Incorruptible Page 12

  “Great. So, were my parents…” She shifted uneasily. “They couldn’t have been, right? They’d have told me.”

  He wished he could turn the radio on. Or anything, really, to distract her from such thoughts. “I don’t know, lumina.”

  “It’s Jenna. Please. Or just Jen.”

  Addressing a lumina by name was a heady privilege. Michael swallowed, dryly. “Yes ma’am.”

  “That’s not better.” She turned away, staring out the window.

  The sign appeared like a gift, Rest Stop 3mi. “There’s a rest stop. You want to stretch your legs a little?”

  “Sure.” She bent to fish her tan leather purse out of the footwell, its scruffiness now a mark of habit and affection instead of poverty. She hadn’t wanted a new one, though he would have bought anything at the luggage store if she’d expressed a preference. “Michael?”

  His full name, instead of Mike. Was she feeling formal? “Hm?”

  “Thank you. For, uh, saving my life.” A soft breath-catch, a hot flare of grace roiling along his skin. She was emitting more and more as she relaxed. “This is crazy and I’m not sure I believe it, but…thank you.”

  “Disbelief is easy.” It sounded stodgy and unhelpful as soon as it left his mouth, and he hurried to add more. “You’re very welcome, Jenna. It’s my honor.”

  If she only knew what an honor it was to be an Incorruptible’s sole hope. Still, he wished he had backup. Even just another grunt to stay close if he sensed another unclean drawing too close.

  “When we get to this Eyrie place, what happens?” She clearly wasn’t looking forward to it, but at least she seemed resigned.

  “Well, they’ll get you settled in quarters, get you everything you need.” The immediate luxuries might well take his lumina’s breath away, and that was as it should be. Michael’s shoulders were tight with nameless tension. “Ask you how I performed, if I twisted from the Principle. They’ll teach you how to control the Breath. Once you’re strong enough, you can call more legionnaires to help us. That sort of thing.”

  He thought she’d ask about the Breath, or about calling more of his kind. Instead, Jenna opened her purse, rummaging in it with a distracted air. “How you performed?”

  “If I was respectful, if I kept you safe.” He hit the blinker and moved over, easing up on the accelerator. The rest stop lunged for them at the end of its pavement tether. “That sort of thing.”

  “Well, you have been polite, I guess.” That smile was back, and this time it lit up her velvety dark eyes. “You’re not bad, Michael.”

  “Thank you, Jenna.” He had to tear his gaze away and pay attention to driving, and he was grinning like an idiot.

  He just couldn’t help it.

  The long low concrete building housing restrooms was not overly clean, but it wasn’t downright filthy either. With the horizon drawing away on all sides even the smallest building was a relief from empty space, and Jenna disappeared into the ladies’ room with a nose-wrinkle but a determined step.

  Michael fished out the disposable cell phone he’d bought in New Paris. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he flicked it on, spent a few moments waiting for it to power up, and keyed in a number he never thought he’d have occasion to call.

  Two automated menus and a long string of numeric code later, there was a clicking as the relays picked up. He headed for the corner of the building, stepping out of sight and looking down a long weedy slope that ended with a listing barbed-wire fence barely able to keep itself upright, let alone hold back the shallow sea of long yellow grass. The wind made a low mournful sound, licking every edge it could find.

  The phone crackled against his ear. His throat was dry. Please, he thought, unaware of his free hand curling into a fist. So much grace pouring into him from close proximity, teasing and tempting, strengthening and solidifying. Her fragility was a temptation all its own, and his body was acting like a mortal man’s. It was yet another worry he had no time to entertain.

  Finally, he was rewarded with a success, however small. “Report,” a crisp, almost-familiar voice barked.

  For a moment, he couldn’t speak.

  “Report,” the legionnaire on the other end repeated. “Hello?”

  “Michael Gabon, legionnaire.” He gave his serial number and coughed slightly, freeing the blockage in his throat. “I, uh, have an Incorruptible with me. We’re an hour from Denver, and I could really use some help.”

