Her shoulder was tender, her throat was scraped, her arms and legs felt like someone had used them for batting practice, and her eyes were hot and grainy. To top it all off, the horrible draining sensation whenever she was near any of them was enough to make her nauseous.
Nevertheless, Jenna gave Malachi a pained, apologetic smile. “Thanks for this.”
“No thanks necessary, lumina.” The blue-haired man stood between two rows of empty, cylindrical glass tanks, their doors hermetically sealed.
The one they wanted was full of that poisonous-looking fluid, moving sluggishly as it cycled from the top to a drain in the floor. Floating naked in the green goo, Michael bobbed gently, an insectile mask clasped over his face. He looked curiously small, hovering while tiny bubbles crawled through the thick goop, not quite obeying the laws of physics.
“He’s a fighter,” Malachi continued quietly. “He just needs rest, now. The fluid has antiseptic and painkiller properties, it encourages healing.”
The tattooed marks moved all over Michael’s body, just as sluggish as the drifting fluid. A garish scar sliced across his abdomen; you could see where the glass had almost sawed him in half and how it had dragged down his sides while Jenna dangled forty stories up.
She wasn’t going to be looking out of any high windows for a while. Not without a shudder or two.
“That’s good,” she murmured, and reached up on impulse, spreading her fingers on cold glass. Condensation flowered around her touch, and Michael’s marks sped up a little. They really did look like circuitry etched on his skin, following muscle-lines to protect and support, thicker over weak spots. Still, it was the body armor, shredded Kevlar and broken ceramic plates, that had stopped them both from tumbling out the window.
That, and maybe his stubbornness. They’d carried a screaming Jenna away to a fresh, beautiful suite on a lower floor, everything around her turning gray. Shock, they said, and he’ll be all right, and take this pill, and various other things. She’d taken the sedative gratefully, not even caring that there might be one or two more of them with a murderous agenda.
If Michael was dead, why should she even bother? But when she woke up, Paulus had told her the good news—as far as they could tell, Bernard acted alone.
And as far as they could tell, Michael would survive.
“He’s in for promotion, too.” The Celeres sounded uncharacteristically tentative. “Once he’s well, he’ll be instated as the head of your guard, since you two are…uh, close.” Was Malachi blushing? She didn’t turn to check. “Lumina?”
She could have repeated don’t call me that, but it was unfair. It was the word they had, so they used it. “Bernard,” she said, the name echoing slightly off tile and glass. Whoever cleaned this place deserved a medal for both bravery and thoroughness. “He said he wanted to go home.” Maybe Michael did too.
Maybe they all did.
“We all chose to come here.” Malachi shifted uneasily. “To serve the Principle.”
He wasn’t such a bad guy. Neither was Paulus, who kept going pale and apologizing for not catching on to Bernard quicker. Nobody knew how long he’d been passing information to the unclean, and Paulus had said that once Jenna was well enough, more legionnaires would “come through” and a full investigation could happen. It’s a miracle you survived, lumina.
Maybe so, but Jenna figured she was looking at the miracle worker right now. “Are you sure he’s going to be okay?” The omelette she’d had for breakfast twitched a little uneasily in its new home, like it thought escape was an option. Michael stirred as well, his eyelashes fluttering as if he dreamed.
“He senses you.” Malachi’s tone was hushed. “We’d better go. He needs to rest.”
Visiting hours are over. I get it. The new apartment was just as pretty as the first, but done in cream instead of white. She liked it better, but kept well away from the windows and dragged one of the dining-table chairs in front of the door each night before huddling in the bed, trying not to hyperventilate and achieving only thin, restless sleep. “I’ll be back,” she promised, softly. “Okay? You just get better, Michael.”
He stirred again, the liquid moving with him. How long was it going to take?
Jenna decided it didn’t matter. She let Malachi usher her away, wincing as the Celeres’s marks pulled at her. In ones or twos, it wasn’t so bad, but more than that and the awful burning came back. They told her it would get better. She just had to give it time.
Time was something she had, now. Michael wasn’t kidding when he said she wouldn’t have to work, though Jenna was pretty sure she’d probably go mad with boredom once the bruises and the hideous burning sensation faded. It was ridiculous, how much money these people had. Or maybe they weren’t strictly people, but that was a question she could leave alone for a while.
She had plenty of questions. When Michael woke up, she’d ask them.
