by Loren Walker
But her smile soon faded. What would she do in Toomba? Another community in isolation, separate from the rest of the world. There was already a medical clinic on the mountain; would they give her a job? Would the grandmother accept her? What if she became as powerless and insecure as she was in Jala Communia, caught up in the same groups of people, prejudices walling her in?
She looked into Cohen’s hesitant face, those familiar, boyish eyes underneath that red beard. More than with anyone else in the world, she felt safe, and understood, and cherished with him. It was the first time she ever felt like that. Maybe it would balance everything else out. Community, maybe, instead of a prison. A home to build. Maybe a family, someday. Maybe those were things that she wanted. A legacy. What name would she go by, enmeshed in the civilian world? She had no legal surname.
But she still had the right to a very powerful one.
Cohen’s face was very near to hers. Reflexively, she ducked her chin. Then she chastised herself for the reaction.
Cohen, however, just smirked. “Why do you do that?” he asked her. “Is it the beard?"
"I don’t want to be bad at kissing,” she murmured, hotly embarrassed.
Cohen intertwined his big fingers in hers. “Not possible. But no guy ever came after you?”
Yann kept a firm hand on my activities,” Sydel said. “There wasn’t much time for socialization.” She looked down at her feet again, gathering her courage.
“Cohen,” she began. “I’ll come to Toomba.”
Cohen’s face broke out in a huge grin. He went to sweep her into his arms, but Sydel held up her hands. “But first, I want my name. I want to be legally recognized as the daughter of Joran Asanto and Tehmi Shovann.”
The sparkle in Cohen’s eyes dimmed. “Are you sure you want to do that? They’ll fight you hard, from what everyone’s saying.”
“I want to belong somewhere. I want a history."
“You have a history with me."
“More than that, Cohen,” she told him gently. “I want to know who my parents are, who they really were. And what they did in Kings Canyon and beyond. And to pry open those vaults, I think I need to stake my claim.”
Cohen nodded. He looked a little disappointed, the fingers in hers slack. She gripped them and brought them to her chest. “But I can’t do this by myself.”
Cohen squeezed her hand. “You’re smarter than all of us, Syd. Of course you can do this.”
“I feel confident that I can do it, if you are with me, Cohen.”
Finally, that half-grin came back on his face. “Well, all right, then. Asanto Foundation, watch out.”
* * *
It took Phaira almost an hour to convince Theron to leave the skerries, to leave behind the Red's corpse for Ozias to process and cover up, to leave Jetsun’s body for the authorities to recover. He’d left specific instructions on where Jetsun was to be brought, what would be done with her, enforcing non-disclosure agreements with the arriving coroner and officers. They seemed to understand, and agree, strangely enough. This was a serious situation. The death of Jetsun Sava would be an incredible breaking story. People would be descending on Theron, demanding answers, demanding access to her accounts, and reassurance that all the secrets she collected over the years would go with her to the grave. Theron didn’t need to tell Phaira this. She also knew what it was like to deal with the waves of attention after a death, the food, the discomfort, the screaming longing to just get away from all the sympathetic eyes, touches, greedy side glances.
The train slid to a gentle stop. Central Lea. Theron had been silent for the past hour, turned away from Phaira. There was still blood streaked on his clothes, and his hair was still loose and tangled. People were staring, but he didn’t seem to care. She hesitated before taking his arm, leading him carefully to the exit and to the underground passages. He let her, surprisingly.
They took underground tunnels, sleek and silver and air controlled, making their way to the section of exclusive luxury apartment buildings where Theron lived. For once, the vacuous space was a comfort; being in members-only tunnels meant there were limited dangers to consider. If there were any at all. Who could say? Phaira was still reeling from the past few hours. The discoveries, smells and memories. The anger blazing on Theron’s face, how vicious and fast and cold he was.
There was no one in his building, not in the lobby, the elevator, nor the hallways. The faintest outline of blood remained on the carpet, just outside his door.
Theron stood at the threshold, staring at the peephole. Phaira waited, watching his back. Finally, he keyed in his code and pushed through the door.
For a moment, Phaira wondered if he might slam the door in her face. She wouldn’t blame him, not really, if he did. But the door was left open and she took the invitation.
The apartment was cold. The curtains were drawn, the lights were off, and Theron made no move to make any changes. His feet dragged as he made his way through the living room. Phaira closed the front door behind her. Then she leaned her back against the wall, her heart thrumming, watching as his silhouette disappeared through the half-open door of his bedroom. She heard the running of water and the sound of splashing, followed by the squeak of a mattress; he was on his bed.
Best to leave him to it. At the very least, she could sweep the apartment and make sure nothing had changed. In the wake of Bianco's mystery, and Jetsun’s death, she was even more certain that there were listening devices or other mechanics keeping track of Theron’s whereabouts. He didn’t need to know about it, unless she found something.
Phaira ran her hands over the ragged edges of the tear in the wall, the ventilation gates, the furniture. There were locked drawers that she immediately wanted to look into. Maybe if he fell asleep, she reasoned. The key was around somewhere. Was he asleep?
