Flashback (Out of the Box Book 23)

by Robert J. Crane

  “I guess,” I said. “You'd know more about child psychology and development than I would. My exposure to kids has been somewhat...limited.”

  “So I'm not a grandmother yet, that's what you're telling me in a roundabout way?” she asked, sizing me up again. “How old are you?”

  “You should never ask a lady her age.”

  “I didn't, I asked you,” my mother said impishly. “And after knowing you – adult you – for all of ten minutes, I can tell already that ladylike behavior just isn't in your wheelhouse.”

  “Why, I am shocked. Shocked and appalled that you would think that me – humble little me, could be capable of – aw, hell, I'm kidding. Ladylike behavior went out the window several hundred dead bodies ago.”

  “'Several hundred'...?” My mother's eyes widened subtly. “As in... victims of the murderers you've hunted...?”

  “Ahhhh...let's go with that,” I said, not doing a very convincing job of selling that particular lie. “Hey, trying to hunt down dangerous metas isn't exactly an afternoon tea. It gets messy. Messier when you throw in all the mercenaries that people keep tossing at me.”

  “But...” she shook her head and looked back at me for confirmation. “'Hundreds'?”

  “That's just a guesstimate,” I said. “It's probably high.”

  Narrator: It wasn’t high. Not even for this week. I’d killed over a hundred mercenaries in the quarry when I’d gone to save Angel, another few people in the Cube during my stint in prison, and several hundred more during the war in Revelen.

  Man. I was not exactly living my best life, was I? Unless you defined killing literally a thousand or more people before age thirty as part of living your best life, in which case I was doing awesome. There were probably a lot of serial killers out there who would find me a very tasty prospect, and not just in the cannibalistic sense.

  “How many people have you killed, exactly?” she asked, and her tone was very ‘mom’.

  “I can’t tell you that,” I said, tightly, clamming up, “for reasons of timeline.” And also because I still possessed a scintilla of shame at my profligate taking of human life. If you could define mercenaries who killed for money and murderous prisoners as human. And apparently I still sort of did.

  “Uh huh,” she said, but you could see the tension ratchet up a notch in her shoulders, her arms becoming more straight-lined to the steering wheel, like ropes that someone had tightened. “Timeline. Sure.”

  “Look…” I said. “I feel like we're getting off track here-”

  “I'm not off track,” she said. “I'm wondering why a woman who claims to be my daughter from the future has killed hundreds of people. That seems important.”

  “Would it help if I said I was joking?” I asked. Her face turned even more serious. “So... that'd be a no, then.”

  “Maybe I should have raised you in Iowa,” she said, looking straight ahead. “Maybe it would have turned out better for you if I had. Slower pace, less murderousness.”

  I chucked a thumb behind us. “That thing in the park didn't seem like murderousness to you? Because it felt like it to me.” I brushed my wounded shoulder.

  She just shook her head in that utterly mom way, such disappointment flowing out of her. “I just...I can't...”

  “There were...reasons for all the killing,” I said, a little lamely. “Self-defense reasons. I'm in a lot of danger, a lot of the time. Come on. You know this field of endeavor isn't exactly a safe career path.”

  She gave me a sideways look that radiated anger. “You know how many people I've had to kill in my career?”

  “A lot.”

  Her face fell a little. “Yes. A lot. But less than a hundred.” She shifted uncertainly in her seat. “Probably.”

  I laughed. “I like how you mustered up the righteous indignation that lasted up until you realized you couldn't remember how many people you've actually killed.”

  “Laugh all you want,” she said, voice turning hard, “but forgive me for letting it worry me that a woman who claims she's my daughter is so cavalier about killing. It's not a good look for you. It kind of reminds me of-”

  “Of your mom?” I asked, looking at her out of the corner of my eye. “Or of great-grandpa Hades?” Her head snapped around as soon as I said it. “Yeah, I know all about our lineage. We're descended from the God of Death. I guess I've just sort of made peace with what I am.”

