Incorruptible

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Of course he obeyed. Sometimes, though, he wondered if the marks were a faulty antenna, and he’d missed the important calls while it kept him in this city, wandering aimlessly. It could even have been warning of the presence of diaboli, except they didn’t like this part of town very much.

  Not enough prey.

  So into the SunnyTime Diner he’d stepped, and the owner, a wide, mush-nosed pile of oily charm that could turn to aggression quickly enough, hired him on the spot. You can cook?

  Yes, Michael told him. I can learn, was what he thought. It was a long time since he’d been in an industrial kitchen, but thankfully, not much had changed except the shapes of some implements. It was even easier now than it had been in 1939…had it been ’39? Yes, it had. Right before the second war, and his last enlistment.

  How many times had he gone into the military? He’d lost track. The structure was good for his kind; idleness did not suit a legionnaire at all.

  A sharp-eyed Latino showed up to man the sinks. “I’m Ace, man,” the boy mumbled, and though he moved slowly he managed to fit in a prodigious amount of clanking and scrubbing as well as prep. Michael worked, laying down stacks of pancakes, globs of egg, strips of bacon. A waitress, blonde and rail-thin, cautiously began to warm up to him when he didn’t make a mess of the first orders, and after a couple days she was downright chatty.

  Once the lunch rush began on the third day he was actually glad the marks had led him here. It was better than prowling the city or the warehouse hoping for something, anything to break the endless labyrinth of waiting.

  And yet, dissatisfaction was a metallic tang against his palate, almost like adrenaline. Head down, Michael scrubbed the grill, taking a deep breath before the next flood of hungry customers. The marks began to prickle again, restlessly. Had they brought him here only to drag him somewhere else? The kitchen was too hot for anything other than a T-shirt; he could see the marks shift on his forearms, inked lines in a language older than Time scrolling over his skin.

  An onlooker would only see thin blue tattoos that used to mean felon or barbarian; nowadays, the kindest term was hipster. The patterns were too linear to be truly tribal, more like a circuit map, and ordinary mortals wouldn’t see their lazy movement, or the quick, fluid lines shifting when he was in battle.

  It was when Michael looked up that the world stopped, threatening to slide from underneath him, a cat shaking an impertinent flea. A flood of pale golden winterlight came through the front windows, the rainclouds parting for a bare second, and there was another waitress. When had she showed up?

  Long wavy hair like dark honey in an amber jar, pulled back carelessly in a ponytail. Lucent, pale skin, slightly olive with golden undertones. He couldn’t see her face, because she was turned away, one hip slightly out, already tired though her shift had just started.

  It didn’t matter, anyway; all that mattered was the clarity. Michael’s marks ran with sweet hot pain, his knees turning to water, the smell of baking bread and all good things filling his nose along with the numinous, luminous musk of a piece of the Principle held in sweet, warm flesh.

  An Incorruptible. Here. In this run-down flyblown diner, now hallowed and blessed among all places because she had appeared. Michael stared, and didn’t realize what he was doing until Ace bumped into him from behind.

  “Yo, man, be careful.” The boy ambled away at a surprising pace, carrying a tub of dirties.

  Michael snatched his hand from from the grill. He’d pressed it flat upon the sizzling-hot surface, and yet, he was unburned instead of quickly healing.

  Walk through fire in the presence of the Principle. He studied his unmarked palm, wonderingly. The marks sang with high sweet pain, and the thin blonde waitress—Amy, her name was Amy—was suddenly at the counter. “You want to speed it up in here? I’ve got three full-tops, and you’re gonna have more in a hot minute.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Michael’s lips were numb, as if he was a mortal meatsack half-poisoned with liquor. An Incorruptible, here. The marks ran over him like a waterfall, and he gazed at the spinner to find the orders glaring back at him, each one a puzzle full of promise, now. She was going to come up to the counter, and he was going to see her, perhaps even hear her voice.

  He bent to work, every inch of him alive now. This was why the marks had brought him, this was why he’d dreamed. An Incorruptible. Here. In this very city, crossing his path.

  So all hope was not lost, after all.