She took off her boots and crept towards the open door, peering around the edge of the doorframe. He was flat on his back, face angled to the ceiling. Phaira couldn’t tell if he was actually sleeping; his chest rose and fell, and his eyes were closed.
“Theron.”
His eyes flickered. He didn’t turn his head, though.
Phaira hesitated. Even with everything that had happened, she yearned to draw all that bitterness away with her body. Maybe it was all too much to ask. Maybe it was a fool’s game, to still be thinking like this, for someone like him.
Still, she came into the bedroom and slowly lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, her feet piqued and ready to run. She touched the back of his hand, still damp from the water. He didn’t move.
Gathering her nerve, she slid her fingers around his, feeling the scars on the inside of his palms, rough and familiar. She lifted his hand, heavy and warm. He still didn’t react.
With a burst of courage, Phaira grazed her cheek against the back of his hand. It felt incredibly daring, coupled with her vulnerable thoughts as she shut her eyes. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered instead.
His wrist turned against her mouth. Fingertips stroked her jawline, from ear to throat. Then his palm settled against the curve of her face.
When she opened her eyes, he was sitting up, his right fingers wound through the hair at the back of her head, the edges of his left fingers in her back, like hooks pulling her in. His lips were wet, but still they burned her, like a blaze across her mouth, knocking aside her control.
Cold fire bristled over the surface of her skin, every cell alight and hypersensitive from the pressure. Their quickened breath echoed through the space. His hands slid under her shirt. His breath was in her neck, her blood was being shot through with ice, and she was falling back, yanking at his shirt, relishing the shock of his hot skin, the edges of his hair on her ribs. The bitter relief of his body and fingers and mouth, violent and desperate, her thoughts were a jumble of ecstatic and frantic.
Is this what it was like, back in Liera when I came through the window, trying to forget all the
pain in my head?
Did I burn him, too?
* * *
Light pierced through a crack in the curtain, rousing Theron from a dreamless sleep. He sniffed and winced. His whole body ached: scratch marks on both his arms and chest, the deep bruises, the left side of his face.
Then memories floated back, as if remembering a dream. Jetsun. The Red. Phaira.
Groggily, he swept his arm across the bed, searching for her cool skin.
There was nothing. He was alone.
He pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes. Of course. The old thoughts were automatic. Of course she’s gone. She was always going to leave. What, you thought she’d really stick around when this was done? She’s not interested in your stupid -
The sound of rustling in the other room.
Theron sat up on his elbows, wincing again as his joints protested. Then Phaira strode through the doorway, wearing one of his dress shirts, her hair a thousand shades of blue in the dusty sunlight. “How can you live here and not have glasses?” she asked him. “There’s barely anything in your cupboards. What do you do, just use your hands?”
Relief coursed over him. Still, he feigned casualness. “You’re not looking in the right places, obviously,” he quipped back. “I have lots. Somewhere,” he added, suddenly unsure. He never ate in the apartment. And she was right, he did use his hands most of the time.
She smirked at him. Then her smile faded. “Lots of calls coming in,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, her hip cocked to the side. “I should probably get out of your way. Go check on Renzo.”
Not yet. He didn't dare to say the words aloud, but there they were. Not yet.
He flung the covers off, ignoring the pain in every limb, got to his feet, and strode across the bedroom to a very surprised Phaira.
But when he came to stand in front of her, he froze. He didn't know what to say, or what to do, as the same thought hammered through his head: Don’t leave me alone. Don’t leave me alone.
Through the open collar of her shirt, he caught a glimpse of the pink flush at the base of her throat, the remnant of so much blood-rush the night before, beautiful, and lingering, caused entirely by him. He wanted to focus on that. He didn’t want to think about Jetsun’s body and burial; the mess of meetings he would have to undertake; the inevitable questions from Ozias and the rest of patrol, once they realized that they had him by the throat...
She was the first to move. The sudden weight of her body pressed against his, soft tendrils of her hair against his cheek, standing on the balls of her feet, her arms strong around his neck. An embrace, so tight that he could feel the movement of her ribs as she inhaled.
Lust was bubbling up in him again, but he pushed it down, and instead chose not to move or speak, and to just drink in the sensation of being held, for as long as it might last.
* * *
Soon, too soon, she reluctantly dressed in her old clothes, stained and bloodied as they were, and headed into debriefing with Ozias at the Lea patrol station. She promised Theron that she would keep things private, and asked him to meet her under the East-West Lea bridge when she was finished, so she could fill him in. She kissed him, gripping the front of his shirt. Then she smiled at him, a little shy, and gave an awkward hand wave as she went through the door.
When he heard the ding of the elevator door, Theron punched in the cc to the Arazura, neatly bypassing all the securities installed.
The connection was made, and a screen opened; Sydel's coppery skin on the other side, with an ashy tint to it, from fatigue and who knew what else.
“Is Renzo alright?” he asked gruffly.
Sydel’s eyes, so close to the screen, peered at him like she knew all his thoughts. “Yes,” she finally confirmed. “Are you?”
“I need to speak with him.”
“Briefly. He needs his rest.”
“Understood.”
