Wicked Words

by M. J. Scott

  The building was only two floors, and other than a dim light coming through the frosted glass of the front door, there were no lights in any of the windows.

  Damon said, "Madge, it's me," and a panel beside the door slid open. He pressed his palm to it, and the door swung inward with a soft click. We stepped inside.

  "Unidentified person in building, Mr. Riley," a soft female voice said.

  I smiled, recognizing the voice of the computer system that ran the security for the development buildings. Apparently she did more than that. I started to say, "It’s Maggie," but realized there was no reason for me to assume I was still in the system. Madge hadn't spoken to me when I'd been in Damon's office earlier in the week.

  "Lachlan, Maggie Diana," Damon said. "Reinstate security clearance and palm/body/retina scan records."

  "Please confirm," the voice, said and another panel on the wall closest to the door began to flash.

  "Stay still," Damon said and walked to the panel. He pressed his palm against it, and the blink-buzz-flash red light of a body scan washed through the room. I wasn't sure if it was verifying him or me. The door swung shut with a decisive click. I stayed still. I didn’t know anything about what security countermeasures Riley might employ, but I had no doubt some of them might be unpleasant.

  "Your respiration rate is high, Damon," Madge said as he stepped away from the panel. "Do you require assistance?"

  "I'm fine, Madge," he said, but he was holding his left arm close to his body.

  "Very well," Madge said. "Please ask Maggie Diana Lachlan to place her hand on the scanner."

  Damon beckoned me over, and I followed the instructions. There was another scan-buzz-flash.

  "Verified. Welcome back, Maggie," Madge said. "Damon, Mitch has asked for notification when you return to campus."

  "Negative," Damon said. "I'll contact him later. For now, no one knows I'm here. No one else is to enter this building. Full Bond mode."

  I lifted an eyebrow at him. Bond mode? Like 007? My grandad had loved Bond movies. I was familiar with all the movies in the franchise, including the last few holo extravaganzas that he had insisted were nowhere near as fun as the old ones.

  "Password?" Madge said.

  "Vesper Lynd likes it shaken," Damon said.

  I clapped a hand over my mouth so I wouldn't laugh.

  "What’s the point of having fancy voiceprint systems if you can't have some fun with it?" he muttered when a giggle escaped me.

  "Some people never grow up," I said, grinning. "At least you didn't call Madge Moneypenny."

  "Obvious is less fun."

  "Bond mode. The building is secure," Madge said.

  "Good," Damon said. "We'll be in Suite 1."

  Madge didn't reply to that. Damon strode away. I followed. There was a single elevator door—matte black metal—across the foyer. It slid open when he touched the button.

  Not unexpectedly, the elevator headed down. Like many companies, Riley favored underground secure locations these days. Underground rooms might get shaken around in a quake, but they didn't collapse. At least, that was the theory.

  "Is this one of the employee accommodation buildings?" I asked. I knew Riley kept rooms and suites for employees on sensitive projects, executives visiting from other places, and the odd consultant they wanted to keep under wraps. Damon had wanted me to live on campus when I’d worked for him, but I’d refused. But I wasn’t sure this building was simple living quarters; the security seemed over the top for that.

  "No," he said. He didn't offer an explanation.

  I followed him out of the elevator and through a series of security checks and scans to arrive at another matte black door that Damon pushed open with his good hand. He had to push hard. The door was several inches thick, the kind of thing it would take a small bulldozer to get through. He was right. With all these layers of security, unless the imps were somehow locking onto Damon or me, then I doubted one would get anywhere near us.

  "Okay, where exactly are we?" I asked. The room was small with blank white walls. A standard-issue Riley workstation big enough for two people stood against one wall, and there were two game chairs side by side in the middle of the room. Opposite the door we'd entered was another black door.

  "It's a clean suite for testing," Damon said. "The system in here is completely isolated. It has its own server and internal network. It's not connected to the internet or any of our other networks. We use it for testing early versions or, lately, for testing any variations to our virtual reality generation code. In case of—" He waved his injured arm, then winced.

