Gunslinger Girl
Page 32
Have you ever swum in the ocean?
Max never felt far away. Every moment she was aware that this was his world, the one he had so desperately avoided. And remembering that, she made herself look, really look, until the cracks in the gilded veneer showed themselves: the uniformed people whose heads hung low as they left the pantheon core of the city at day’s end; the beggars and veterans camped beneath bridges and overpasses; the angry graffiti scrawled in the alleys. It was all there if she looked hard enough.
Finally, the summons came. A sleek black vehicle carried them over a long bridge to an island, where it deposited them in front of the largest house Pity had ever seen. They were led through its echoing halls to a plush, sprawling sitting room.
An hour had passed since then.
No news was good news, Siena had told her. Payment depended on Max being returned alive. If he had died, the bounty hunter assured her, they would’ve been booted from their cozy digs.
That fact didn’t comfort Pity as much as she wanted. Her fingers worried at the fabric of her pants, her guns left behind at the hotel. “Do you think something is wrong?”
“Nope,” said Siena. “Our time ain’t worth what theirs is, that’s all.”
Moments later, the door creaked open. Pity straightened. She tried not to look as nervous as she felt, but her chest was tight, her stomach fluttery.
Jonathan Pryce entered first. He was a tall, narrow man with hazelnut-brown hair streaked silver. Piercing eyes caged behind delicate, rectangular glasses swept over Siena and then Pity. Alanna Drakos stood a head shorter but seemed bigger than him somehow, with striking green eyes, a joyless mouth, and thick, dark hair pulled back with combs. Between them, Pity could just see Max, a composite with every sharp edge removed.
“Ms. Bond,” Alanna Drakos said. “Lovely to finally meet you.”
Her tone suggested otherwise, but Siena nodded civilly. “Mrs. Drakos, Mr. Pryce.”
“Who is this?” said Jonathan Pryce.
“My new assistant,” said Siena simply. “Serendipity.”
“What a pretty name.” Max’s mother barely glanced at Pity. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear that our son is doing nicely. Our doctors assure us that with a few months of close attention, he’ll make a full recovery. We owe you our thanks.”
Pity let out the breath she had been holding. “Is he here?”
“That’s good news,” Siena interjected, shooting her a warning look. “And you can thank me all you like, so long as you pay me, too.”
Jonathan Pryce adjusted his glasses. “Your payment was transferred a few minutes ago.”
The bounty hunter smiled. “It’s been a pleasure, then.”
Pity cleared her throat.
“I hear you,” said Siena. “One more thing, if you don’t mind. My assistant here was hoping to have a word with your son before we go on our way.”
They stared at her, Alanna Drakos with one dark eyebrow raised.
“Just for a few minutes.” Pity gave them a disarming smile, mimicking the one Finn used, the one that had always gotten her whatever she wanted. “Some of the folks who knew Ma—your son out west, they gave me messages to pass on to him. Good-byes they didn’t get to say, that sort of thing.”
Her heart thudded as they considered her. A look passed between them, but finally Alanna Drakos nodded.
“As long as you’re quick,” she said. “He’s still quite weak, you understand.”
“Yes,” said Pity. “I understand.”
Alanna Drakos kept a half step ahead of Pity as they traveled through the house. Her heels clicked against the stone floors, reminding Pity acutely of Selene’s office. She wondered how much of the truth Alanna Drakos knew about her son’s injury. The story they had told was the same one concocted for Sheridan’s death—that rogue Reformationists had stormed Casimir, killing dozens before they were finally turned back. Rumors and half tales had reached Columbia before they had, and Pity had been amazed to see how quickly the explanation was accepted. Certainly Max’s parents knew it was a fiction, but they also seemed content to keep their part in the affair secret.
“Did you know my son?” Alanna Drakos said abruptly. “During his time away from us?”
“Yes.” Pity chose her words with care. “He saved my life once.” Twice, in truth, but it didn’t seem wise to point out that the bullet he’d taken had been meant for her. “If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Hmm.” Alanna Drakos sped up her pace.
“Your son has a good heart, ma’am.”
She stopped in front of a door, eyes as hard as emeralds. “Be quick.” She turned the handle.
The room was large, white, and almost entirely empty. One wall was glass, looking out into a small courtyard filled with flowers and trees. On another was a display, streaming the afternoon’s news broadcasts. Opposite that was a bed, surrounded by machines that beeped and clicked and hummed. Pity saw all of this and none of it.
Max lay in the bed.
She barely recognized him at first. His hair was shorter, the blue spikes gone. All of his piercings had been removed. But when his eyes opened and alighted on her, familiarity returned. They stared at each other.
“Darling,” his mother said from behind her. “This young woman asked to have a word with you.”
“Pity.” His voice cracked.
“Hi.” She blinked, desperate to keep the tears away.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said, and waited.
For a moment, Pity feared that his mother would remain, but then she heard the click of the door as it shut. She ran to the bed.
“What are you doing here?” Max hissed as she crouched down beside him.
Pity wanted to kiss him so badly that her whole body ached. If she could have thrown her arms around him and healed every inch of him with love, she would have. Instead, she took one of his hands in hers and squeezed. “Who do you think got you here?” Her face felt like it would split from smiling. “You’re alive,” she said, finally believing it. “You’re okay.”
Max squeezed back weakly. “I told you I would be. And you… you’re okay…” His face went grim. “You are okay, aren’t you? I saw the broadcasts. Sheridan is…”
“Dead,” she interjected, her words wooden. “An unavoidable tragedy.”
