Now he was in that most dangerous of positions, a legionnaire having to think for himself.
Supply drops had always come punctually, ammo and weapons plus other smaller items, all standard kit. Someone had to make the items, and someone else had to sign off on the purchase orders, right? That couldn’t be all automated, especially if a legionnaire stopped taking delivery.
It made his head ache. That had to be purely psychosomatic; legionnaires didn’t get usual mortal pains. The marks, channeling and containing the force of a thing not meant to exist on the mortal plane, also freed them of many petty human concerns.
The biggest worry, of course, was arriving in L.A. and finding just another skyscraper instead of an Eyrie. How long could he keep her alive if the Legion was no more? At least if there was a single Eyrie anywhere in the world, he had some hope of getting her there. A clear-cut objective was a comforting thing.
A soft sound from the other bed pulled his nerves even more taut. She was dreaming. He hoped it was something pleasant.
Michael lay on his back, interlaced hands under his head, staring at the ceiling, and thought long and hard that night. When slight gray touched the edges of the cheap taupe curtains, he curled upright and moved stealthily across cheap motel carpet to peer outside.
The walkway with its plain iron railing was just the same, and the parking lot, trailing into weeds at its far, crumbling pavement edge, held nothing of concern or interest.
Denver, he decided. When they reached Denver he’d do an intel run, if she could be induced to trust him a little more. It couldn’t be that hard to find a public computer at a library, get in, look at a few things, and get out. He could also pick up a couple disposable cell phones. The important thing was speed and secrecy.
If he kept her moving, she was a more difficult target. His laptop had been unequivocal that L.A. was still operational. But Michael figured better safe than sorry, and if the worst happened, he would have planned for it.
Or so he thought, then.
Flat-Out Unavoidable
Her mother touched the brakes, keeping plenty of space between their battered but serviceable Volvo and the white, diesel-spewing half-ton pickup in front of them.“This is an old place.” Her heart-shaped tortoiseshell sunglasses made her look like a slumming movie star, and so did her clean, classic profile.
Jenna rested her heels on the hot dashboard.“As America goes.”
“Well, it’s not Europe, but then again, what is?” Mom rubbed daintily at her forehead with her fingertips, massaging the vertical worry-line between her eyebrows. That line was showing up more and more frequently.“As soon as we find the hotel I’m going to take a bath.”
“Does it have a pool?” Jenna shifted uneasily, digging for her own sunglasses. She was going to get a headache if this kept up.
“It should, for what we’re paying.” Mom laughed, her honey hair lifting on the breeze through the open window as the half-ton finally began creeping forward. “Let’s have dinner in Chinatown.”
“I dunno, Mom.” Jenna found her sunglasses, clicking their case open with a flick of her wrist. “There’s a chocolate factory here somewhere. They probably don’t have Wonka bars, though.”
“That’s for tomorrow.” Mom’s grin held a shadow of unease, but only that—a single shadow. The light was still green and there was enough space for their car on the other side of the intersection, so they rolled forward, nosing from behind the stop line like a tentative, hungry dog. “I’m so excited, we’re going to—”
Whatever she meant to say was lost in a giant crunching noise as the world turned over. Later, the cops told her it was a semi barreling through a stoplight, but Jenna was sure of one thing: the fire came first. A wump of ignition, a sudden hot breath against her face, and her own screaming, an animal response bypassing conscious control of her own throat.
The man crouched amid the flames on the crumpled front of the black Volvo, his short hair running with livid orange fire, and smiled. Jenna screamed again, scrabbling at her seatbelt, and her fingers found the catch just as the semi, its brakes shrieking in protest, plowed into the driver’s side. Weightless, flung free, something tearing along her left forearm as the Volvo was broken like an egg…
* * *
Jenna sat straight up, a scream dying in her chest, and almost cracked her forehead against Mike’s. He was on the bed, his warm hard fingers braceleting her wrists, and for a moment she thought he was Eddie and she all but cowered, knowing how he hated to be awakened by her stupid, perennial nightmares.