  In case another demon decided to see if it could piggyback virtual reality to get to humans. I kind of wanted to wince, too. But better to focus on the more prosaic reason that Damon had.

  "Does this place come with a first aid kit? You're hurt."

  "Through here," he said. He led me through a small basic kitchen, then farther down a short corridor toward a utilitarian bedroom containing a double bed neatly made up with a navy quilt and pillows. Next to the bedroom was a gleaming white bathroom with a shower, a basin over a cabinet, and a toilet. A white plastic and metal chair stood beside the cabinet, topped with a neat pile of fluffy white towels.

  I put the towels on the floor and pointed at the chair. "Sit".

  Damon didn't argue. He was cradling his left arm against his body and, I suspected, working hard not to let on just how much it hurt.

  I opened the cabinets beneath the basin. Sure enough, a portable first aid kit was tucked on one of the shelves. I pulled it free and flipped it open.

  Gauze, bandages, scissors, dressings, Band-Aids, antiseptic sprays and creams, tweezers, various painkillers, disposable gloves, safety pins. That should get me started. There was a bottle of saline solution and a plastic version of the kind of metal pan doctors used to hold supplies. There were other packets of other medications that I ignored for the moment. Get him cleaned up, and then we could call Cassandra and whoever else we needed.

  "Let's take off your jacket."

  Damon started to remove it but winced as the torn sleeve began to move down. I stepped closer and helped him ease it off. His breath hissed a little as I pulled it away.

  "Maybe we should just skip to the part where we call Cassandra? Radha or someone should look at this," I said.

  He shook his head. "It has to be cleaned up at some point. Just do it."

  I took him at his word. Part of his sleeve was torn, too, and blood stained the navy. But there was less of it than I had feared, so maybe the wound wasn’t too bad. I cut his sleeve away rather than trying to save it, schooling myself not to wince. Blood had never been my favorite thing. I'd gotten first-aid certified after the Big One, and I did refreshers, but thankfully I'd never had to use my skills on anything more difficult than patching myself or Lizzie up after a cut or scrape at home.

  Three thin cuts scored down the flesh of Damon’s inner arm, but they didn't look deep and were only oozing blood in patches, some parts already crusted over. Not the kind of thing that needed stitches. There'd been some butterfly strips in the kit; I could use those after I cleaned him up to make sure the cuts stayed closed until someone better qualified could look at them.

  Damon glanced down at his arm and then turned his face to look straight ahead. I rinsed the wounds with saline, then gently cleaned them with the antiseptic. He stayed silent.

  "You were right, it's not too bad," I offered. Which earned me only a grunt of agreement. I placed a couple of butterfly strips over the widest parts of the cuts, sprayed again with a different antiseptic that said it had a numbing action on the label, and taped a dressing over it. "How does that feel?"

  "Better," he said.

  "Wait here. I'll get you some water and you can take a couple painkillers."

  "It's not that bad."

  "You're probably still in shock. Wait until that wears off and you might just feel differently. Better to get on top of pain early."

  When I
got back with the water, Damon was still in the chair, his right hand rubbing his left shoulder.

  "Is that sore?" I asked, heart going to my throat. I'd been so focused on his arm that I hadn't stopped to think he might have other injuries.

  "A little," he admitted. I interpreted that particular bit of man speak as “Yes, it hurts.”

  "Scoot forward. Let me look."

  He rolled his eyes but did as I asked. The back of his shirt was clean, no bloodstains at least. But that didn't mean no bruises or scrapes beneath it. He'd hit the ground hard.

  "You're going to need to take that shirt off so I can see properly."

  "Is anything bleeding?"

  "Not that I can see."

  "Then it's probably fine."

  "Don't be a baby. Let me check, and then we'll be done."

  "You just want to see me with my shirt off," he muttered.

  "I can think of easier ways to get you to take your shirt off," I retorted, then blushed as he lifted an eyebrow at me.