  Damaged Goods

  The new cook was blond, blue-eyed, and roughly the size of a Mack truck. Tattoos were visible above the collar of his white cotton T-shirt as well as down both brawny arms—vaguely tribal, not like Eddie’s carnival-colorful sleeves, and the thought sent a sharp, quivering spear through her before she could push it away.

  “Hey.” Jenna decided that was an acceptable greeting, swallowing acid uncertainty along with a sip of overcooked coffee. She didn’t care how long it had been in the pot, caffeine was caffeine no matter its form on a day like today. “Looks like we’ll be working together. I’m Jenna.”

  “Michael.” He didn’t smile or offer his hand—not that he could have, with the order counter and its heat-lamps between them. His mouth stayed open a little, and he glared at her from under sandy eyebrows. Plenty of cooks had a chip on their shoulder, and if he’d been in the weeds all morning, his mood wasn’t likely to be pleasant.

  “Cool.” She began clipping her first crop of orders on. “Let me know if my handwriting’s bad, okay?”

  He nodded, his mouth still slightly hanging. Gonna catch flies with that, Eddie would say, and emit a nasty laugh. Something hissed on the grill, and Ace jostled behind the new cook with a tray of clinking glasses, not a moment too soon. They were running out of clean ’ware, but at least with two waitresses working the floor and Bob at the counter they had a fighting chance.

  It was so blessedly busy she didn’t have to think. Just put the smile on, bring the kids tiny mason jars of crayons and the cheap coloring pages, suggest the special to the grandparents, smile and refill the coffee for the construction workers. The truckers weren’t in until later when dinnertime traffic clotted the highway-arteries. Regulars made their regular jokes, said their regular things, and Jenna made every expected joke in return, her face aching but fixed in a public-service smile she sometimes imagined would engrave itself so deep she’d wear it in her coffin.

  Her phone buzzed and buzzed in her skirt pocket, and the only time that smile was genuine was when she thought jeez, should hook that up to my panties and have an enjoyable day.

  At least the tips were good. When Amy’s shift ended the blonde hightailed it, switching her hips and lighting a cigarette the instant she got outside with a cheerfulness that made Jenna suddenly, vengefully wish she still smoked.

  On the other hand, standing out in the rain with a cancer-stick would give her time to think, and that was the last thing she needed.

  At least the new cook knew what he was doing. If some of the orders were a little slow, well, at least they were all right. Once, handing a high-top with goggles over the counter, he’d actually smiled, a tight strange expression under his buzzcut. He looked vaguely military, come to think of it, and his tattoos weren’t quite felon. She couldn’t think of another word that applied.

  It didn’t matter. Standoffish she could work with, as long as he did the orders right. At least Amy had been there long enough to cover the worst of the rushes.

  The dead time near 8pm hit before she was quite ready. Bob appeared at her elbow, his combover ruffled and his iron-gray eyebrows pulled together; she tried not to startle-jump at his sudden proximity.

  “You ain’t taken a break yet,” he said, gruffly, tying a fresh apron around his middle. Bleached cotton glowed, and a thin, wonderful smell of clean laundry brushed her nose before it was lost in fried food and industrial-strength cleaning supplies. “Eh, Mike! Make her something to eat!”

  “Sure.” The cook peered through ste
am rising on the other side of the order counter. “What would you like, Miss Jenna?”

  “Miss Jenna?” Bob cackled, and his cheek had stopped twitching. He finished tying the apron and clapped his hands, a big meaty sound; Jenna tried not to flinch again. “Whatchoo want, honey? Club sandwich, fries? Get her a club, with fries. You can’t live on no salad.”

  She would have preferred something a lot lighter, but Bob didn’t like his magnanimity interfered with. When he set out to help, you got what he thought you should have, no more and no less. At least she was hungry, now that she thought about it. So she just nodded and put her head down, rolling clean silverware in fresh napkins, tapping them, securing the gummed band.

  “Here.” The new cook brought it out in record time, and the mountain of steaming, crispy fries was mind-boggling. He set the oversized plate gently on the counter, pushing it toward her with fingertips. He was pretty tall, towering even though she perched on a barstool, and his size made her nervous. “What do you want to drink?”

