The Incredibles. They’d share a little popcorn, a few kisses, and all the while they’d be thinking about the moment when they went upstairs and . . . and . . .
A meal had been set out for him: a chipped white bowl with blue stripes, a bent spoon, a glass of milk, a black-spotted banana that looked as if it had come out of a Dumpster, and a piece of bread sitting on a paper towel spread with a thick, dark spread that he hoped was peanut butter.
He sat down.
The banana smelled; it was incredibly overripe. And he kept catching a funky, yeasty scent, too. Probably the bread was moldy.
Apparently Amber had wandered off, possibly to take Charisma back up to the surface, and Moises had taken over his care. Guardian knew from hard experience that Moises was never too fussy about using the right utensil for the meal, or about the meal itself.
But fighting made Guardian ravenous, and if Osgood won his battle, the food down here would get worse. A lot worse.
Above the bowl sat a book, a large, thick, leather-bound tome. Its pages were yellowed and it smelled like dust, and the title, in gold on the cover, proclaimed, When the World Was Young: A History of the Chosen Ones. Pulling it toward him, he opened it.
From behind him, Charisma said, “You asked about the Chosen Ones.”
He jumped. He hadn’t heard her walking up behind him—and no one sneaked up on him.
Except Charisma. When she wanted, she could move as silently as a ghost.
“I found that on your bookshelves. When the World Was Young is our textbook.” Walking around the table, she sat opposite him. Looking worn and serious, she said, “I thought you didn’t believe me about the Chosen Ones, so this might convince you.”
“I believe you!” He tried to inject sincerity into every word. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She looked directly at him, and her eyes burned like liquid emeralds. “You don’t believe that I don’t care about your appearance. Surely you’re inclined to doubt me about the Chosen Ones. It is a ridiculous story.”
He needed to remember what he wanted. He wanted to keep her here, to enjoy her body and let her enjoy his, and never mind all his tender, hurt feelings. “I’ve been thinking. It doesn’t matter whether we tell the truth to each other. It doesn’t matter whether we believe each other. We can enjoy each other’s bodies—”
“Without trust.” Swiftly, unexpectedly, she slapped one hand flat on the table, leaned toward him, and smacked him hard across the side of his head. “That’s for what you said last night.” She did it again. “And that’s for what you said just now.”
He rubbed his ringing ear.
Apparently Charisma did not like being called a . . . a liar.
“That’s just my opinion,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Opinions are like assholes. Everybody’s got one.”
She just called him an asshole.
He started to feel like he needed backup in this battle of wits. He wished he could confer with the men in his family. He didn’t remember them, exactly. He didn’t remember their names, or what their voices sounded like. He didn’t even know whether they were still alive.
But he knew they lived in his memory. He had seen them. And that was something.
Charisma settled back in her chair, and she didn’t look as if smacking him had improved her temper. “You are going to listen to me. You misunderstood me. You did me an injustice. So you might as well stop acting like you’ve got a stick up your butt.”
He straightened, all ruffled dignity and indignation.
“That stick looks like it got jabbed up a little higher,” she said.
She didn’t give a crap about his dignity.
He needed to remember that he didn’t give a crap about his dignity, either. He needed to remember he was here for the sex.
Picking up the toast, he took a bite.
That spread on top was not peanut butter. That was the yeasty smell. It also tasted salty and vile. He should have remembered—Moises was Australian.
&n
bsp; It was Vegemite.
If Guardian had been alone, he would have spit it out. But the dignity he didn’t care about made him chew slowly, painfully, and swallow.
He couldn’t swallow enough. The taste was still in his mouth.
Charisma continued. “Last night, when you touched me and I turned my head away, I did it not because you repulse me, but because I was talking about my mother. Maybe I’m a little oversensitive, but I don’t like being pitied, and you were feeling sorry for me right then.”
“No, I—”
She gave him a don’t bullshit me look.
He shut up. And took a drink of milk.
It was curdled.