  "Oh, and what might those be?"

  "Just take it off."

  He reached his injured arm across to his right to pull the sleeve down and winced again.

  "On second thought, let me take that off for you," I said. I stepped between his legs and started easing his right arm out of the Henley. That would give me access to his back without me having to try to wrangle the whole thing over his bad arm.

  Damon went very still. Our heads hovered close together even though I was taking care not to touch the man anywhere I didn't have to. But being so close filled my head with the scent of him again, and it became very hard not to remember just how good his mouth had felt on mine. Which was a testament to just how stupid I was when it came to him. I was supposed to be checking him over, not checking him out.

  I freed his arm as fast as I could, but leaning over to pull the shirt around to one side meant his head pressed against the side of my abdomen, and I swallowed hard at the sensation.

  Imp attack, remember?

  Right.

  I studied his back. The skin was reddened in places, and there were, as I had suspected, grazes in a few spots. But there were no cuts, and nothing looked swollen in a way that might suggest he'd torn a muscle or cracked a rib or something. In fact, if you ignored the scraped skin, his back looked just as I remembered. A long reach of olive skin smoothed over muscles that told me he'd still managed to stay in shape while steering Riley back to success.

  But I wasn't here to ogle the man. And I definitely wasn't going to stay leaning over him to clean those grazes up. That would just be asking for trouble. I eased myself away from him, bending to rummage in the first aid kit for more gauze and antiseptic

  "You have some grazes. If you stand up, I'll clean them, and then we'll be done."

  Fabric rustled as he followed my instructions. Which meant when I straightened, I was faced with a wall of pecs and abs.

  "Turn around," I said a little too fast.

  He stared down at me for a second, blue eyes darkened with an emotion I didn't care to name, before he turned.

  I dabbed at the scrapes gently, working as fast as I could so he could put his shirt back on. "You're going to have some bruises tomorrow." Maybe not too bad if Lizzie or Cassandra needed to work some healing on him.

  "Probably," he admitted. "But that's why they invented Tylenol."

  Well, he could take plenty of that. I swiped the last of the grazes and stepped back, dropping the gauze into the small waste basket beside the cabinet. "You can put your shirt back on."

  "You sure about that?"

  I wasn’t taking that bait. "Yes I'm sure. I can't see anything else that needs my attention." I busied myself with packing up the first aid kit so I wouldn't have to look at him, pretending I hadn't heard the note of invitation in his voice. Because, quite frankly, there was quite a bit of him that drew my attention. But no way in hell was I telling him that.

  I gave him what I thought would be enough time to dress before I turned back. He was looking down at the sleeve I'd cut away.

  "Sorry."

  "Not a problem. I have plenty of shirts." He reached for his jacket.

  "Actually, if you're going to put that back on, it might be better if I put a bandage over the dressing. Less chance of the jacket dragging on it."

  "You're the boss," he said.

  "Just remember that." I smiled at him as I unrolled one of the bandages and started wrapping his arm.

  "Probably not the smartest thing you ever did," I said. "But thank you for doing it."

  "You'd do the same for me. Well, in your own way. Please don't ever physically tackle one of those things on my behalf. Or on anyone's behalf."

  I looked up. His face was serious, brows drawn down.

  "I have no intention of doing that," I said.

  "That's not the same thing as a promise not to."

  "I try to make it a habit not to make promises I might not be able to keep," I said, trying for lighthearted but falling short as I realized it was true. I was back in this world now, and short of me pulling the kind of disappearing act my mother had, Cassandra wasn’t going to leave me alone to stew in self-pity again. I had power. I owed it to everyone my demon had put at risk to at least learn to use it. And to help others who might face the same kind of problems one day.

  If I ever learned what the heck I was doing.

  A chill ran through me, and I almost lost my grip on the bandage.

  "Maggie," he said softly. "You know, I didn't mean to be careless with you."