The Lissome swiveled to show Renzo’s tired face, bandage over his forehead, gray-green eyes piercing through the screen. For a moment, Theron faltered. He hadn’t considered Phaira’s reaction in his decision, just what could be accomplished. She might be upset. But it was too late now; Renzo was eying Theron with impatience. “What's going on?"
“Can we speak privately?”
Renzo said something off-screen. A few seconds later, he lifted one blond eyebrow. “Well?”
It was painful to say the words. “What happened in there, with you and Jet? I need to know.”
Renzo ran a slow hand over his face. “I don't even understand half of what I saw in that basement of yours.”
“Yes, you do,” Theron challenged. “Same goal as you. Trying to find a way to stop the NINE from hurting anyone else. So, what did you use to get away?”
Renzo paused for a long while. Then: “Electromagnetic pulse coin, one-shot deal to disrupt NINE brainwaves and make an escape. And a miniature explosive, kept in a safe cylinder to avoid triggers. Kept both in my prosthesis since Toomba.”
“Your creations?”
“Obviously.”
“Yet you never signed the papers to release the patents, and start manufacturing.” With a pang, Theron recalled their meeting in Jetsun's office. It would have to be cleaned out, and quickly. “You have a change of heart?”
“No.” Renzo's voice was hard. “I don't want to sign over my designs. I want to partner.”
“You don't need to be involved on that level,” Theron warned, holding back his surprise. “Just stay remote.”
“No,” came Renzo's sharp retort. “I want to partner. People need protection against these NINE. What happened to me - it's not happening to anyone else.”
I should say no. I should disconnect this call. I should insist that Renzo think about it.
But it was what he'd always wanted; a partner. Someone with the same goals, someone who thought the same and worked well with him.
Theron remembered the feel of the Red's neck in his hands, the crack and snap, the satisfaction in watching the life go out of her eyes. He was a Sava, after all. The realization was both horrible and a relief, in a strange sense. But he would be a better Sava, with greater intentions. And Renzo's declaration, his willingness, it meant he was on the right path, didn't it?
A thought crept in, like a crack of light. Phaira will hate me.
“Well?” Renzo prodded. “I need some time to recover, but as soon as I can, we should meet up and review strategies.”
Theron weighed his memories of Phaira, both in the past, and minutes ago. The week on the house on the cliffs. The nights in Liera. The way she gazed at him when she left this morning. How, despite his anxieties, his insistence on staying remote, a heaviness lifted off his chest when she was nearby, and some form of peace was in its place, nipping at the edge of his hopelessness. He'd fallen for her from the start, if he were honest with himself, her aggressive, vulnerable, valiant self.
But what he felt, or what he thought he felt, it didn't matter. It was all a disaster in the making, he couldn’t deny that.
You know she'll leave you behind eventually, his reason told him. The dream always ends.
Renzo's inventions are for the greater good. They're more important. Focus on that.
“I'll be here,” Theron finally spoke. “I'm ready. Just say when.”
* * *
Half of the bulbs on the East-West Lea bridge were burned out, the rumble of cars mixing with the rush of water. Grit and gum scraped under Phaira's feet. The silent core of the city a kilometer away down the riverside.
A crackle of a branch underfoot, from afar. Phaira's body flooded with impatience. Still, she didn’t move from her stance, hands in pockets, watching the river. Only when the sound of his shoes that slid, instead of scraped, against the rough platform, when his light gait grew clear with every movement, and she felt his shadow over her, did she turn around with a smile.
It left her face, though, at his stoic expression. Theron’s hair had been neatly tied back; all traces
from the battle yesterday were gone from his face. He looked severe, and watchful, and unapproachable.
Cautious, she stepped away, until the cold metal railing dug into her tailbone.
“I didn't tell Oz anything,” she finally spoke. “I never would, you know that.”
“What did she ask?"
“What we have been doing over the past week. If it were true that you had been hospitalized - I said no.”
If we were involved, she thought, but didn't say outloud.
“How we knew to find the Red in the skerries, and her true identity. That, I told her, since it's public knowledge now, the whole NINE thing. She's going to be calling us. But we can decide what we want to share.”
Theron nodded.
Growing cold, Phaira tucked her hands under her arms, waiting for an invitation from him to come closer, maybe into the folds of his wool overcoat. But it wasn't coming.
“Are you going somewhere after this?” she tried.
“Yes. Big meeting of all the heads.” He gazed over the river. “Likely they'll make my appointment permanent.”
She nodded, looking at the ground. Yes, they probably would confirm him as the head of the Sava Syndicate. If there were any doubts before, there would be none now, after the way he dealt with the Red. In a way, she was proud of him, for tapping into the strength she knew was in him. But it was such a waste to use that power in that environment; for drugs, and rana, and intimidation, and all the things he didn’t care about.
Theron broke the silence. “I wanted to - I mean, I meant to tell you something this morning.”
Her heart was in her throat. She had no idea what might come out of his mouth.
“Thank you.”
Surprised, she glanced up at him.
“Not for last night,” he added in a hurry. “I mean everything before that. Bringing your family in to protect me. Putting your life on the line for me. No one has ever done that for me, not ever. I don’t know why you would do such a thing. But I’ll never forget it.”