ARC: Crushed (19 page)

Once he’s gone, I move quickly. I reach into my pack and pull out the Beacon Map, and stare at the skull as it sits, glowing in my palm. I can’t take it, not when I know how it will hurt Jo. I don’t know what I am, hopeless or hopeful, but if I steal the Beacon Map the decision will be made. I grab a blanket from the cubby where Jo, Chi, and I stashed it months ago, and fold it around the Map and thrust it back in the hiding spot.

Jo trusts me. After she gets over her shock and hurt, she’ll know I didn’t steal it, and she’ll guess where I hid it. She’ll find it, and then she’ll find me, but meanwhile I’ll have my break. The Crusaders will be furious but once the Map resurfaces, surely (
surely
) the punishment won’t be as severe – the difference between a misbehaving teen and traitor. I wince. I don’t actually know what they
will
do, but that’s a worry for another day.

I exhale, take one last look around the school, and climb out the window to meet Armand.

Thirty-seven days, eighteen hours, and twenty-two-ish minutes later… but who’s counting?

Chapter 23

I wake with a luxurious stretch. A patch of afternoon sunlight brightens the far wall. It makes a striped pattern but, unlike at the school, these lines are horizontal, signifying the freedom to pull the blinds and sleep all day, rather than a symbol of my captivity.

Time with Armand has passed in a red-grey haze. Bloody nights fuzzy with soul drunk. Hot hazy days slept away waiting to do it again. We’ve murdered dozens since my escape. I still stick to Mom’s dictum to only slaughter the wicked, but that definition has become more fluid. I still get vengeance for the ghosts, mostly because they won’t let me not, the pesky things, but for once in my life their demands can’t keep up with the Hunger’s. For the first time in my life, I can kill as many as I want.

And I want a lot.

So we pluck victims from the pages of newspapers, chasing headlines of brutal murders, missing children, and the like. On slow nights, or if we’re feeling lazy, I’ll simply stand around looking helpless in a bad part of town. It’s entrapment, I know. These scumbags may go their whole lives without ever hurting a girl, were such a ripe opportunity not placed into their sweaty palms.

And yet, I somehow fail to feel sorry for them.

The uptick in murders is so drastic, it couldn’t go unnoticed, but as our victims were, for the most part, known scumbags, no one cares. Oh, a few of our victims were mistaken for upstanding citizens, but few enough of those to raise alarm. And we can clean up our messes. When we want to.

A few bloggers have put it together – the death of all these dirtbags – and speculate that Gotham has it’s very own Batman.

Crazy conspiracy-theorists.

Armand doesn’t mind my rules. He finds it funny that he should be considered a hero.

I shove out of bed and pad into the living room, in search of my unlikely hero. Armand’s flat is elegant and expensive, if a bit cold. Cool grey walls, modern furniture, chrome, glass, a wall of windows overlooking the skyline. But every inch of the dull grey interior plays the backdrop to a brilliant memory. Memories I’ve socked away.

Armand thinks returning to the Crusaders is a choice I have to make. Every day to him is another victory, another day I’ve decided to stay. But every day isn’t a victory, but one more burnt and gone as the clock winds down to Jo’s eventual arrival. And so I pack up each memory carefully, like Christmas ornaments, to preserve when the holiday season is over.

“Are these yours?” I ask of a clustering of family portraits, incredulous.

“Who? Muffy and Buffy?” He laughs. “Not hardly. It’s a prop. Welcome to my stage.” He swings his arms expansively. “Ever read
Les Liaisons Dangereuses
?”

“No.”

“Me, neither.” He confides with a wicked smile. “But I watched the movie adaptation when my boss explained my part. I play Sebastian the wealthy, wicked boy, who is not truly bad, just really waiting for his one true love to change him.” He smiles darkly. “All of them.”

“Isn’t that a bit over-complicating things? Why don’t you just seduce them?”

“Because getting someone to sleep with you is easy. Getting them to sell their soul for you? That requires so much more.”

The way he says it makes the darkness flutter.

“It has to be just a little bit hard.” He holds his fingers up in a little pinch. “They studied the phenomenon at Harvard.”

“They studied soul-stealing at Harvard?”

“What else do you think they do in business school? In any case, it’s called the Ikea effect.”