  The Legion wasn’t moribund at all. That was the good news.

  The bad? They hadn’t even known Michael Gabon was still alive, let alone functioning. At least, the Celeres on pickup duty hadn’t. And though it made little sense to him, the officer said Michael and his lumina would have to wait for a day or so in the Mile-High City to be collected, hoping the unclean wouldn’t scent her nearness.

  You Get Nervous

  Despite all the warnings, the altitude wasn’t bad. At least, Jenna didn’t think it was, but then, she wasn’t trying to run a marathon. Mike didn’t seem to feel it either.

  Maybe it was his tattoos.

  The hotel had a glassed-in rooftop pool, and under other circumstances the idea of swimming a mile above sea level but under a wide Great Plains sky had plenty to recommend it. She didn’t have a swimsuit, so she settled instead for stretching out on a luxuriously soft queen bed and wiggling her sock-clad toes as Michael spread a roll of woolen material out on the table holding an electrical strip, a lamp, and another fake-leather book with plastic pages full of amenities and room service. He began digging in his huge black duffel, too, and various metallic implements gleamed as he lay them out, his hands moving with the speed of habit. A handful of brightly colored paper came out too, bundled with an arthritic rubber band.

  Warm air soughed through vents, sunshine through the window made rectangles on the carpet, and Jenna’s throat was dry. “What’s all that?”

  Eddie would have snarled at her to mind her own damn business, if he’d been in a mood. Michael, however, glanced over his shoulder, the light gild his short blond hair and stubble. “Maps, just in case. And a few other things. I don’t normally go around armed, but I think I should start.”

  “Armed?” She rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin on her hands, and studied his shoulder, his back. He was almost too big for the office chair he’d dragged from the small desk tucked in a corner. It was meant more for rotund businessmen or harried vacationing parents than a brawny, very fit tattooed cook.

  Except he wasn’t just a cook. It boggled the mind, how she could have mistaken him for normal. There was a subtle glitter in the air around him, and those marks…the lines shifted on his skin, like moving circuitry diagrams.

  “Most of the time, we can call whatever weapons we need, with grace.” Gleaming metal shapes filled the table; the larger black duffel bag sat next to the chair, an obedient dog. “Except guns. Those we need to carry, if we’re going to use them.”

  “You have a gun?” Why on earth that should bother her, after all this, Jenna had no clue. She should have been more concerned about the single bed in the room. Were they going to share?

  Michael’s head was slightly cocked, as if listening to her was more important than paying attention to the table. “More than one, lumina.”

  “Oh.” It should have frightened her; she didn’t like guns, and a man holding one was even worse. Instead, it was almost comforting, and it was the comfort that scared her, she decided. “So, uh, you’re going to Terminator it up?”

  “What?” His hands kept moving, though his head was still at that same listening angle.

  “It’s a movie.” Her throat was dry; she cast around for a distraction and lighted on the flatscreen bolted to the wall. “You ever seen it?”

  “I don’t watch a lot of TV.” He picked up something heavy and metallic, examined it critically.

  “I never did either, but it’s here.” Jenna rolled over, searching for the remote on the chunky, dark-veneered nightstand.
She pushed a button and a documentary filled the huge screen, grainy footage of old planes diving over a massive ship. Probably World War II. Another button-press, a highly polished chef with bright white teeth and a shock of bleached hair was drizzling chocolate syrup over cheesecake. There was no sound, thankfully; whoever was in here last had muted the idiot box. “Might as well use it.”

  “Oh, yeah. I just haven’t seen a lot of movies, I mean.” There were tiny metallic clicks; muscle moved in his shoulders and down his back. “Sitting there in the dark with strangers makes me nervous.”

  “You get nervous?” Jenna pressed the button again, and a talk show host was listening thoughtfully, one finger pressed against his cheek, to a red-haired woman in a black flowered dress who looked vaguely familiar.

  “Yeah. All the time.”

