Crossed (13 page)

I say nothing, but my study becomes more intense, and my unease grows. Her answers stay smooth, rolling off her tongue with a slickness that is unlike Jo. Even her hand movements, usually as violent as the rest of her, are smaller, calmer. It’s Jo but with the volume turned way down.

Finally, when Jo’s voice begins to give, we’re sent to the waiting room so the Crusaders can confer. Jo collapses on an uncomfortable bench outside the dean’s conference room, no doubt chosen as an instrument of torture for wrongdoers awaiting punishment. I perch next to her.

“Chi, can I have some water?” Jo closes her eyes and leans back against the ridged wood paneling. “The devil’s not exactly an excellent host.” A bitter smile twists her lips.

Chi leaps to his feet instantly.

I suspect it’s a ruse to get rid of him, but she doesn’t say anything after he leaves. Finally I do. “How was it, really?”

She doesn’t open her eyes and she doesn’t speak for a long moment. Air leaves her lungs like a slowly deflating balloon. “Educational,” she says finally, and her lips curve as if laughing at some private joke.

“Educational,” I repeat.

“Oh yesss.” The “s” sound is drawn into a hiss.

“You can tell me the truth,” I offer. “It’s not like I’d turn on you.”

There’s a long pause then her eyes open. She slides forward, leaning in, until she’s close enough to whisper. Her eyes are the same, but they’re not. The colors are all there—the muddy mix of brown and yellow. A combination Chi once told her were “gold-flecked” and to spoil the moment, I butted in with “piss-spattered.” But despite the color, or maybe
behind
it, there’s a darkness. A blackness. A candle blown out. I see in them all the fury and pain and horror that was lacking in the other room. Her hand reaches out and wraps around my wrist, claw-like and bruising.

“Do you really want to hear, Meda?” Her voice is a hoarse whisper. “Are you sure?” she asks again, shifting even closer in a smooth, snake-like motion. Violence permeates every word, every movement, but still, it lacks Jo’s usual exuberance. It’s contained. Controlled. “Shall I tell the tale of what happens when a Crusader girl falls into the hands of demons? It may take days to get all the details right.” She warns, her tone mocking. “It took fifteen minutes for the spell to be rendered.” Even softer now. “Fifteen minutes, but I was gone for three days.” She cocks her head. “How do you suppose they filled the hours?”

I, a coward, can’t answer.

Her eyes widen, bleak and bottomless, and I know she no longer sees me. She drifts to a place where I’m not brave enough to follow. Then she blinks and she’s back with me, her tone back to that curious flatness. “Or you can use your imagination and we can leave the details in hell where they belong.”

I can’t speak. Not until she takes those eyes off me.

She pulls back. “But I didn’t lie. I’m forbidden from lying to the Crusaders.” She holds out her sliced-up arms again. “It
was
educational.”

I shudder. The determined look on her face is so much like Jo, yet with a creepy, sharp edge that’s so not. I look away from her for a distraction and my gaze snags on her leg brace. “Jo, I thought demons could change their physical bodies however they want while in hell.”

“Yes.”

My eyes lift to hers and I see a knowing gleam. “Then why not fix your leg?”

Her lips slowly curve into a sharp smile, pleased. She leans in, her eyes sparking, as if revealing a secret and her tone drips with contempt. “I thought the sheep would be more comfortable if I seemed exactly as they remember.”

“Sheep?” I repeat, dumbfounded. “
Seemed?
” But she’s not looking at me. She’s looking up, behind me, a hint of challenge in her not-familiar hazel eyes. Chi stands behind me, gripping her water glass. His face is carefully blank. Too blank.

He heard her comment.

“Chi, you can’t tell them,” I warn.

He blinks, then looks at me. There’s a long moment, and I realize I’m witness to something unprecedented: Chi’s inaugural internal struggle. He, who’s so dominated by what is right, is caught. Caught between what he knows is right and the girl he loves. It’s fascinating, and I hold my breath.

Then, finally, he blinks again. “Tell them what?”

There’s a burst of noise as the doors to the conference room open, making me jump. “Beauregard, we’ve more questions,” Crusader Chan informs us, beckoning with a hand. When I turn back to Jo, her face has recomposed itself into lines of intense concern. Next to her, Chi lounges in his relaxed, boyish pose, his face arranged in such thoughtless happiness, I think, just for a minute, maybe I imagined it.

But then Jo catches my eye. The wicked gleam is there, in the back of her eyes. Then she lowers her lid in a slow, sly wink.

Oh shit.

It’s Jo, but it’s not Jo.

It’s Bad Jo.

And I think I’m in love.