  Was that an accent? Probably not. He looked about as Kansas corn-fed as they came, and that was local. Well, local-ish.

  “I can get it, thanks.” Jenna’s gaze flicked up, down, a quick measuring of potential trouble. Hopefully her smile was placatory enough. He was big. “Wow. That’s a lot of fries.”

  “You look hungry.” A flash of white teeth was his smile, eager and very hopeful. He stood just a little too close, and Jenna curled up inside herself just in case he was getting ideas. “I just thought…you know.”

  You thought I needed eight pounds of fried and salted potato product? “Thanks.” Her stomach clenched, gurgling. It would be a miracle if she even managed half the potato pile, not to mention the ungodly-huge sandwich. A dill spear the size of a breadknife was tucked onto the plate-edge, and the parsley sprig was more like a sapling. “You went all out.”

  “Well, you’ve got good handwriting. Makes it easier to do my job.” He seemed to realize he was looming and took a half-step back, respecting her personal space at last. “Seriously, can I get you a Coke? Or coffee, or…?”

  “I’m fine.” How many times was she going to repeat that today, even to herself? “I’ll get some water in a second.”

  “I got it. Ice, or no?”

  “Either’s fine.” She darted another glance at his face. Anxious, bright blue eyes. He probably wanted to make a good impression. Pissing off a waitress could make a cook’s life hell, and vice versa. “Thanks. Mike, right?”

  He nodded, his shoulders straightening, level as an iron bar. “Yes ma’am.” A small twitch, tiny as the one on Bob’s cheeks, as if the new cook wanted to put his hands behind him.

  Jenna’s mouth tried to curve up at either corner; she hoped he didn’t think she was laughing at him. At ease, soldier. I haven’t been ma’am’d in ages. “Military?”

  A short, sharp nod. He had a good face, even if his jaw was too strong and the muscle on him shouted leave this one alone. “Used to be.”

  The bell jangled and she spun to see who it was. Just a young couple, both in the standard office-worker’s Monday gray-and-black; Bob already waving a hand and saying, sit anywhere, we don’t have a waiting list. At the same time, the boss motioned Jenna back to her seat. She settled again, aware that her knees had hit the cook’s when the stool rotated and that her heart was going a mile a minute again, throbbing in her throat.

  “Expecting someone?” Mike’s hands, denied parade rest, dangled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. He was, to make a bad day even worse, paying attention, and maybe he was getting ideas, too.

  “More like dreading.” Jenna braced herself to explain, again. God knew her status was probably common knowledge among every other diner employee. She could just get in on the ground floor now so someone else didn’t tell him, and maybe that would warn him off. “Ex-boyfriend got out of prison recently.” Like, right before my weekend. And I didn’t know.

  “Gotcha.” Mike nodded, slowly, and for once, there was no flicker of judgment crossing someone’s face when she tried to explain about Eddie. “He knows you’re here?”

  Maybe he was worried for his own safety. Jenna crushed a squirming tentacle of guilt somewhere around her solar plexus. “I was working here before he went in.” Since he didn’t like me dancing anymore.

  “And…” The new cook trailed off and examined her again, those bright blue eyes distant but not judgmental. “I don’t want to pry, but you think he might show up?”

  “Maybe.” If he’s mad enough. Jenna also crushed the urge to cross her arms defensively. She could even cross her legs, body language shouting the way she refused to.

  “Huh.” The cook nodded again. For someone who had cranked out order after order all afternoon, he wasn’t very spattered or splashed. Maybe he brought extra shirts, like Bob’s extra aprons. “Well, don’t worry.”

  Yeah. Sure. Easy for you to say. “I’ll try not to.” To prove it, she set the silverware tub aside and tried a French fry. Nice and crispy, just enough salt. Her stomach settled a bit, realizing it was hungry and nothing bad had happened yet today.

  She’d need fuel for when it did happen, though.