“It’s all right,” a deep, quiet baritone said, and the relief of figuring out it wasn’t her ex-boyfriend gave way to a sinking hideous sensation as she realized she was in a cheap hotel room outside a crappy little town called New Paris, of all things, with a man sitting on the edge of the bed. “It’s okay, lumina. It’s me, it’s Michael.”
Her cheeks were wet. The scream gurgled in her unhappy stomach; maybe she’d puke this time. Jenna’s ribs flickered, giant heaving breaths filling her and escaping in turn. Her heart hammered, thudding not just in her chest but her throat, her wrists, her ankles, everywhere. She was one giant galloping heartbeat, and the sobs shook her back and forth.
“Jenna.” He pulled on her wrists, gently, and the next thing she knew, he had his arms around her and she spilled almost into his lap. Warm, strong arms, he was solid and real, not a ghost with flaming crimson hair crouched on a crumpled hood and smiling, smiling like he was having a great old time. “It’s all right. I’m here.”
Oh, God. For a few moments she couldn’t remember his name, or even where he’d come from.
“It’s Michael,” he repeated, his voice a rumble against her cheek. He was impossibly muscular, not wiry like Eddie, and there was a certain comfort in someone so solid. “Michael Gabon, lumina. You’re safe, you’re with me, whatever it is can’t get you. I promise.”
Nobody could promise anything like that, but oh, how Jenna longed to believe him. “D-d-dream,” she managed, through the guttural sobs. “J-just a dream. S-s-sor-ry—” She couldn’t even apologize, her teeth chattered the word into bits.
“That’s right,” he said, softly. “Just a dream. You’re with me, it’s all right. I’m not going to let anything hurt you.”
“You c-can’t promise that.” It was retreating. Thank God it was only the accident dream, and not one with those horrible things in it. Demons. The unclean, he called them. Why did this have to happen to her? It was bullshit, all of it, and as the terror receded she was aware her new tank top and boxers were hopelessly twisted and she was clinging to a virtual stranger.
“I can.” He sounded so sure. “I am of the Legion, Jenna, and I’m not going to let anyone or anything harm you.”
“That’s nice.” She exhaled, shakily, and tried to let go of him. It didn’t work. Some part of her was grateful for his solidity, grateful for the fact that he was built like a brick shithouse, as Eddie would say, and… “Did I wake you up?”
“Not really. We don’t need much sleep.” He was warm through the white cotton T-shirt, and his arms were gently but very definitely around her. She was practically in his lap, for God’s sake. “Just take a deep breath, lumi—ah, ma’am. It’s all right. It can’t hurt you anymore.”
It wasn’t true, of course. She was old enough to know nobody could ever protect anyone else. If even your parents could die, one choking on his own lungfluid as cancer ate through his body, the other smashed to a pulp and roasted inside a burning car, anything could happen. Disaster, disease, death—it was all possible, and the possibility made it more than probable.
Made it, in fact, flat-out unavoidable.
Mom had never thought so. Jenna had inherited her mother’s bone-deep, irrepressible optimism, and look where it had gotten them both.
Still, it was hard to feel anything but safe when a brawny guy had you in his lap, his chin resting atop your head, and he was the only familiar thing in a world that had skewed wi
ldly off-course. And of course, resting where she did…well, it was nice to know he was interested. He made no other sign of it, thank goodness, but the body didn’t lie.
After a little while, the shaking drained away. He let go when she moved restlessly, so Jenna had to slide into a nest of sheets and blankets smelling of industrial laundry and the faint ghost of however many people had passed through this small room. Michael stood, and in a few moments had the pillows plumped and the covers straightened, tucking her in solicitously.
If there was a moment that convinced her he was genuine, that was probably it. She hadn’t been tucked in since Mom was alive.
“Try to get some more rest,” he said finally, a tall, indistinct shadow with bright eyes looming at the bedside. “We’re driving again tomorrow. I wish there was another Eyrie closer, but we’ve got what we’ve got.”
