Midnight Blue-Light Special
Page 63
“I know.”
“You have a lovely home,” said Istas amiably.
That seemed like a good place to end things. We walked out the door, which closed behind us, blending seamlessly back into the stone wall. Istas spun her parasol.
“I think that went quite well, despite the lack of carnage,” she said.
“I hope so.” I started walking. “There are a lot of dragons. They can cover a lot of ground. I just hope none of them get hurt.”
“If they do, we will avenge them,” said Istas.
Once again, that seemed like a good place to end things. I didn’t say anything for the rest of our trip back through the sewer to the manhole where we’d made our descent. It was still uncovered—probably because Istas had thrown the lid too far away for anyone with normal human strength to drag it back into position. I made a note to ask her to put it back where it belonged just as soon as we were aboveground, and started up the ladder.
I was almost to the top when a figure loomed above the opening and a hand was thrust down into the darkness, grabbing my forearm. I squeaked, and was about to scream, when the static kicked on and I realized who had hold of me.
Fighting wasn’t going to help. I let myself be pulled the rest of the way up into the light.
Dominic released me as soon as I was on solid ground. We both stepped back to let Istas out of the hole. She looked at Dominic, sniffed the air, and frowned.
“You are unwell,” she informed him. “I will end you if you have harmed Verity.”
“I know,” said Dominic quietly.
Even I could tell that he wasn’t looking good. His hair was uncombed, and there were dark circles around his eyes. He looked like a man who’d just realized he was in the middle of fighting a war.
“Dominic?” I said.
He turned to me. “Sarah.” He sounded relieved. “I need your help.”
“Is Verity alive?” I didn’t know what I was going to ask until the question was out, and then there was nothing else I could have asked him. Nothing else in the world.
“Yes.” He nodded. “But I don’t know how long she will be. We need to move.”
“You know I can’t trust you.”
“Yes, you can.” He held out his arm in silent invitation.
I didn’t say anything. Dominic knew what he was offering me, and how much stronger I would be if I were touching him. Before either of us could change our minds, I reached out and grabbed his wrist, diving into his psyche as hard and deep as I could without pausing to make the process easy on either one of us. This wasn’t the time to be gentle. Dominic gritted his teeth, and he didn’t pull away.
Telepathy—cuckoo telepathy, anyway—is usually a passive thing, polite and noninvasive. Sure, I may learn a person’s deepest, darkest secrets, but it doesn’t hurt them, and it doesn’t hurt me. This . . . wasn’t like that. This was a home invasion of the soul, and it made me feel dirty even as I was doing it.
Dominic’s mind was filled with cluttered rooms packed with thoughts and memories even he wasn’t fully aware of anymore. He didn’t think he remembered what his mother looked like. He did; he just had the memory walled off by so many other things that it only came to the surface when he slept or, oddly, when he ate German chocolate. He was in love with Verity. He hated the smell of violets in the rain; that was connected to his mother’s death, and was part of the wall between him and the memory of her face. He wasn’t a part of the plan that captured Verity; the rest of the Covenant agents in town hadn’t even told him they suspected she existed. He thought they suspected him of being a traitor. He didn’t care. After we got Verity back, he was done with the Covenant of St. George.
Dominic de Luca was finally picking a side, and it wasn’t theirs.
I let go of his wrist, breaking the telepathic contact at the same time. He gasped, and I realized just how pale he’d gotten. Sorry, I said mentally. I know that can be rough.
“It’s all right,” he said. Then he paused. “You . . . didn’t speak.”
I smiled a little. “I didn’t have to. After that kind of excavation, we’re attuned. Welcome to the family. Now let’s go and get my cousin back from your ex-allies.”
Eighteen
“The trouble with the Covenant of St. George is that it encourages loyalty through ignorance, zealotry, and fear. I wonder sometimes . . . what would they have accomplished if they’d tried doing it all with love?”
—Enid Healy
A converted slaughterhouse in the Meatpacking District
ISTAS WALKED into the warehouse ahead of us, her parasol resting against her shoulder. She looked utterly relaxed, which may be the only reason no one attacked Dominic on sight. They were too busy staring at the muck-encrusted waheela. “Dominic is not responsible for Verity’s disappearance, and is no longer affiliated with the Covenant of St. George,” she announced. “The telepathic girl without a proper circulatory system says so, and as she has no reason to lie, I am choosing to believe the story which presents the highest odds of future carnage.”
“That’s my girl,” said Ryan—but his voice was several octaves lower than normal, and he seemed taller as he got up from his seat. Uncle Mike didn’t bother standing. He just produced a gun from somewhere inside his jacket and raised it to shoulder level, the muzzle trained on Dominic’s throat.
“I admire the efficiency, but can you at least try not to get arterial spray in my hair?” I asked.
“Hello, sir,” said Dominic. “I assume you’re Verity’s father. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”
Uncle Mike blinked, looking nonplussed. “Excuse me?”
“Dominic, this is our uncle, Mike Gucciard.” Telling him Uncle Mike’s last name was a warning that the choice Dominic was making was irrevocable: if Dominic so much as twitched in the direction of the Covenant after this, he’d find himself stuffed into a dumpster somewhere in midtown. There are things we don’t screw around with, and that includes the covers of our friends and allies. “Uncle Mike, this is Verity’s boyfriend, Dominic De Luca. He’s here to tell us how to get her back, and to discuss the many fabulous advantages to defecting to the side with the sense of humor.”
“The sense of humor, and the many, many unmarked body disposal sites,” said Uncle Mike. I’d never heard his voice that devoid of warmth.