  “Yeah.” The new cook backed up another half step, probably realizing she was damaged goods. Fluorescent light robbed his hair of its deep gold, but it would probably glow in sunshine. “I’ll, um, get you some Coke.”

  She didn’t want it, but she didn’t bother saying so. What was the point?

  Instead, she applied herself grimly to the business of consuming fuel, and got down a quarter of the sandwich plus a few more fries. Free food was nothing she could afford to miss, and she could even take the leftovers home.

  Hallelujah.

  Piece of Work

  “Eh, Mike!” The diner’s portly owner stepped into the kitchen, surveying its gleaming surfaces with a fastidious, proprietary air. A lord surveying his domain from a stone tower could hardly look as satisfied. “Looks nice, man. Looks nice.”

  Yeah, this is the cleanest it’s probably been in years, so am I hired permanently? “Thanks.” Michael swallowed impatience and irritation both, scrubbing at the grill with a palmetto brush. The dark-eyed Jenna—and yes, she was an Incorruptible, just standing next to her was enough to make his marks run with honeyed lightning—was wiping down tables with Ace and the other busboy, Henry with the dark pompadour and pegged jeans. She moved at a good clip, and every time someone got too close she all but flinched. No sign of bruises on her forearms or dancer-long legs under the uniform skirt, but every line on her, from her thin neck to her ruthlessly schooled expression, shouted hurt. He didn’t even need the marks resonating with her nervousness to figure it out.

  Ex-boyfriend, just out of prison. Well, she didn’t have to worry about him ever again, but teaching her that simple truth couldn’t be rushed. It took time for Incorruptibles to trust their legionnaires.

  Time, and a few doses of hard proof. The fact that he was currently longing to provide said proof was irrelevant.

  “I got somethin’ else for you.” Bob produced a toothpick from a tiny silver holder tucked into his breast pocket. He was fond of chinos and ruthlessly clean aprons, and while his place was small and the menu basic, it was also clean and he didn’t skimp on supplies. Or, it appeared, his employees. “If you want it.”

  “What’s that?” There wasn’t a this is a front vibe to the place, but then, Michael hadn’t been looking. “I’m gonna season this beast, by the way.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you.” Bob nodded and lifted the toothpick, lowered it as he visibly realized talking around it wasn’t optimal. “See Jenna, there? Nice girl, good waitress, hard worker. She got this ex-boyfriend Eddie. Real piece of work.”

  Michael kept scrubbing. His short nod said I hear you. The marks kept moving, too, but this mortal man with his blinkered eyes wouldn’t see.

  She would, though. He’d have to be careful.

  “She tells me Eddie just got out of the
stir.” Bob rolled the toothpick between blunt fingertips, his dark eyes narrowing. “He knows she works here. You got a car?”

  “A truck.” Strict truth was best, but not too large a serving of it. “Left it at home today.” Parking was expensive in this slice of the city, and the poor man he was impersonating would avoid the cost.

  “Well, she lives down Riverview way.” Bob examined the toothpick like he thought he’d dug gold out of his interdental spaces. “Pay you to walk her home and make sure she gets there okay, until we figure out what the fuck with Eddie, right?”

  Michael nodded again, his face a mask. Steam tickled his nose, and Ace passed with a plastic tub of dishes, safely out of earshot. Was it luck, or the Principle arranging events? Who knew, who cared, if this man was intent on smoothing a legionnaire’s way? It would solve several problems at once. “You don’t have to pay me. I’ve seen that look on a woman before.” Riverview. Fair ways away, that’ll give me time. Get to know her. He could even begin to soothe that anxiety.

  If she’d let him.

  “Yeah, well.” Bob glanced over the order counter, blinking owlishly at the hot draft from the lamps. “I tell you, no funny stuff, all right? She’s a good girl. You mess with her, I hold your head in the deep fryer.”

  Maybe the man even meant it. Trying it with a legionnaire—no matter how junior—would be detrimental to his pudgy little mortal health. Still, those who gave an Incorruptible their due were to be treated gently by any of Michael’s kind. “Yessir.” Michael decided that was enough of an answer. Short and sweet, nothing fancy to get him into trouble.