He didn’t ask her to elaborate. She filled him in on the other details, good and bad, elated to be talking to him. When she was done, they sat quietly, surrounded by the lifeless sounds of the medical machines.
“You can’t stay,” Max said finally, his voice thick.
“I know. Siena’s been paid. We’ll be heading out pretty soon.”
He nodded several times, as if forgetting when to stop. “I…”
“You’re going to get better.” Pity tightened her grip on his hand. “You’re going to get yourself strong again, and then I’m coming back for you. Do you understand?”
“Pity—”
“I’m coming back unless you tell me that you don’t want me to. Tell me that, Max, and I’ll stay away forever.”
He stared at her, eyes wet, a small, sad smile on his lips. “I don’t want you to go at all.”
She stood. “Then hurry up and get well. For me. And to hell with your parents or anyone else who tries to get in my way. I’ve had dissident drifters, trained assassins, and mad politicians try to kill me, and I’m still here.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the lips, not caring if they were being watched. Max returned the kiss eagerly, reaching up to place a hand behind her neck and pull her closer. When they separated, Pity kept her face a few inches from his. “I don’t care if I’m in Cessation, Columbia, or at the ends of the earth, so long as I’m with you.”
“Same here,” said Max. “I love you, Serendipity Jones.”
“I love you, too, Max,” she said. “Or whatever your name is.”
He laughed.
The door opened again. Pity turned to find Alanna Drakos sta
ring icily at her.
“I trust you’re finished now,” she said.
“We are”—Pity smiled at her and reached down to give Max’s hand one more squeeze—“ma’am.”
“Then I’ll show you out.”
“Your son has a good heart,” Pity said again as she passed through the door, low so that only Max’s mother could hear. “It’s in the right place and with the right people. You should make sure to remember that.”
Siena was waiting for her in front of the house, smoking one of her ugly cigarettes and leaning against a marble pillar. “Say what you needed to?”
“Yes. For the moment.”
“Well, where to now? Or are you still getting your fill of Columbia?”
Pity shook her head. “No, I’ve seen as much of it as I want to.” She thought for a second. “Finn talked about New Boston. Think you can find any jobs up that way?”
Siena blew a cloud of smoke at the city. “I suppose I could. North it is, then.”
“North,” echoed Pity. And after that, maybe south, or in whatever direction fate and the bounty took them. But one day… She turned and stared at Columbia, and at the sun that was beginning to drift lower in the afternoon sky. Beyond it, past the farthest edges of her vision, was another city that, down to her core, she knew she would never be able to leave behind entirely—and didn’t want to.
One day, west again.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have to start by thanking my agent extraordinaire, Laura Zats. Without her guidance, input, and ideas, Gunslinger Girl would not be what it is today. I am incredibly lucky to have an agent with her passion for books (not to mention her excellent taste in both tea and beer).
To Aubrey Poole, thank you for your hard work and patience as we kicked this funky little act into Theatre-ready shape. This has been an amazing experience, made all the better by having a supercool editor like you!
Endless gratitude to James Patterson for this incredible opportunity, as well as the entire team at Jimmy. Special thanks to Sabrina Benun, Erinn McGrath, and Gabrielle Tyson, plus everyone on the managing editorial and production teams—I know how much work it takes to put a book together and I appreciate it more than I can say. And to Tracy Shaw and Jeff Miller: this jacket is more fabulous than any author has a right to hope for!
Thank you to my family for always supporting and encouraging my hobbies (even when you didn’t quite understand them), not to mention buying me lots of books growing up. (Lane, you are my favorite nephew!)
To Katrina Kruse: in addition to being the best foodie friend ever, you help me keep my sanity on an ongoing basis. Not enough gratitude in the world for that.
To Jadah McCoy, thank you for giving this book one of its very first—and very needed—injections of confidence. And Elizabeth Briggs—what can I say? Being part of Pitch Wars was one of the best things that ever happened to me; thank you for all the time and work you put into Gunslinger Girl, as well as your continued support. And more thanks to the entire Pitch Wars community (especially the class of 2015) for its dedication to writers and readers of all kinds.
The final round of gratitude goes to a group of people whom I could go on about for pages. My writing group is the best writing group in the whole wide world, and I will break out the fighting words for anyone who tries to claim otherwise. To Kat Black, who was there with me at its inception, your unwavering positivity and experience have been invaluable. To Kyle W. Kerr, thank you for all your help in managing the group; I look forward to all the books we’ll produce from our Parisian apartment overlooking the Seine (someday). Robert Davis can be summed up in one word: awesome. Special thanks to Natalie C. Anderson, who probably read more versions of Gunslinger Girl than anyone else. To Victoria Sandbrook Flynn and Lura Slowinski—who could ask for better beta readers? And much love and thanks to Clare Fitzgerald, Gillian Daniels, Jess Barber (sorry about Finn), Lauren Barrett, Emily Strong, Caitlin Walsh, Nyssa Connell, Eric Mulder, Andrea Corbin, Julia Gilstein, Jay O’Connell, Michael Hilborn, Angela Ambroz, Seth Gordon, Elizabeth Brenner, and all the others who have passed through our ranks. May all your futures be filled with fabulous books and no murder closets!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lyndsay Ely is a writer and creative professional who currently calls Boston home. She is a geek and a foodie, and has never met an antique shop she didn’t like. Gunslinger Girl is her debut novel.
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