“My dad used to say that.” Jenna exhaled shakily. What you get is what you get, baby girl. “Michael?” It was kind of ridiculous to call him Mike. The nickname was far too young for his careful seriousness.
He didn’t seem annoyed by her nightmares or her questions. “Yes?”
“Thank you.” English needed different, deeper words to express gratitude, but those were all she had. “It…I mean, I’m sorry. Thank you.”
“No need to be sorry. It’s my honor, ma’am. And I mean that.” His shadow merged into the dimness, his bulk passing in front of the window. He tweezed the curtain aside a fraction, peering out into the parking lot, and a slice of harsh sodium-arc light fell across his face. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”
“I’m going to anyway.” She turned on her side, watching as he finished his survey and turned away from the window. If he kept calling her ma’am she was going to start checking for gray hairs. “It’s a habit, you know. I can’t stop.”
“You can unlearn them. Habits, I mean.” Did he sound amused? Secretly irritated? Or just sincere? “Just rest. When you wake up again, we’ll go.”
Normally, after a dream like that, Jenna just stayed up. It wasn’t worth lying in bed and staring into the darkness, covers clutched to her chin, jumping at the slightest noise. Maybe it was sheer exhaustion, but she fell asleep within minutes, and mercifully, that night there were no more dreams.
None she remembered, anyway.
Protect and Conserve
The sleet was trying for snow and melted halfway to the ground instead; the roads were sloppy but not bad, and they stopped just past Kansas City for something more substantial than the snacks packed into the cooler. Jenna appeared to be an old hand at road trips, and it was pleasant to drive with her in the passenger seat. She wasn’t quite comfortable enough to make conversation with him yet, but she had stopped flinching when he moved quickly and even let him open doors for her.
It wasn’t until they were seated in a red vinyl window booth that he saw how pale she was, and realized this diner shaped like an aluminum trailer probably reminded her of the SunnyTime. It was of much better quality, of course—he wouldn’t take a lumina to a place like that, even though he could work there while waiting for her appearance. However nice the clientele, the place still smelled of fried food, salt, and a tang of bleach for cleaning, familiar and probably unsettling for her. The waiter, a young scruffy-bearded man with his curly hair twisted into a bun atop his head, glided away after filling their water glasses.
“We can go somewhere else,” Michael said, setting his plastic-coated menu aside and folding his hands. “If you want.”
“Wow, peanut butter malt-ball milkshakes.” Jenna stared at her own menu before glancing at him quizzically. At least the new parka fit, and she’d stopped shivering. She no longer looked like a kid playing dress-up, lost in too-large clothes. “Oh, if you want we can. Is something wrong?”
“I just figured…another diner, you know.” Now he felt stupid for drawing her attention to it and possibly causing unease. “You’re awful pale.”
“I think I’m just hungry.” But she smiled, tentatively, pushing dark hair behind her ear with a swift, graceful motion. She looked like a college student on break, jeans and a black T-shirt under the fur-hooded coat. The circles under her eyes had eased too, despite early morning nightmares. “I’ve got a headache.”
“Want some ibuprofen?” He could still feel her slight weight resting against him, shaking like a windblown leaf. Perhaps it was a memory of grace, but the way his flesh responded was perilously close to deviance, as far as he could tell. “Tylenol?” If she needed something stronger, they could visit a pharmacy.
Why did her smile broaden? “Got any in your pockets?” She regarded him over the table, cocking her head slightly as if listening to the forgettable pop song playing softly somewhere in the diner’s depths.
“There’s Tylenol in the truck, I think.” And why could he not remember if he had? ”If not, I’ll go find some.”
“I’m fine.” Now the smile faded, bit by bit, while he watched and tried to figure out how to bring it back. Jenna studied him, a line appearing between her eyebrows. “What, you’d just run out the door and go on a quest for Tylenol?”
“If you needed it, of course.” It was a worrying oversight. He should have planned, and packed some. “I should have thought of that.”