  “Which is?”

  “Literal death to those who wish to visit it upon others,” I said. “I'm the sword of the innocent. Or something,” I shook my head. “I dunno. I'm still workshopping it.”

  “I'd keep working on it, because that doesn't sound great,” she said, turning back to the road and taking a sudden left turn without signaling it. She must have caught my look out of the corner of her eye. “What?”

  “You have a blinker for a reason, you know. It's not just ornamentation on the car.”

  “You've killed hundreds and you're judging me for not using a turn signal?”

  “Yes,” I said, “mine were justified kills. There's no justification for not signaling your turn. Only monsters do that.”

  She started to take a breath to say something, but it leaked out in a weak laugh. “I can't tell when you're joking.”

  “It's almost all the time,” I said.

  “Your dad used to do that,” she said, shaking her head. “It'd drive me nuts. We'd be in the middle of a serious mission and – boom, he drops a sarcastic quip that would have me snorting in spite of myself.” She looked at me sideways, and there was a brief moment of grief written all over her face. “You sound...so much like him.”

  “I didn't remember you dropping quips all that often when I was a kid,” I said, thinking it over. “I mean, you would, sometimes. You had that really dry delivery, and you talked over my head most of the time, so it was tough to tell until I got older and 'got it', but...” I drew a sharp breath. “It makes sense that I would have gotten it from dad, because...”

  I stopped myself before I said, “Because it feels like Reed and I share a brain sometimes.” No need to let my mom in on the fact that I was well aware of my step-brother, especially since she was not a huge fan of him at this juncture. For whatever reason. Probably petty jealousy.

  “Is this one of those 'timeline' things?” she asked, frowning. “One of those things I can't know?”

  “You're probably better off not knowing it, yeah,” I said, turning back to the windshield. She took us around another leisurely turn – signaling it this time – and then we pulled into a driveway.

  The house was a one story built up slightly from the road, cute with white wood siding and a dark roof, the color of which I couldn't tell in the dark. Mom killed the ignition and opened the door, stepping out and circling around behind us before she opened my door for me.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking her hand as she dragged me free of the vehicle quickly, keeping my hand in hers once we were out. I looked her in the eye; she looked back at me.

  She did not take back her hand.

  “Ooookay,” I said, loosening my grip. “If you want to do this, just make sure you pull away once you know the burn is happening to you.”

  She gripped me tighter, looking me right in the eyes. “I will. If I have to.”

  “You'll have to,” I said, as I felt the faint stirrings of my power working along the surface of my palm.

  She stared at me with full intensity bordering on anger as my succubus power began to tickle at her skin. She felt it, I knew from my own experience being on the drainee side of the power thanks to Rose, but in the early seconds it was tough to tell if it was your power or your opponent's. She was glaring at me, probably starting to feel the burn, but wanting to confirm it beyond all doubt.

  I tried to keep a straight face, but it wasn't easy. I hated to play into the ugly, internet conversations about my abilities, but succubus powers did have an almost sexual sensation to them. That much the internet got right, no matter
how much I wished it weren't the case. It was a power that let me look into the very soul of others, to carve off slices or rip the whole thing from their body, causing the not-petit mort. The big death, rather.

  And when it was done...and I mean really done, the soul ripped free of them and in me...yeah, there was an unhealthy satisfaction there that I had never wanted to explore too deeply for fear of what it might bring out in me.

  My mom tore her hand away as the power started to really ramp up the burn, and I felt the first stirrings of her soul, tiny tendrils of her self slip into my head, a faint shadow without substance or form or thought. I took a ragged breath as she staggered a step back. “Satisfied?” I asked, then cringed. “Sorry. Poor choice of words.”

  Disgust mingled with pain across her twisted lips and narrowed eyes. “Well, I believe you're a succubus now. And a stronger one, at that. But you could be a distant relation for all I know.”

