He had been alone too long, away from his brothers and without the Principle breathing through him. Perhaps he had grown crooked, away from the pure path.
Perhaps he had deviated. The thought was a coldsweat nightmare greasing his skin.
Sliptime blurred, snapped into regular time with a subliminal click. The noise was incredible, soundwaves overlapping, bodies falling, glass tinkling onto indifferent pavement. A low rumbling settled under the skin of the world, a silent call quickening ear and mind and breath.
Jenna was broadcasting, the Principle within her plucking at invisible strings, the entire diner a resonating soundbox.
Michael’s boots creaked as he halted before the Incorruptible, grace flaring to shield them both. His marks sang with sweet brilliant almost-pain, his arms closed around her, and she went limp as he dragged her down, debris peppering his back. The soda wall exploded, sticky sweetness spraying in a wide foaming fan, and Jenna shook underneath him.
Alive. Unwounded.
And now, she would be hunted.
Psychological Vents
It was only a dream; only a nightmare from childhood bubbling up through psychological vents. It had to be. Jenna curled into a shaking, terrified snail-shape, a heavy warm shell against her back. The noise receded, an ocean wave of clattering breakage, and her breath was a series of tortuous gasps. Soft black feathers brushed at the edges of her vision, shadows of oxygen deprivation.
The weight behind her moved, sliding away to leave her unprotected. Jenna found herself crouching between the SunnyTime Diner’s main counter and the soda wall, her hands over her ears, a heavy misting of carbonated water and soda-syrup settling against her hair and clothes.
A man’s boots ground in broken glass, shattered dishes, and other detritus. “Are you hurt?” After the massive cacophony, his voice was a faint rumble. Jenna squeezed her ears more tightly. The soda cabinet door, pressed against her knee and shoulder, was spattered with syrup and other liquids.
Maybe the gas main. She blinked, her eyelashes heavy-clotted with dust and stickiness, or perhaps she’d been crying without meaning to. Eddie would be furious if she was leaking. I had a hallucination, and something exploded? Maybe?
“Are you hurt?” Someone’s hand—warm, large, and hard—was on her arm, and pulled her to her feet. Gently, but with undeniable force.
Gentle or not, Jenna didn’t resist. There was no point. Smoke-steam billowed from the kitchen. Water splashed, a musical counterpoint to the groaning of overstressed building materials.
The SunnyTime was gone.
No, not quite. It was only an empty shell; every table was smashed, the cake display in its glass casing was a mass of splinters and frosting, the truckers’ counter had a hole in its middle the size of a dead body.
You could tell because the body was still there, flung so hard it was almost a smear, broken bones jabbing through deflated skin. It was the trucker in yellow-and-blue plaid, the one who took his coffee with half a sugar canister and liked his eggs over-easy.
Rancid, burning bile filled Jenna’s throat. Oh. My. God.
The cook grabbed her other arm too, holding her like a wet towel, just about to drape her on a chair to dry. “Ma’am,” he said. “Ma’am, Miss Jenna, look at me.”
I can’t. She craned her neck to stare past him.
There, at the front of the diner, was Bob. Or what was left of him, his stomach torn open, chips of white bone showing where his ribs had been wrenched aside. The five-top she’d just taken orders from were scattered like bowling pins, and there was a thick red flood on the floor amid stars of broken glass and the snow-falling grit of mulched ceiling tiles. Mired in the crimson puddle was a soaked mop of spray-stiffened coppery hair clinging to a shattered skull.
That’s…it can’t be, it’s not…
It was Sarah. Or, like Bob, what was left of her. Just like in some of Jenna’s more vivid dreams. She’d had one exactly like this just last week, but in it she’d been a bodiless observer instead of a terrified, frozen participant.
“You’re all right.” The new cook shook her. Not hard, just a gentle jostle to get her attention, but Jenna’s head was too big for her neck and bobbled alarmingly. The rushing of another panic attack filled her ears, and the curious thought that maybe this was a hallucination might have been comforting if not for the petrifying terror. “You’re all right. Look at me.”
I don’t want to. Jenna tried to breathe. The air had gone as hard as glass, pressing against her nose and mouth without condescending to come inside.
“Look at me!” Sharp and firm.