“It’s fine.” The song changed; she touched the tabletop, running her fingertips along its metallic edge. “I’m not used to anyone caring that much.”
Soon you will be. What could he say? It was up to him to teach her the basic, or at least introduce them. “You’re Incorruptible. Your grace is our strength.”
“I know you’re speaking English.” Jenna addressed the air over his head, lifting her chin slightly, and the fall of winter sunlight over her was wrong. She deserved a warmer light, a softer world. “But I don’t have a clue what you’re saying.”
The waiter returned, grinning with porcelain-capped teeth; Jenna ordered a chicken Caesar salad. Michael, as usual when faced with any choice in the matter, went for a bacon cheeseburger. There was nothing even remotely as good in any other cuisine, as far as he was concerned. “And a peanut butter malt-ball milkshake, too,” he added. Might as well start teaching her that even her casual desires had weight, and should be satisfied.
“Good choice, my man.” The waiter scribbled on his pad, then tucked the pencil back into his bun. Long-shanked and sleepy-eyed, he looked like one of those mortals blessed with an eternally sunny disposition and a high-revving metabolism. “I could live on those.”
“It sounds good,” Jenna agreed, and gave Michael a curious look as the waiter left. “You like milkshakes?”
“It’s for you.” He studied the parking lot through the window, settling his hands on the table—very clean, the entire place sparkled. Hopefully the food was good enough. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go get something for your headache? I can, you know. There’s a gas station right across the freeway.”
“It’s okay. I’d much rather understand what you’re talking about.” She laced her fingers together and leaned forward, an eager student ready for a lecture, all that warm attention flooding him.
“Okay.” Where was a good place to start? The breeze outside veered sharply, smacking window glass with wet palms. “You have a piece of the Principle in you. It’s order, light, strength—all good things. The marks, they fill up from it. You’re like a battery, kind of.” More like a power plant. It’s a question of degree, really. The details would just confuse; what he had to express was her importance.
And, as far as he could, his commitment to her safety.
“So I’m useful.” A short, decisive nod, her hair bouncing and a stray curl falling over her eyes. She shook it away with an impatient, habitual flick. “Good to know.”
“Not just useful. Essential.” What he told her now would resonate, so Michael chose his words carefully. He wished he was standing at attention to recite the lesson, so he didn’t forget anything. “We fight the diaboli, but without something to fight for, w
e’re just…it’s just thrashing around, you know. It’s just murder. We’re supposed to protect and conserve, not just go out and kill.”
“That’s good.” She rubbed at her temple with soft fingertips, turning even paler. “Ouch.”
A warning rasped along his nerves, the marks moving uneasily. Michael turned his head, scanning the parking lot again. Nothing there. “Huh.”
“What?” Now pale, she stared at him, those dark eyes growing even rounder.
“Something’s wrong.” Eventually, he could tell her not to worry and she wouldn’t; eventually, he would have backup. For right now, though… “Stay here, okay? Right here.”
“Michael—”
If she ordered him to remain, he would have to disobey. And if she could sense what he now did, it could also sense her. “I’ll be back in a couple minutes. Okay? Stay right here.”
“Fine.” Her chin set. “Whatever you say.”
Michael slid out of the booth, the marks prickling with banked fury, and headed for the diner’s front door. He waited until he was outside, stepping out under a cold gray cloud-lensed sky, to let the blurring weight of almost-invisibility settle over his shoulders.
It would keep the mortals from remarking upon a man darting across several lanes of freeway, but it wouldn’t fool a diaboli.
It was a single, creeping minor unclean crouching behind the counter of a Shell station, the entire store full of its slip-fuming breath. No doubt there were rich pickings here, traveler and local alike presenting themselves for consumption. Everyone who drove had to stop for fuel, after all, and those walking in the neighborhood would be drawn in by bright gewgaws and flashing lights in the window promising cheap snacks, an easy drink, warmth in the winter and air conditioning in the summer.
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