  Funny, he seemed almost preternaturally calm. Jenna pointed her toes, flexed her ankles, pointed her toes again. It was strange to not worry about going back to work, doubly strange to travel with someone who simply paid for everything as a matter of course. And he hadn’t snapped at her yet, or even sounded close to snapping at her.

  Then she realized the redhead on the screen looked like Sara, and a chill went through her. She pressed the button again. “Mike? I mean, Michael?”

  “You can call me what you like.”

  As long as it’s not late for dinner? “I was just going to thank you.” Again. Hope you don’t get tired of it.

  “For what?” Baffled, he set down what he was working on and spun in the chair, regarding her across a sunny hotel room. He didn’t seem upset at being interrupted, though.

  “You’re just a good guy.” Jenna kept her gaze on the screen. Another daytime talk show filled the screen, a manicured host resting his chin on fingertips while his blow-dried celebrity guest waved his hands, laughing with the audience.

  He was quiet for so long her throat closed up, too, and she started thinking she’d finally made the misstep that would push him over the edge. When she gathered the courage to glance at him, though, he was smiling. “Thank you, Jenna,” he said, gravely. “I’d like to be a good guy.”

  “Well, you’re pretty much there.” If he did want to share the bed, she could be reasonably sure he wouldn’t try anything. If he wanted to, he would have by now, right? Relief loosened all her joints, and she pressed the remote button again. Another cooking show, a pair of disembodied hands sautéing onions in a wide, luxurious pan.

  He turned back to his work, and Jenna let out a soft, shaky breath. She pressed the power button and the television died, its electronic eye closing. Instead, she watched his back, slight movements as his hands did whatever they were doing, and the vulnerable paleness of his nape above those wide shoulders.

  It wasn’t a bad view at all.

  Shadow in Sliptime

  Michael watched the lamp-starred streets spread below the window, the city’s orange stain fighting with starglow and what moonlight could reach through smog. Height was always an advantage, and if he had more legionnaires at least two would be on the roof keeping watch and another few stationed in a widening net, as well as more inside the hotel at chokepoints. There would be another three in the room with him, too, close-guarding a lumina. Eventually, two would sleep on either side of her while the other two stood ready at window and door…but that was for much later, once he’d brought her safely to rendezvous and the Eyrie. Four was the absolute bare minimum for guard duty.

  He wondered, almost idly, how she would react to that development. She hadn’t mentioned the single queen-sized bed, but he was certain she’d noticed it—and also noticed his careful avoidance of that piece of real estate, too.

  Having to wait in heavily infested territory bothered him, but he didn’t want to risk the mountain passes, or even the Eisenhower Tunnel, if it could be helped. They should have sent a chopper immediately, but his wasn’t to question why. His was to hope that tonight would be quiet, that any local diaboli wouldn’t sense an Incorruptible, and that tomorrow’s pickup would go smoothly. And also to hope that when they reached the Eyrie and they asked her how he’d done, she would be kind enough to repeat that he was a good guy.

  As performance reviews went, he could do a lot worse. Maybe he’d even made up for bungling her introduction to his world.

  Her world too, now.

  Michael shifted a fraction, cycling through a slightly different stance to keep his muscles from stiffening up. Motionlessness wore on you, and you could cramp up if the need for sudden motion arrived.

  Jenna made a soft, sleepy sound, moving in the bed. He liked hearing her breathe, it was as soothing as sleeping himself.

  More sounds of shifting cloth. She was in a tank top and boxers, he knew because he’d seen her pad from the bathroom to the bed’s embrace and her bare legs—not to mention her arms, and the tank top’s low neck—all but riveted him. The songs hinted at the effect a lumina could have on a legionnaire, but they hadn’t prepared him for how deep and instant—or distracting—it would be, just when he needed a clear head most.

  “Ow.” Jenna sat up, and he turned from his post, dark-adapted eyes piercing the gloom. She rubbed at her face, her hair a dark silken tangle down her back, and blinked.

  “You’re safe, lumina.” Low, calm, and quiet, in case she was disoriented. “Another dream?”

  “No.” She slid her feet out of bed, pushing the covers aside as a throat-filling yawn swallowed the last of the word. “I don’t think so, at least. My head just hurts.”