“As in furniture?”

“They discovered that people are disproportionately pleased with things they build themselves. Like self-assembled furniture. It doesn’t matter how truly crappy the final product is, people are willing to pay more for it if they made it themselves.” His face shutters, and his accent thickens. “Much, much more.”

I don’t say anything and he finally looks at me, his eyes shadowed.

“I just realized something,” I say softly, studying him.

He looks almost worried, but defiant. Like he’s testing me, waiting to see what I think of his confession.

“You are a total nerd.”

Not what he’s expecting, the darkness wiped away by a startled laugh. “
What?
”

“Why else would you possibly know that?” I say it like I’m piecing together a puzzle—and I’m appalled by the picture it’s making. “You’re a nerd. A complete nerd. You nerdified sex. That just happened.”

He laughs. “Ha, fine.” he says when he finally catches his breath. “I won’t show you my notes on the Kama Sutra.”

The faux-family portraits are now haphazardly piled in a corner and the wall is decorated with drawings we’ve done ourselves. Most of them are of us – it is a portrait gallery after all. Armand’s are mostly pencil, drawn with quick, fluid lines, as if the energy that vibrates through his body flows out of his pencil and into his subject matter. Mine are done in color; the vibrant colors I adore look especially vivid against the grey walls, lit from above by can lights. In my favorite, we’re both decked out like super-heroes with our chests stuck out and our hands on our hips.

“What do you think?” I hold out the drawing for his inspection.

“Oh, it’s… ah.” He scratches the back of his head. “Nice.”

“Thanks,” I grunt with satisfaction and tape it to the dry wall.

“Um.”

“Yes?”

“Errr, I just…” He doesn’t seem quite sure how to put it. “Don’t you think I look a little… cold?” He finally asks.

“No. See? I gave you a cape.” I point.

“I see. But… why exactly am I in a thong?”

“I wanted a break from the usual gender stereotypes.”

He laughs. “And my…” he clears his throat and points. “It seems unnaturally large.”

“Of course,” I nod, eyeing my drawing with satisfaction. “The male equivalent of quadruple-D’s.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Only in comic books.”

“I see.”

“Improving gender-equality one sketch at a time,” I say piously.

“So you’re saying you drew me in a thong for the good of mankind.”

“Exactly,” I grin wickedly. “I keep telling you I’m one of the good guys.”

The squishy couch covered by its rumpled blankets, where we’ve ended more nights than I can count, the sweat from dancing and the stink of underground clubs, where they don’t care about things like smoking regulations or fire marshals, lingering on our skin. Barely-touches and almost-kisses; Venus eye-traps and breath that comes too quick; laughter that fades to silence. Silence that stretches and stretches and stretches.

“Do you know why a girl would risk falling for a bad boy?” I ask him when the silence is too full to stay that way. We were lying on the couch together, squished into the tiny space. He was on his side, pressed against the back, his arm thrown over me. His finger traced swirling designs on my arm. He pretended they were idly done, absently even, and I pretended to believe it.

“Because she’s bad herself?” he asked hopefully.

I laughed. “Nice try. I’m good, remember?”

“Ah, yes, that’s right.”

“There are a few possibilities,” I say, trying to keep my mind on what I’m saying and not on what he is doing. “One,” I hold up a finger. “She thinks he’s not really bad.”

He looks up at me from beneath his eyelashes.

“And I don’t believe that about you.”

He smiles his dark little smile.

“Another possibility is that she thinks he can change.” I reason. I shake my head. “I don’t think you can change, Armand.”

I feel a quiet laugh against my neck and shiver.

“That leaves only one option.” I slid my hand up to his shoulder and pushed him back, so we were face to face. “She’s a fool.”

“Meda.” He sighs it more than says it.

“I’m not a fool, Armand.” It comes out almost as an apology, then push him gently but firmly back, then slide away from him and to my feet.

“There is one other option.” He grabs my hand before I can get out of reach. “Sometimes people are together because they can’t help it,” he says urgently. “They don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice. That’s the point,” I laugh, though it’s not the least bit funny. “Of everything.” I pull my hand free and he lets it go with a groan.

Meh. I think I’ll leave that memory behind. I have a dozen other, more fun ones, on that couch.