  I looked down at myself, then back up at her. “Come on, mom. Except for my hobo-chic, post-war fashion look, we're practically twins.”

  “You could be a kid of my sister's,” she said, sticking her chin out in defiance.

  “Ewww,” I said, “I didn't know Charlie had any kids. That's frightening.”

  “She doesn't, as far as I know,” my mother said, softening slightly at the mention of her sister's name. “And which I thank God for.” She thought for another second, dark hair glistening in the street lamp's glow. “Fine. You could be a skin changer. With double powers, the second being succubus-type.”

  “Paranoia, thy name is Nealon,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. I felt a little quiver run through my legs, which had grown tired of holding me upright. “Would you make a damned decision about where we're going? The blood loss is starting to get to me, and I need to sit down. Again.”

  “Fine,” my mother said, and grabbed me around the waist again, pulling me off the car and shutting the door quietly. “But know this – I don't entirely believe you-”

  “This is so shocking. I had no idea based on your behavior.”

  “-And this goes against my best judgment,” she said, pulling me along up to the front porch, “Also, I'll most likely kill you in the morning.”

  “Well, okay then, Dread Pirate Roberts. Better catch me sleeping, though, because if you come at me awake, you're going to have a hell of a fight.”

  She softened a little as she dragged her keys out of her pocket and unlocked the front door. “You really are my daughter, aren't you.” Not a question.

  “As much as I might have wished I wasn't about a thousand times when I was a kid,” I said, and she pulled me into the house and closed the door. “Yeah. I really am.”

  She pulled me across the room carefully, and in the low light I could see a couch. I drooped down onto it as she turned me loose, controlling my descent so I didn't crash and burn on the cushions. I ended up flat on my back, my shoulder mewling in pain as she pulled back my blouse to look at it. “It's not so bad. Bleeding a little now from moving. I'll bandage it for you.”

  “You do that,” I said, light-headed, voice dragging with fatigue and pain. “I'm just gonna...take a little nap...rest my eyes...replenish my blood supply...”

  “Go on,” she said. “I'll be right back with...”

  I missed whatever she said as I slipped into the total embrace of the darkness, passing out. When I woke, light filled the room, streaming in through curtains, a shadow loomed over me-

  And I was face to face with someone I never expected to be.

  Myself.

  8.

  “Hi.”

  The word came out a lot higher pitched than was usual for me.

  Which made sense, because the me that said it...was not me.

  Okay, it was me, but littler. Twenty years littler.

  Man, my eyes were a bright blue, reflecting the sun shining in through white curtains. The little face was shining, curious, open – all the opposite of my current state – dingy, annoyed, cynical, twenty years of getting my ass beat down by mom, life and the world knocking all that youthful optimism out of me and replacing it with well-worn snark and more than a little pain.

  “Ow,” I said mildly, moving my shoulder. It still ached a little, but the balance of the pain was gone, leaving only a trace behind to remind me I'd been shot yesterday. “Hi,” I returned at last.

  “You're not my mommy,” she said, peering down at me, nose only a few inches from mine. “Who are you?”

  “I'm...” I suffered sudden brain lock, surprising considering I'd been on the run for two years and had been coming up with fake names, often on the fly, that whole time. “...Uh...Sienna.”

  She blinked a couple times at me, little clearly-defined eyelashes fluttering. “Yes?”

  She'd taken my dumbfounded speaking of my name as me calling her by hers, giving me a few more seconds to come up with something. “I'm...Debra.”

  She made a frowny face, scrunching her lips together. “That's a funny name.”

  I did a little frown of my own in return. “So's 'Sienna'. You know what it means? Brown. It means brown.”

  Her nose wrinkled further. “I don't like brown. It's not my favorite color.”

  “Brown's not anyone's favorite color,” I said. “Well, maybe a scatophiliac.”

  Someone cleared their throat from across the room and I turned. My mom – our mom? Weird how that worked – was standing there with a very mom look upon her face, irritation and disappointment all rolled up into one. “Sienna-”

  “Yeah?” we both answered. Little Sienna looked at me and furrowed her little brow. “Sorry,” I said. “I'm Debra. For real. For really real.”