Mike’s blue eyes were incandescent. His hair, military-short, was nevertheless mussed, and his white apron—wrapped around him twice, he was leaner than Bob—was gone. His T-shirt was splattered with strange colors, and the thought that some of the drops and spatters might be blood made her stomach cramp. She tried to free her arms so she could bend over, certain she was going to puke, but he held her up and studied her face. “You’re safe. Okay? But we’ve got to get out of here.”
Oh. Yeah. Sure. Her stomach rolled and contorted like a plastic bag on the freeway, caught in a passing slipstream. “I’ll just go home,” she heard herself whisper, six years old and deeply embarrassed at her cousin’s birthday party again.
Wait, I thought her mom was the crazy one, one of her cousin’s friends had said, very loudly, in a sudden hush, and Jenna had begun to cry. Uncle Jacques had taken her home, and spent some time in the living room with Mom—raised voices, and Mom’s deadly paleness afterward. I’ll show you crazy, Jack.
But Jenna wasn’t a child. She was all grown up and in the middle of a disaster, her stomach revolving and her entire body cold with terror. “Home,” she repeated, a dry-cricket whisper. “I’ll just…”
“For a short while, yes.” He eased up on her arms, and Jenna didn’t want him to.
She had a sneaking suspicion she needed the support. Cold air whistled through the windows. All the glass was gone, blown outward, and something had happened on the street outside, too, to judge by the cries of dismay. In the distance, a ribbon of sound rose.
Sirens.
Oh, good. Someone called the cops. Or firemen. They’d show up, and ask what happened, and… Her brain gave a funny shiver, one she swore she could feel inside her skull, gray matter slopping around like a dog shaking away lake water. “A statement.” She swallowed, dryly. “We’ll have to give a statement, and…are you hurt?”
“It takes more than that to wound me.” The cook’s mouth pulled tight, a grim unsmile. He kept looking at her like she was the one with the answers. “We have to move, there could be more of them.”
More explosions? “The gas main,” she whispered. “Bob…Sarah. Where’s Ace? First aid. We need the first aid kit.”
“The kid went out the back, he might be okay. The rest…well, may they rest within the Principle.” Mike cast a single glance over the shattered interior. A forlorn sunbreak pierced lowering rainclouds, glittering on window-fragments; it looked like a six-car pileup at the intersection of Tenth Avenue and R Street. Someone was yelling, a thin, lonely sound. Tiny, daylight-drained flames crept over the corpse of a blue Volkswagen beached on its side, one of its tires still rolling lazily. “Purse. We need your purse.”
Oh sure, they’ll want to check my ID when they get here. Sirens meant help was on the way. Jenna managed a nod. How were they even alive? Had the counter saved them? If it was the gas main, the entire kitchen was probably gone.
“Where’s your purse, lumina?”
Jenna’s gaze snagged on his neck. A faint gleam of sweat lay in the notch of his collarbone, but that wasn’t what unnerved her. Rather, it was the marks leading under his T-shirt collar, spreading down his muscled arms past the sleeves.
The inked lines, a shade somewhere between blue and black, were moving. Crawling over his skin, melting together, separating, reforming.
All the breath walloped out of her again, and Jenna’s
legs buckled.
Hail Lumina
Whatever he had expected an Incorruptible’s home to look like, this was…not it. Shabby, anonymous, and painfully clean, the studio apartment had faded carpet, dingy walls, and the smell of food cooked on hotplates creeping under the door. Another tang of foulness told him the drains were probably indifferent at best.
Still, she had wanted to go home, and Michael was obeying the letter of that command instead of its spirit. He was fairly sure they weren’t followed, but his nape tingled with the consciousness of danger. He paused, inspecting the secondhand bedspread—polyester, patterned with faded but still cheerful sunflowers, and smelling faintly of cheap fabric softener. The tiny kitchen held a few mismatched dishes and the bare pot-and-pan minimum, one of each; the bathroom was bleached and her towels mended with different-colored thread.
It was spartan even for a poverty-stricken waitress, and Michael decided she had perhaps left a great deal behind fleeing this ex-boyfriend. Even her closet was half-bare.
So he made another decision, this one easier than the last, and carried her away from that place.