Wonder of Wonders
The light stung his eyes and he was sure some of the healing fluid was still coating his throat, but at least he was free of that drugging stillness and the fear shooting through his entire body whenever he reached for consciousness and the sedation dragged him down.
“You should have stayed in a little longer.” The second blue Celeres—Declan, a little leaner in the hip than his brother, but slightly broader in the shoulder—shook his shaven head, watching Michael button his jeans and pull a standard-issue navy T-shirt over his head. “She’s fine.”
Michael made a short noise that could be taken as assent, unwillingness to disagree, or anything in between. His fingers were swollen-clumsy, it hurt when he bent to tug his boots on, and he was going to have to keep his belt tight enough to hold his jeans up for a while. He felt savagely stretched, ligaments and tendons still protesting, and he had to stop and rest for a few moments in the locker room’s fluorescent glare, his breath coming hard and harsh.
Finally, he straightened. “How long was the red one—Bernard?” He glanced at Declan’s brief nod before continuing. “How long was he deviant?”
“We don’t know.” Shame made the truthseeking lamps in the Celeres’s pupils flare briefly. “He told the lumina she was likely the last, and when she was gone we would go home.”
It sent a chill down Michael’s spine. He should have listened to his instincts more, he’d known something was wrong. He’d even guessed it was a twisted legionnaire. It was unthinkable, that one of his brothers could have done such a thing—but he’d thought it, and he’d been right.
The Legion has forsaken thee. Even a Corruptor could speak the truth, if it served their purpose. Or half a truth. “And he could have had help?” It wasn’t his place to question an officer, even if he was a centurion now, but Michael found out he didn’t care.
All he cared about was getting back to work, and seeing if a certain dark-eyed woman was truly safe.
“Once the lumina brings an Authority through, I guess we’ll find out.” Declan didn’t sound happy. Distrust was corrosive, and more than one legionnaire was probably eyeing his brothers with some trepidation. It took a long while for any breached trust to mend.
The unclean were massing, not quite daring to attack the Eyrie yet. If their numbers reached a certain point, would they seek to overwhelm the skyscraper and find the Incorruptible it was meant to shelter? He certainly hoped not—but he couldn’t afford to rule out any possibility anymore.
No matter how outlandish.
Michael rolled his shoulders. He was weak, yes, but he couldn’t float in the damn tube any longer. He’d heal just as quickly, though much more painfully, next to Jenna’s bright, soft, welling grace.
As if his marks heard the thought, they twinged with heatless anticipation, and a door at the other end of the locker room clanged.
“—bring him up to you, you know.” A familiar voice—Malachi. He’d been by to visit often, Michael guessed, having heard the Celeres’s voice while he drifted in the tank.
“Oh, my God,” Jenna repl
ied. “Is this a locker room?”
“I told you.” They sounded very friendly.
Michael’s mouth twitched, wanting to smile. He dispelled the urge and tried not to notice how badly his hands were shaking.
She rounded the corner, ghosts of bruising lingering on her soft throat and cheek, her left arm still in a sling over a crisp white button-down. A pair of dark jeans on her long dancer’s legs, and she wore the boots he’d bought her all the way back in New Paris.
She was alive.
Jenna halted between rows of metal lockers and stared at him, her pretty mouth slightly open and her hair falling sleekly over her shoulders.
Michael lost his breath again. She hummed with incandescence and his marks bathed in the flood, greedy for her. They studied each other for a long moment, and the insistent urge that had driven him out of the Baths and through cleanup, checkup, and dressing stopped between one heartbeat and the next.
There was nowhere else he had to be, and nothing else he had to do, if she was here.
Finally, Jenna spoke. “Hi.” A shadow of uncertainty lingered in the word, or perhaps it was relief. Her dark eyes gleamed, and a single crystalline drop lingered on her right under-lashes before she brushed it away with a graceful, impatient movement. “They told me you were up, and I had to… I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just…”
“It’s no interruption.” Declan grinned and brushed past Michael. “Come on, brother mine, I’m sure we can find something to do in the hallway.”
“We’ll be outside, lumina.” Malachi’s hand twitched as if to touch her injured shoulder as he turned, but she stood stock-still and he did not quite dare. “Don’t stay in here forever, the damp is bad for you.”
She rolled her eyes, but now there was a wan smile on her pretty face. It faded as she studied Michael again, listening to quick, light retreating footsteps. The locker room door swung open, closed with a rattle.
Now they were alone. The air conditioning kicked on, soughing cool air through ceiling vents, a soft whisper.