T
WELVE

The meeting finally ends, inconclusive. The Crusaders are pretty solidly split. One half, led by what’s left of the Reavers, believe Jo. The other half, made up of Graff and his cronies, don’t want to risk it. With the intel the Crusaders gathered from Armand, the battle was going better—though, in no one’s mind, well—and Graff isn’t desperate enough to put the fate of the Crusaders in the hands of a demon. “Loopholes,” he said several times, when Jo referred to her oaths. “Demons love loopholes.” The arguments went on for hours, then finally, well past dark, the discussion was tabled. Jo has the numbers, but Graff has the power.

Graff nods to Teague. “Chain her, take her downstairs.”

“What?” Chi beats me to it.

Graff pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s a demon,” he says with exaggerated patience. “We can’t just let her have the run of the place.”

“But—” I start.

“No, Meda, it’s fine.” Jo holds out her hands for the cuffs. For her part, Teague looks uncomfortable, and shoots a disgruntled look at Graff before clicking the cuffs over Jo’s wrists. “It’s just a precaution.”

“Sir, can I go with her?” Chi asks. Fool. It’s far better to ask forgiveness than permission, particularly if you don’t give a rat’s ass whether you get it.

“No, Dupaynes. We need to keep the prisoner—” he reconsiders his word choice, “Beauregard secure.”

“It’s fine, Chi,” Jo says again. “I’m tired, anyway.” She yawns. It doesn’t look the slightest bit fake, but I know now what a fantastic liar Bad Jo is. “We’ll talk again tomorrow.” Chi hugs her again, her chains clanking against his chest.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

“It’ll be here sooner than you think,” she says with a weary smile. Teague puts her hand on Jo’s elbow, but less like a guard and more like a guide. She nudges Jo toward the door, but doesn’t stop her when Jo turns around at the last minute.

“Tell me,” she says to Graff. “Do you not trust me because I’m a demon or is it because it’s
me
who’s the demon?”

“It’s not personal, if that’s what you mean.” I’m not the only one to notice he didn’t answer. The remaining Reavers shift uncomfortably. It’s no secret that Graff and I have a conflicted relationship and that Jo’s been sucked into the whirlwind.

“But you don’t trust me, do you?” Her head tips and there’s a challenge in her voice, though I can’t see her expression from my position by the door.

“No,” he answers easily. “I don’t.”

“And you’ll stop this mission if you can. This mission that I sold my soul for.”

There is more uncomfortable shifting at this reminder of just how much Jo has sacrificed. Graff, however, isn’t cowed. “If I can.”

Jo doesn’t answer; she just looks at him. When she finally turns to face me, where I stand alone at the door, I see the expression everyone else in the room was witness to. Righteous fury edged with heartbreaking disappointment—a proud, heroic girl who tragically sacrificed it all for nothing.

But then it splits into a hard, sly little grin just for me.

Thanks to Chi’s stupidity, I don’t bother sneaking down to see Jo. Whoever is guarding her won’t contradict a direct order from Graff, even if they are sympathetic to Jo’ argument. Instead I set an alarm for five in the morning—Graff did say that we could see her tomorrow, so I’d try to get there first and steal a few moments alone.

In reality, I may still be awake then.

Nervous energy makes my legs kick and tangle in the sheets. Jo’s back, but also not. Who is this strange, sly creature prowling about in her skin, and maybe, more importantly what is she planning?

What is she hiding?

She’s no longer on the Crusader’s side, that much is obvious, and yet I still feel confident she’s on mine. But what does that really mean?

Thunder in the distance echoes the storm raging in my head, and I toss again, the blankets wrapping around me so that I feel that I might suffocate. I jerk them from my legs, the gossamer-soft eight-million thread count sheets shredding, and toss them across the room. Vile, slinky things, think to trap
me
…

Movement in the living room pulls me from my righteous vengeance. The outer door opens, then I hear walking—no, stumbling—then another door opens. I slip out of bed and ease into the living room. There are no lights on, but the door to Jo’s room is open, so I pad silently to it. The scent of blood sets me on alert before I even notice the form outlined against the window. The frizzy halo of hair turns my mode from “attack” to “concern.”

“Jo?” She doesn't turn immediately and I take a couple of cautious steps into the room. “Are you all right?” I look her over, but in the dim light of the moon I can’t see anything obviously wrong with her. I take comfort in the fact that she’s standing upright. “Jo?”

She twists, slowly, smoothly. Soul-drunk. Dark spots fleck her cheeks; dark smears paint her arms; her hands are caked.

Blood.

My jaw falls open in shock and my breath pulls the smell across my tongue, sharp and sweet. The Hunger murmurs, unfurling, pulled awake by the irresistible smell. Unbidden, the Hunger creeps into my voice, so my whispered tone is half-horror, half-envy. “What have you done?”

Her eyes meet mine. The moonlight hits them from the side, making them glow eerily. She hears the darkness in my tone and recognizes it for what it is. A knowing little smile bends her lips.