“It’s not all about you,” Charisma said. “It’s not always about the way you look. I mean, talk about oversensitive. Last night I think I successfully proved your touch does not repulse me.”
He grunted a nonword, and swallowed at least seven times. If there was anything that could make the Vegemite taste good, relatively speaking, it was spoiled milk.
“I’m not saying you don’t have challenges when it comes to your appearance, but everything in the world does not boil down to whether or not you’ve got a few extra hairs.”
He fake-smiled.
“So we can pretend last night didn’t happen, if that’s what you want.” In a very sensible voice, she said, “It would be the smart thing to do.”
He forgot the disgusting tastes in his mouth.
Pretending last night didn’t happen was not what he wanted. “I can’t forget!”
“We’re fighting a war with Osgood and his demons, a war we’re losing. A war that takes every second of our time.” She looked down at her hands, flat on the table, and asked softly, “Do we really want to take time away from our battles to fall in love?”
Yes! “I hardly think last night was love.”
She looked up at him, challenging him. “If you’re practicing slap-downs, that one gives you first prize.”
Had he ever in his life been so bewildered?
Maybe. In that other life with those other people.
But mostly he thought he didn’t understand women, and he most definitely didn’t understand Charisma. “I wasn’t trying to slap you down. I was stating an obvious fact.”
“That I’m vulnerable where you are not? That I’ve invested more thought and emotions into our relationship than you have?”
“No.” He’d spent the day trying to convince himself he was happy to have meaningless sex with her. Did that make him thoughtless and emotionless?
Maybe. Possibly.
Probably.
“I actually thought I could fall in love with you.” Her voice broke.
That was pushing it a little too far, and suddenly he forgot today’s resolve and found himself stumbling into all of last night’s bitter emotions. “In love with me? Really?” His voice rose. “If things were different, if we weren’t fighting a war, if I could walk the streets of New York City without being chased and trapped like an animal, would you walk with me? Could you bear to see people point and stare? Yes, all cats look gray in the dark, and down here it gets really dark. But I don’t want an underground lover who’ll leave me as soon as the sun shines. I want one who’s with me forever.” When he finished, he glared indignantly, then realized—he had blown it again.
He wasn’t a good liar, and he was never again going to get a chance to be her lover.
Chapter 24
Charisma sat back in her seat and considered Guardian, and tried to understand him.
An impossible task. He was such a guy.
He apparently wanted to have sex with her.
Duh.
He also wanted her to like the way he looked.
She did.
But he didn’t believe her when she said she did, and he expected her not to mind that he called her a hypocrite, something she had never been called in her whole life. Quite the opposite. Isabelle and Genny were always on her to soften the way she expressed her opinions.
Perhaps she had misunderstood him as badly as he’d misunderstood her. Perhaps he was racing neck and neck with her, caught by surprise by the empathy and affection between them.
Who was going to be the mature one and take the chance that this relationship could build into something . . . magnificent?
But they didn’t have a lot of time. The world as they knew it would end in a few weeks. So if they didn’t talk now, they would never talk.
But the whole idea of putting herself out like this made her sick to her stomach. She hated being the mature one.
She took a breath.
She folded her hands on the table.
She looked at him, or at least past his left ear. “My last boyfriend was one of the handsomest men I’ve ever met. Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Irish and charming as hell. Ronnie seemed like my perfect mate. He liked the music I like. He liked to eat adventurously. He worked at a soup kitchen feeding the poor. He even liked to go shoe shopping. Perfect. He was perfect. Gorgeous. Perfect.”
Guardian apparently wasn’t completely dim-witted. “What was wrong with him?”
“Did I mention the guy was great in bed? Great in bed. Perfect. He could get me in the sack just as quickly as you did.” With a liberal touch of enmity, she added, “And I didn’t even have to beg him.”
Guardian winced.
“Apparently I’m easy.”
Guardian winced again.