“You have a lovely home,” said Istas amiably.
That seemed like a good place to end things. We walked out the door, which closed behind us, blending seamlessly back into the stone wall. Istas spun her parasol.
“I think that went quite well, despite the lack of carnage,” she said.
“I hope so.” I started walking. “There are a lot of dragons. They can cover a lot of ground. I just hope none of them get hurt.”
“If they do, we will avenge them,” said Istas.
Once again, that seemed like a good place to end things. I didn’t say anything for the rest of our trip back through the sewer to the manhole where we’d made our descent. It was still uncovered—probably because Istas had thrown the lid too far away for anyone with normal human strength to drag it back into position. I made a note to ask her to put it back where it belonged just as soon as we were aboveground, and started up the ladder.
I was almost to the top when a figure loomed above the opening and a hand was thrust down into the darkness, grabbing my forearm. I squeaked, and was about to scream, when the static kicked on and I realized who had hold of me.
Fighting wasn’t going to help. I let myself be pulled the rest of the way up into the light.
Dominic released me as soon as I was on solid ground. We both stepped back to let Istas out of the hole. She looked at Dominic, sniffed the air, and frowned.
“You are unwell,” she informed him. “I will end you if you have harmed Verity.”
“I know,” said Dominic quietly.
Even I could tell that he wasn’t looking good. His hair was uncombed, and there were dark circles around his eyes. He looked like a man who’d just realized he was in the middle of fighting a war.
“Dominic?” I said.
He turned to me. “Sarah.” He sounded relieved. “I need your help.”
“Is Verity alive?” I didn’t know what I was going to ask until the question was out, and then there was nothing else I could have asked him. Nothing else in the world.
“Yes.” He nodded. “But I don’t know how long she will be. We need to move.”
“You know I can’t trust you.”
“Yes, you can.” He held out his arm in silent invitation.
I didn’t say anything. Dominic knew what he was offering me, and how much stronger I would be if I were touching him. Before either of us could change our minds, I reached out and grabbed his wrist, diving into his psyche as hard and deep as I could without pausing to make the process easy on either one of us. This wasn’t the time to be gentle. Dominic gritted his teeth, and he didn’t pull away.
Telepathy—cuckoo telepathy, anyway—is usually a passive thing, polite and noninvasive. Sure, I may learn a person’s deepest, darkest secrets, but it doesn’t hurt them, and it doesn’t hurt me. This . . . wasn’t like that. This was a home invasion of the soul, and it made me feel dirty even as I was doing it.
Dominic’s mind was filled with cluttered rooms packed with thoughts and memories even he wasn’t fully aware of anymore. He didn’t think he remembered what his mother looked like. He did; he just had the memory walled off by so many other things that it only came to the surface when he slept or, oddly, when he ate German chocolate. He was in love with Verity. He hated the smell of violets in the rain; that was connected to his mother’s death, and was part of the wall between him and the memory of her face. He wasn’t a part of the plan that captured Verity; the rest of the Covenant agents in town hadn’t even told him they suspected she existed. He thought they suspected him of being a traitor. He didn’t care. After we got Verity back, he was done with the Covenant of St. George.
Dominic de Luca was finally picking a side, and it wasn’t theirs.
I let go of his wrist, breaking the telepathic contact at the same time. He gasped, and I realized just how pale he’d gotten. Sorry, I said mentally. I know that can be rough.
“It’s all right,” he said. Then he paused. “You . . . didn’t speak.”
I smiled a little. “I didn’t have to. After that kind of excavation, we’re attuned. Welcome to the family. Now let’s go and get my cousin back from your ex-allies.”
Eighteen
“The trouble with the Covenant of St. George is that it encourages loyalty through ignorance, zealotry, and fear. I wonder sometimes . . . what would they have accomplished if they’d tried doing it all with love?”
—Enid Healy
A converted slaughterhouse in the Meatpacking District
ISTAS WALKED into the warehouse ahead of us, her parasol resting against her shoulder. She looked utterly relaxed, which may be the only reason no one attacked Dominic on sight. They were too busy staring at the muck-encrusted waheela. “Dominic is not responsible for Verity’s disappearance, and is no longer affiliated with the Covenant of St. George,” she announced. “The telepathic girl without a proper circulatory system says so, and as she has no reason to lie, I am choosing to believe the story which presents the highest odds of future carnage.”
“That’s my girl,” said Ryan—but his voice was several octaves lower than normal, and he seemed taller as he got up from his seat. Uncle Mike didn’t bother standing. He just produced a gun from somewhere inside his jacket and raised it to shoulder level, the muzzle trained on Dominic’s throat.
“I admire the efficiency, but can you at least try not to get arterial spray in my hair?” I asked.
“Hello, sir,” said Dominic. “I assume you’re Verity’s father. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”
Uncle Mike blinked, looking nonplussed. “Excuse me?”
“Dominic, this is our uncle, Mike Gucciard.” Telling him Uncle Mike’s last name was a warning that the choice Dominic was making was irrevocable: if Dominic so much as twitched in the direction of the Covenant after this, he’d find himself stuffed into a dumpster somewhere in midtown. There are things we don’t screw around with, and that includes the covers of our friends and allies. “Uncle Mike, this is Verity’s boyfriend, Dominic De Luca. He’s here to tell us how to get her back, and to discuss the many fabulous advantages to defecting to the side with the sense of humor.”
“The sense of humor, and the many, many unmarked body disposal sites,” said Uncle Mike. I’d never heard his voice that devoid of warmth.