  “Go play,” mom said, and little Sienna ran off to the far corner of the room, which I could see in the light was a living area, complete with couch and TV and a few toys. She retreated to the area where a dollhouse was clustered with a little Barbie convertible and a few dolls. They weren't fancy or huge, but it was a respectable little play area. She settled down with a couple of the girl dolls and was murmuring to herself within seconds, ensconced in her own little world. I could hear her, of course, as she called one of the dolls 'Debra' and started to take them on a trip somewhere in the car.

  Mom eased closer to me, arms folded, one eye on the little girl now playing the corner, mother lioness between her cub and danger. “How are you feeling?”

  I indicated my shoulder, pulling free the bandage she'd apparently put on it after I'd collapsed last night. The skin was nearly flawless, only a little red to indicate where I'd taken the bullet. “Good as new.”

  She nodded, keeping her head down. “Come with me,” she said, making her voice low enough that little Sienna couldn't hear it.

  I followed her from the room and into the kitchen, where she slipped over to the sink and flicked the faucet up. Within seconds, steaming water was pouring out as she stoppered the drain. There were dishes filling one side of the sink, and an empty plastic drying rack on the counter awaited clean ones. “Help me do these?” she asked.

  “You wash, I dry,” I said. She shook her head. “Bummer.” I slipped into position on the side of the sink that was filling and grabbed the dish soap bottle, squeezing some in. “Day one back at home and I'm already getting stuck with chores.”

  “If you inherited my singing voice, you're going to have to do something other than sing for your supper.” She fished a dish towel out of a low drawer and came back over to stand next to me as I took hold of the sponge and started working on a plate that looked like it had weeklong, crusted PB&J lingering on the surface.

  “Yeah, it's a real shame metahuman ability boosts didn't extend to singing voices,” I said. “You'd think that'd fall under our superior abilities, but no, I sing and it sounds like I'm forcing a cat into a garbage disposal.”

  Mine mom stiffened beside me. “But...you've never actually done that, have you?”

  “What? No!” I bristled. “I may have racked up a high body count in the line
of duty, but I'm not into animal cruelty. Unless you count that time a shifter posed as my dog to spy on me. Him I could have done some animal cruelty to.”

  “Why would a shifter spy on you?” my mother asked, pausing in the middle of drying the first dish.

  “Long story,” I said. “Why are men with guns after you and little me?”

  “I don't know,” she said, sighing. “Like I imagine you do, I have enemies.”

  “Boy, do I have enemies,” I said. “Most of them are dead now, but still...enemies.”

  “Well, most of mine are still breathing,” she said, looking over her shoulder, probably to make sure little Sienna hadn't crept into the room as we were discussing killing people. “Which leaves it an open question as to who sent those two after us. I didn't recognize either of them, though.”

  “So they were probably working for someone else,” I said with a nod. “They seemed the lackey sort.”

  She took up another plate from me and dried it, setting it into the drying rack. “Look, I don't want to alarm you, but...do you have any money?”

  “No,” I said, not even bothering to check my pockets because I knew I didn't. I'd gone from jail straight to Revelen, and from Revelen back to my little prison room in DC. I didn't have a wallet, car keys, a pen, nothing. I didn't even have a gun anymore, because the Navy corpsman had disarmed me (wisely) before they'd carried me out of Hades's castle.

  My mother evinced a short, sharp reaction that looked like a muted curse. “How do you not even have a driver's license with you?” She looked me up and down. “And what happened to you? You look like you've been through hell.”

  “Let's just say I'd already had a rough week before I ended up here,” I said. “Not gonna say it was the worst week ever, because I'm sure I've been through worse, but it's definitely high in the rankings. Anyway, all my cash is in banks. My ID is...uh...toast, I guess. I don't really have anything on me.”