The Incorruptible had achieved a soupy sort of consciousness as Michael lay her on his unmade bed, settling her head with care. The amber ichor all over his clothes was decaying rapidly; he longed to free himself of the stench. The warehouse resounded, its walls sighing as the invisible curtains and etchings of legionnaire defenses sensed the closeness of an Incorruptible. He backed away, suddenly bereft without living, breathing grace held against him.
She all but glowed visibly, a small woman supine on plain cotton sheets and the down comforter he rarely needed. It wasn’t good enough for an Incorruptible, of course—they deserved silk, velvet, quiet luxury—but it was still a painful contrast to her stark little apartment. Her dark-honey hair fanned over pillows his own head had touched, and that vision shamed him too.
He should have at least pulled the covers up.
There were regulations about how to extract a new Incorruptible to safety under these circumstances, which meant he’d have to use the laptop. Her shock-slumber, reinforced by a mild quietus, should last some short while longer. Michael set off from the bedside, his hands still tingling.
A faint buzzing brought him around in a tight half-circle, his hands blurring with grace ready to coalesce into weapons. A faint metallic gleam filled his fingers, but he willed the blades away as soon as he discerned it was only a cell phone, vibrating inside Jenna’s skirt pocket.
That roused her even through the quietus. She groaned, her small, soda-sticky hands patting at her hip. Her uniform skirt had ridden up, showing a generous proportion of pale, dancer-muscled thighs, and Michael averted his gaze for a few moments, taking a deep breath. The marks tingled, running with a sensation not quite heat, definitely not cold, and completely distracting.
“Oh, fuck,” Jenna said, the soft slurred sound of a mortal surfacing from deep dreaming. “Ugh.”
She rolled over, fishing in her pocket and exposing even more fascinating vistas of leg. Michael froze, dropping his gaze to hardwood floor. At least it was freshly polished, and though his lair was spare, it wasn’t uncomfortable.
She did not belong here any more than in her apartment. An Incorruptible was to be pampered and served, cushioned and cloistered. He should have scooped her up, overridden any objections, and whisked her away before this. The very moment he saw her, in fact.
The trouble was, a modern woman wasn’t likely to take such a thing calmly. Not that they ever had—the songs of defense were full of Incorruptibles lamenting luxurious solitude. Not that they were ever alone, either; legionnaires surrounded them, bathing in the Principle and safeguarding its bearers.
Still, the laments remained. And Michael realized, unsteadily, that he had not sought others of his kind in many a year, or heard the histories, spoken or sung.
It unnerved him that he couldn’t quite recall just how many years.
“’Lo?” Jenna mumbled through cracked lips. “Rach?”
Tinny exclamations poured from the small rectangular thing pressed against her cheek. If he listened, Michael could hear the words, but she deserved a little privacy.
“Huh? No, I’m…” Cloth moved, her uniform scraping against the sheets. Both of them were filthy with construction dust. “I’m at home, I guess. Why?”
More tinny shouts. Someone was excited.
Jenna pushed herself up on her elbows. She stared uncomprehending at the walls, dark eyes wide and pink-rimmed from smoke and stress. Her cheeks seemed very soft, and Michael could have cursed himself into diaboleri because he was looking, after he had made up his mind not to.
Bare knees drew up, and the Incorruptible’s head turned. She caught sight of him and froze, her dark eyebrows faintly lifted and her nose reddened. Was she about to weep? A high flush stood out on her cheekbones, and she blinked rapidly, no doubt trying to figure out just what the hell had happened.
“Rach?” Her lips shaped the word. “I’m, uh, I just woke up. What’s going on?”
More babble. The Incorruptible moved, sliding her legs off the bed. Somehow, she’d lost one of her sensible shoes, and her blue under-ankle sock had a hole in the heel. The tiny flash of skin peeping through was a torment.
She didn’t even have proper socks. He should have packed the few clothes in her closet, but there was nothing to put them in and Michael hadn’t quite been thinking clearly, had he.
You’d better start, legionnaire. It wasn’t an Authority’s snap of command, but it was close. How long ago had he seen an Authority, or even a Principality? How long had it been since he’d seen even a centurion?