  I flinched. I could tell he meant what he said. And worse, the way the words stung, made it even clearer that, despite what I'd said to him back by the taco truck, my feelings for the man, complicated and stupid and probably futile as they were, hadn't really gone away. And maybe as complicated and stupid and probably futile as they were, I should at least tell him.

  I took in a breath. "You know in the movies how someone always has something big to tell someone important, but then, at the last minute, something happens to interrupt?" I pressed the tape down and he grunted.

  "Yes."

  "And then later, the someone important says something like 'Wait, you had something to tell me,' and the person says, 'It doesn't matter,' and because they didn't tell, lots of shit happens and one of them nearly always dies tragically?" I wrapped the bandage one last time and reached for the surgical tape to hold it in place.

  "Yes," he said again, gaze not shifting.

  "Let's not do that." I took another breath.

  "Is there something you want to tell me?"

  "I miss you," I said simply. "And I'm happy you didn't die today." Even as I said the words, the fear I'd felt came rushing back. Whether I'd reached the point in the day where I just couldn't deal any more or whether it was delayed shock, I didn't know, but suddenly the panic overwhelmed me, my throat closing and my heart going into overdrive.

  I bent over, trying to breathe.

  "Maggie?" Damon said, sounding alarmed.

  I held up a hand, unable to speak.

  "Shit," he muttered. "Listen to me. Listen to my voice. You're okay. It's okay. Just breathe." He kept murmuring to me, one hand rubbing my back. "Just breathe. It's okay."

  It seemed to work, a little. I took another slow breath, the fear receding. But as it did, grief or something like it rushed in, and I started to sob.

  Chapter Twenty

  When my crying eased off to a level where I could think again, I was in Damon's lap, his arms around me. He was sitting back in one of the game chairs. I didn't remember him carrying me out of the bathroom, but apparently he had at some point while I was freaking out. He was still murmuring soft soothing reminders to breathe and that I was okay.

  "Yes. I'm o-kay." The words hitched. I clamped my teeth shut.

  "Have you ever had a panic attack before?" he asked, voice gentle.

  "I had a couple after Nat," I admitted. "But not for months now."

  "Okay.” His tone didn�
�t change, just stayed steady and calm. Which made me think he’d dealt with someone having an attack before. “Are you starting to feel better?"

  “Sort of?"

  His arms tightened. Guilt twinged as I remembered that one of them was currently held together with a bandage and Band-Aids. "Sorry."

  "Nothing to be sorry about. But I think you need something to help you calm down. I can't offer you whiskey, and I know we don't stock anything strong in those first aid kits." He hesitated a moment. "I have another suggestion though."

  "Which is?" I had Kleenex in my purse, which was abandoned somewhere on the floor back in the bathroom. I wiped my eyes with my fingers.

  "The VR modules we use all have some basic relaxation modes."

  I stiffened.

  He murmured again and rubbed my back until I relaxed.

  "I know you don't like VR," he said. "I understand why, and if I could do this the normal way, I would. But right now, that's not an option, and you need a breather. I need to know you're okay before we can figure out what we do next."

  I stared at him, stomach twisting. There was nothing but concern in his eyes. I knew I could trust him, but...

  "Virtual reality is not exactly what I associate with calm."

  "I know. I understand. But you asked me to trust you, so I'm asking you to trust me. This system is safe. It's fully contained in this room. If we load something to it, it's brought in on a drive and side loaded. And it's checked every way we can before we do that." His voice was low and soothing, the voice of someone trying to coax a child into doing something that scared them. "There's no way anyone or anything has gotten into this system."

  My breath hitched again as I released it slowly. He was right, of course. I needed something that would help me lose the lingering edge of panic. Besides, I needed to get over this fear. If I couldn't work with VR, my career would be dead in a few more years at most. As chips became more common and VR became more than just gaming, more and more systems would start to interface with humans that way. I'd already heard rumors about experimental systems that did. I hadn't seen one yet, other than at Righteous, but if I couldn't get over my fear, I'd be making myself obsolete.