I wander to the bathroom to take care of the necessities, and consider changing out of my jammies into real clothes, but decide not to bother. It’s already evening, and we’ll need to get ready soon for tonight’s adventures.

A shiver of anticipation ripples under my skin at the thought of tonight, and I shove my head under the sink to cool myself back down. Tonight’s victim is… special.

I flip my hair back, briskly rub it with a towel so it’s not dripping, and carefully blot the water drops off my arm. Armand gave me a sharpie tattoo-sleeve on my left arm and I don’t want it to smear. Dragons and snakes and fire curl from my wrist to my shoulder.

I climb up the metal rungs bolted into the wall of the condo and onto the roof. Eventually the roof is to be made into a garden for the top-floor folks to enjoy, but the safety regulations have apparently made the transition temporarily insurmountable. It works for us though, as it means no one uses the roof but us. My guess is that’s where Armand is now.

Sure enough, he stands on the edge of the roof, one arm crossed over his chest with the other elbow resting upon it and his hand covering his lower face. He lacks his usual buzz of edgy energy, instead he looks deep in thought.

Mwah-ha-ha!

I ease the trap door closed, making not a sound. Then I spin, softly on bare feet, and creep up behind him, easing from tip-toe to tip-toe. He doesn’t move, contemplating the beautiful city skyline. It could be a poster, or a billboard, advertising jeans or cologne – handsome boy, pretty city. Lots of seemingly deep thoughts.

When I’m about ten feet away, I leap. “GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” I bellow.

He starts, spinning into attack position. His lips curl back in a snarl, and his eyes…

I consider the possibility that this was a mistake – surprise-attacking a murderous monster.

But there’s not a lot I can do mid-air. Fortunately, recognition registers right as I slam into him. He relaxes into the hit, so it’s more catch than anything, and we go rolling across the roof in a laughing tangle of limbs.

Then we roll right off the ledge.

My arm snaps out and catches the edge of the roof. We swing into the wall of the building, and Armand hits it back-first, letting out a soft “oof”, as the air is shoved out of his lungs. I don’t let go of the ledge, and swing my other arm to grab it as well. Armand doesn’t let go of me. His arms are wrapped just below my armpits, and he pulls up his legs and wraps them around mine. His face is inches from mine. He looks like he showered recently, or at least stuck his head under the faucet as I did, and his tangly dark hair is damp.

“Good morning,” I say, cheerily, and he groans then laughs.

“Good morning, Madmoiselle,” he says, casually, as if we weren’t suspended from the roof , tangled around each other like a pair of monkeys.

I wait a minute, but he still makes no move to climb up. “Well? Climb up.”

He smiles wickedly and squeezes me a little tighter. “I’m fine where I am.”

I smile angelically – long enough to let him get nervous – then heave myself up toward the roof. Since he’s hanging in front of me, he whacks his head on the overhang with a yelp and lets go of me to grab the ledge. I grin as I finish hauling myself back up.

The roof is made of light colored cement and is flat but for the jut of air conditioner units and chimney spouts. There are vertical posts around the outer ring of the roof, the skeleton for a fence that never happened, and I spin and sit next to one, leaving my feet to dangle over the side. Armand hauls himself up next to me.

“That’s what I get for playing with fire,” he grumbles, rubbing his head. It can’t hurt too badly – his head is far too hard.

“And here I always thought
I
was the one playing with fire. You being the bad boy.”

“Nope,” he says, dropping down beside me. “The one playing with fire is the one most likely to get burned.”

“Ah, well, that settles it. You were only bumped not burned.”

A pause. “Maybe today.”

I don’t respond. It’d only encourage him.

Philadelphia's skyline is slowly fading to grey as it is swallowed by darkness. It’s hot on the roof, but heat, like cold, barely bothers me when I’m well-fed. It doesn’t bother Armand either. When I asked him about this, he laughed and asked what kind of demon would he be if he couldn’t stand a little heat?

The creeping darkness serves to add to my creeping excitement. It starts at the base of the buildings and slides up their walls. Soon it will swallow them completely, leaving only shadows upon shadows. Places where monsters can slip and slide, snatching unwary victims.

And tonight’s dish is something special. Something that’s been weeks in the making.