“They’re treating you well?” Michael’s mouth was dry. He was ravenous, too—he needed protein and carbs to replace lost muscle and fuel the deeper healing. The gel could only do so much, and drawing too much grace could injure her. His marks were greedy, sipping at her clarity.
“They’re okay. I prefer you.” She sucked in a breath, her cheeks coloring quickly. The flush made her even prettier. “I mean, Michael…”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He gathered his courage, decided he might as well express his own feelings—or what he could of them, constrained by his position. A centurion couldn’t demand from an Incorruptible; even an Authority couldn’t. “I prefer you, too.” Was it the right thing to say?
“We’re home with your people now.” She blinked, rapidly, fresh drops welling in her beautiful dark eyes. Was she unhappy to see him? Maybe he reminded her of things she’d rather forget. “So, uh, I wanted to ask…”
Michael waited, but she said nothing more. “Ask what?” He longed to touch her, and if a tear escaped to trace her beautiful cheek he would have to brush it away.
“It can wait,” she said in a breathless rush, leaning forward on her toes. “It was selfish of me to run down here, I guess. I should thank you. You almost died, I still can’t believe you caught me.”
Neither can I. Miracles still lived in the world, and he had been granted more than his fair share of them after years of patient waiting. He could wait more, now, if he had to.
Michael took a step forward, impelled by her own leaning towards him. “I had to.” That was the bare truth. “Either that, Jenna, or I’d have fallen with you. You know that, right?”
She shook her head, almost angrily, and wiped at her cheek again, denying him the chance. Protective of her wounded arm, she flinched slightly when he reached for her, his hand lifting to touch where Malachi hadn’t dared to. If you’re going to deny me, lumina, do it now.
But he couldn’t say that, could he? No legionnaire could. He was committing a blasphemy, helpless not to. He touched her cheek, running his damp-wrinkled fingertips over soft, delicate skin. “You should know.” He tried to say it as gently as possible. “I’m not the brightest of my brothers, Jenna, but I’m yours.”
“You suspected, didn’t you.” She gazed up at him, and the hope in those dark eyes was enough to level an Authority, let alone a simple legionnaire. Even if he was a centurion now, his marks thicker and his capacity enhanced. “I’d call that smart.”
Yeah, well. He hadn’t figured it out fast enough. “Thank you, lumina.” He still couldn’t bear to think of how close it had been. Had she let go or slipped free he would have fallen with her, but one lone, wounded legionnaire wouldn’t have been enough to shield her from impact.
He would have tried, but it would have killed them both.
“I hate it when they call me that.” Wonder of wonders, she leaned into his touch. ”But from you, it sounds nice.”
“Good.” Grace spilled up his arm, pouring through his chest. He should have broken contact to avoid draining her, but he couldn’t move. “It’s traditional.”
“And I… look, we were both under a lot of stress, and if you want to reconsider—”
Was that what she thought? “No.” It burst out of him, the only time he’d dare interrupting her. “Not since the moment I saw you, Jenna. No reconsidering here.”
“Good.” Her chin tipped up, and he was hoping he was reading the signals right, because he was going to kiss her. It was a foregone conclusion. “I have another question.”
He swallowed a brief flare of balked heat, but didn’t straighten. Her breath was minty with toothpaste, and he was aware his was full of the odd petrichor unscent of healing fluid. “Okay.”
“I’ve been thinking and thinking, and I just can’t figure it out.” Heavy-lidded, she bit her lower lip gently, and he would have kissed her then, but she plunged onward. “Where did all the feathers come from?”
Oh. Michael lost the battle with tradition, with obedience, and with himself. He kissed her, and then he told her.
Then, because he had to and he could, he kissed her again.
* * *
finis
About the Author
Lilith Saintcrow lives in Vancouver, Washington, with the children, dogs, and cats who collectively own her, as well as a library for wayward texts.
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Also by Lilith Saintcrow
A Saint City Novel
Selene
Essays on Writing
The Quill and the Crow
Roadtrip Z
Cotton Crossing
In the Ruins
Atlanta Bound
Pocalypse Road
The Complete Roadtrip Z
The Marked
The Marked
The Steelflower Chronicles
Steelflower at Sea
Steelflower in Snow
Steelflower
Standalone
Rose & Thunder
SquirrelTerror
Fish
Desires, Known
Beast of Wonder
Jozzie & Sugar Belle
Harmony
Incorruptible (Coming Soon)
Watch for more at Lilith Saintcrow’s site.
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