Good. He deserved a little discomfort. “Ronnie was so perfect, it was almost like he had inside information about my likes and dislikes.”
“Who would have told him—”
“But I didn’t figure out someone had sold me down the river. No, I was in love. I mean totally, completely, shit-faced in love.” Even now, twenty months later, Charisma burned with humiliation. “If Samuel, who treats me like the village idiot, had met him, he would have used his mind control on the guy and Ronnie would have blurted out the truth. So Ronnie stayed away from my pals. Which should have tipped me off.” She repeated, “Shit-faced in love.”
“What was the truth?”
“He was one of the Others.” When Guardian looked confused, she pushed When the World Was Young toward him and tapped the cover. “The Others are the bad guys, people with paranormal gifts who oppose the Chosen Ones. Ronnie’s gift was seduction. He was like a snake, a smooth-skinned, sleek, and beautiful boa constrictor who hypnotized me so well I never even saw the coils as they slipped around my throat.”
“The Others have someone on their team to seduce women?” Picking up the black-speckled banana, Guardian peeled it. “You know, my high school guidance counselor never suggested that as a job possibility.” When he heard what he had said, he looked surprised, as if the words had popped out without his volition.
“Did your high school guidance counselor suggest Guardian as a job possibility?”
“Probably not. I don’t remember. I don’t remember my guidance counselor or high school, but that sounded so natural.” He used the spoon to scoop out most of the brown spots, and frowned. “I wonder which high school I went to. Hairy High?”
She hadn’t thought she could laugh right now. But she did, a little too long and with a slight edge of hysteria.
He reached across and patted her hand. “Want some banana?” He offered her the poor, battered fruit.
“Thanks. One was enough.” She put her hand on her stomach. “And that Vegemite is awful. I can’t believe you ate it. I spit mine out.”
He glared as if he had a bad taste in his mouth, which made her laugh again. Then, on a caught breath, she said, “The Others recruited Ronnie to seduce me—and kill me.”
“Kill you?” Guardian put down his banana and pushed it aside. “I would have thought he wanted to pry information out of you. Or money. Or something.”
Her throat closed. So she shook her head.
This was harder than she expected.
“Then why seduce you first? Why not hire an assassin?” Guardian so
unded indignant. “What’s wrong with the world? Doesn’t anybody do anything the easy way anymore?”
She almost laughed again. Then she almost cried.
He pulled the paper towel out from underneath his bread and handed it to her. “Here. Although I hope you appreciate the sacrifice, because if I ate the paper towel, it would taste better than the Vegemite.”
She nodded and blew her nose. “I haven’t ever cried over Ronnie. I have ranted, raved, sworn, glared, sunk into a depression about the fact that I’m the only one of the Chosen Ones who has never found true love. But I never cried. And here I am, all emotional.”
“Realizing that you’re of no value to a person who is dear to you is a hard thing.”
“It’s worse than that.” Embarrassing and painful. “I really loved him. I really thought that he was the one who could restore my powers.”
“I . . . What?”
Now she was on familiar ground. She loved studying When the World Was Young. She loved being part of a legend and watching it evolve. She loved explaining how the rules worked. “First, there’re supposed to be seven Chosen. Always. Since the world was young. So I’m part of the current batch, and we were chosen—picked—but with reservations. Our powers were much diminished from previous generations.” She looked down at her bracelet, at the stones that were so stubbornly silent, and rolled them around her wrist. “It wasn’t our fault. The system is flawed. The Chosen Ones spend seven years kicking bad-guy booty, for which we get paid nothing; nor do we bring in money. It’s all gratis, as it should be.”
With fine irony, he said, “Yes, I’ve noticed myself that superhero work doesn’t pay as well as it used to.”
“So, more than a century ago, the Gypsy Travel Agency was formed to raise money to support the Chosen Ones as they performed their duties. The trouble is, the Gypsy Travel Agency was run as a corporation, and as we all know, corporations are corrupt.”
He put on a surprised face. “I’m stunned.”
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