  Huh. He tensed, muscle by muscle. “Are you dehydrated? It could be the altitude.” Telling her what he suspected wouldn’t help, he decided. The Principle was sensitive to disharmony of any kind, and her last sudden headache might have been triggered by the attention of the unclean across two parking lots and several lanes of freeway.

  “Could be.” She gained her feet in one lithe motion, and he tensed a little more. Pulling at her tank top’s hem, she padded across the hotel room on delicate bare feet and halted next to him, rubbing at her temple with graceful fingers. “You really don’t sleep much.”

  His marks moved uneasily and Michael extended his arm, gently pushing her away from the glass as he turned. He inhaled to say something soothing—away from the window, lumina, or perhaps, I’ll get you some water.

  The door shattered, splinters flying as he threw himself atop her, both of them landing hard on texture-patterned carpet. The window trembled uneasily in its casement, glass remembering it had been liquid once. Jenna’s high, unsteady cry broke as his weight drove the breath out of her, and when the window shattered a bare half-second later, thin daggers buried themselves in his back with tiny popping noises.

  His marks lit with fury, running over curves and flat planes of muscle, grace igniting in the stove of his belly. Michael was already up, booted feet thudding on either side of his sprawling lumina. Training and practice mixed, a metal hilt filling his palms as the sword resolved out of thin air with a high sustained note of bloodlust. His back twitched, ridding itself of splinters that could have punctured the sweet softness of his Incorruptible; he threw his weight sideways, spinning to bring the sword in a solid silver arc almost before it finished coalescing.

  The blade bit deep. Amber ichor sprayed, and the spiderlike unclean attempting to scrabble through the window howled, its hairy cup-feet digging wildly for purchase. Sliced almost in half, it fell into the night outside and a cool clean draft of midnight air scoured the room, curtains belling wildly.

  Instinct told him the window was clear for now so he pivoted again, uncoiling in a leap that took him well on his way to meeting the ones boiling through the door. He could hold them bottled near the bathroom—the flatscreen on the wall spiderwebbed with cracks as he met the first with a crash echoing through sliptime.

  “Michael!” Jenna screamed. He had no time or breath for reassurance, the fuming streaks of unclean would flank him if he paused. As long as there was only one spider at the window, he had a chance.r />
  Sliptime folded around him. His blade swept laterally, biting unclean flesh; one of his hands left the hilt and coruscating grace filled it, throwing dappled shadows on the walls. His own shadow stretched in front of him, which was wrong but he had no time to think of why. It was too bright—was he shedding grace?

  The flatscreen exploded, fragments hanging in the air as sliptime flexed and shivered. Michael stutter-stepped through hardening air, his fist meeting an unclean’s twisted face and crumpling it into oblivion. Soundwaves overlapped, intersecting rings rearranging dust, drywall exploding with coughing sounds.

  Jenna screamed again, a rising note of pain and bafflement that nevertheless was full of harmony. Even an Incorruptible’s fear was beautiful; the light shrank, a darkening before dawn.

  They pressed through the shattered door, a tide of unclean moving so fast he hadn’t sensed them. She had, though—the evidence was clear. Nobody had ever told him that an Incorruptible would get a headache when the diaboli pressed close and he would pay more attention in the future if he could just get through this battle. The wall on either side of the aperture crumbled, more piling into the breach. Too many. It wasn’t like them to gather before striking, unless—

  A shadow in sliptime. A hideous, crunching impact. He was thrown back, his boots digging deep furrows, carpet peeling aside and the floor underneath smoking under his heels. It screeched, compressed air pushing at Michael’s clothes, and there was a hideous tearing sensation as the hazazel, one of the Greater Unclean, coalesced fully behind its foot soldiers and Michael realized there was a very real possibility of dying.

  The hazazel crouched, smiling its perpetual glasstooth smile, six arms waving as its strangler’s hands contorted into figures or traced twisted power-sigils. It was humanoid, but unlike other diaboli it did not inhabit a human host.