“I don’t know.” Jenna stared at him, dark eyes alive with furious thought. “Look, I gotta go. If something’s…I gotta go, Rach. Thanks.” A long pause. “Yeah, I love you too. Okay.” She jabbed at the phone’s face and her chin lifted.
At least she hadn’t started to scream, or demand that her friend come find her. Either would have forced him into uncomfortable action.
Michael searched for something to say. Hail, lumina was traditional, but she would have no idea what that meant. Still, maybe he should started on the right foot? Tradition was tradition for a reason.
She dropped the phone into her lap. Her skirt was really, really high, and he tried desperately to look anywhere but her lap, her chest, her lips. Grace poured and prickled all over him, a flood of comfort.
“What,” Jenna finally said, very softly, “the fuck?”
It wasn’t an unreasonable reaction or question, he decided. “Uh.” His throat wouldn’t work quite right. “I, uh, suppose you have questions.”
She licked her lips, a quick kittenish flicker, and grimaced. “Yeah, you could say that.” Her voice broke on the last word and she glanced wildly at the window, then past him, at the door. “What the fuck happened?”
Gentle and easy, Michael. Where on earth could he start? He should have practiced what he was going to say. “I brought you here. It seemed…best. We need to move soon.”
Jenna blinked, the picture of sleepy incomprehension. The grit painting her uniform, caught in the harsh fabric, turned into gems dyed by an Incorruptible’s bright clarity. “I need to what now?”
“Move. To an Eyrie.” He took another deep breath. What was most important, what would she want to hear? “Those things—the diaboli, the unclean—they’ll be on your trail. We need to move you somewhere completely safe.”
“Trail.” She nodded, stray curls and waves worked free of her loosened ponytail bobbing with the motion, stiffened with cola syrup and starred with flying dust. “Safe. Uh-huh. Sure.” Her knuckles whitened; she clutched at her phone like a lifeline. “Okay. Let’s start with this. Where the fuck are we?”
“My place.” He spread his hands, just a little, trying to look calm and relatively harmless. “Safe for now.”
She rubbed her fingertips together; dropped her gaze to her hands. “Bob. Sarah. Ace.” Quiet, and flat, as i
f she expected terrible news. Of course, it was hard to expect anything else after what she’d just witnessed. “Did they…what happened?”
He almost winced. “Pretty sure Ace got out okay.” At least, the kid’s body wasn’t in the kitchen, and that was a blessing. “The others, well. The unclean, they don’t take kindly to being balked.” Was it merely bad luck, a pair of diaboli out hunting and just happening to cross her path? It was possible, certainly, but was it probable? Michael couldn’t decide. “You can’t help them now.”
It was the wrong thing to say, he knew it was the wrong thing; he simply couldn’t help himself.
She surprised him, though. A small, bitter sob-breath escaped her, and his marks moved uneasily, sensing fresh distress. “Oh, I know,” Jenna said, softly. The hectic color had drained away, leaving her sallow but still poignant-pretty. “I can’t help anyone. Least of all myself.”
“You can.” His throat wouldn’t quite work correctly. “You are a piece of the Principle enfleshed. You are Incorruptible.” To drive it home, he sank to one knee.
It was strange. The last time he had done so had been right after his awakening, when he had received his armoring grace. His weaponry, of course, had arrived with him.
“Hail, lumina,” he said, helplessly, and waited for her response.
Definitely Not That
First she’d hallucinated through an explosion; now Jenna was in a stranger’s house, covered in sticky syrup and rolled in the grit of crushed ceiling tiles. She should never have left her own damn bed, but then, that was true of most days.
A soft, resilient mattress cradled her. Plain white sheets, a plain white duvet, but the sheets were thick and the down comforter high-quality. The bed was a dark wooden four-poster, blocky and severe; the floor was mellow hardwood. Echoes bounced against a high roof, and bare, white-painted walls glowed under old-fashioned, unshaded bulbs hanging from thick wooden crossbeams. There was boxy cherrywood nightstand with an old green-glass lamp; across the room a wide, heavy wardrobe took up almost an entire wall, its closed face a secretive smugness. A half-open door to her left showed white tile and a flood of pearly natural sunshine probably from skylights; the other door, wide open, loomed behind Mike, full of more indistinct gray light.
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