“Jo, what have you done?”

She turns back towards the window. With a flowing, gentle shove she twists the lock and swings it open. A blustering wind whistles and whips the trees into a frenzy, leaves flying like feathers from a startled hen. The violent crash of the ocean is audible only when the wind stops to catch its breath, different, but no less wild. Lightning flashes in the distance, and the whole night has that feel to it. Electric.

Jo leans into the window, tipping her face into the wild night. She breathes deep.

Finally, she speaks. Her voice is soft. Confessional. “I know what he did, Meda.”

“Who?”

She doesn’t answer. Not directly. “I didn’t see it happen.” He tone is almost-casual, like she knows what she is about to say is important, but she can’t make herself care. I pause and make sure the room behind me is empty, then step in further and close the door. Something tells me that we don’t want any witnesses for what she’s about to say. Though, as a general rule, I'm anti-witness.

Jo doesn’t seem to notice. “You might remember—we crossed paths that day. The Corps, Graff, the Sarge. All of them. They were all going to the meeting rooms when we were on the way to class. The day of the rope climb.”

I do remember now, vaguely. It’s a minor memory overshadowed by other events.

“That’s why I failed, why I ‘couldn’t’ climb the rope. So I could spy on them. I knew something big was happening. But before I could slip from the infirmary, you punched Isaiah and I was called to the headmaster’s office to talk about it.”

There's a half-laugh, still as if she isn’t able to pull any stronger emotion through the cotton the soul-drunk wraps around her. “I was furious. Isn’t that ironic? I was so pissed. Pissed at
you
. Pissed that I was missing the meeting—and the whole time you were being . . .” She looks for the word and finds three. “Attacked. Possessed.
Violated
.” Again that almost laugh, but now I see. It wasn’t that she couldn't call the emotion. It’s that she doesn't really find what she's saying funny. “I was with the headmaster scheming—about sending you to kindergarten, about putting a lock on your door—and you were . . .” She shakes her head, unable to finish.

I shake my head too, as if the motion will keep the memories from perching.

She runs a dark-stained finger down the window frame, leaving a streak of blood, black against the light wood. “But what would have happened if I had been there, hmmm? I tell myself that I wouldn’t have let it happen, that I wouldn’t have sat outside that window and watched.”

Her hand tightens on the window frame, as if she would crush it. “But now I know the truth.” She releases the frame, but slowly, like she has to force her hand to let go, one finger at a time. And she faces me and that feels forced, too. She’s turned too far from the moonlight for me to see her expression. Her eyes are dark pools of shadow in a dim face; I can’t read them, but I don’t need to. The self-loathing in her voice is evident. “The truth? It's a lie. A lie I tell myself because I don’t want to hear the truth. I would have done nothing,
nothing
, to save you.”

I flinch.

“I was part right. I wouldn’t have watched.” The accusation in her voice foreshadows her next words. “I would have hidden my face like a coward, because I wouldn’t want to see. That’s who I was—a girl who hid from inconvenient truths.

“I wouldn't have tried to stop them, because I would rationalize that I
couldn’t
stop them. Words wouldn’t have been enough and I was too blind to do more. Too blind to give them what they really deserved.” Suddenly she turns back towards the window. “I was too weak then. Too torn, thinking there was a greater good to be served.” She tips her face back into the wild night and takes more deep breaths of the wicked wind, and I see the guilt, the loathing fall from her like a cloak.

When the words come next, her tone is creepy, lyrical. “But that’s not true anymore Meda. Now there’s no question as to what I would do.”

I ask for the third time. “Jo, what have you done?”

Nothing.

“Jo, what have you done?”

“He's sorry now, Meda.” Still that same eerie tone. She runs her fingers through the bloodstains on the window frame, smearing. Petting.

“Jo . . .”

“Graff.” She sings his name. I hear the satisfaction in her voice. “He said so. I
made
him say so.”

Horror dawns. Not at what she’s done; but at what she’s become. Am I sorry she punished Graff? No. Only lack of opportunity has stopped me from doing it myself. But this is Jo. Jo covered in blood; Jo pulsing with the aftereffects of revenge; Jo delighting in the dark side.

“Jo.” I don’t know what else to say. “Jo.” As if repetition makes my response wittier.

She sighs, a dreamy little sound. “I wish you could have seen it.”

“All those oaths, and not one against killing Crusaders?” I ask, still a little dazed. Graff. Dead. Jo. Murderer. For
me
. I stumble back and collapse onto the edge of the bed.

I wanted to know what she was now. I wanted to know how much she changed. This is my answer.

“Yes,” she agrees easily. “I swore not to harm the Crusaders. But I also swore not to let anyone get in the way of my mission.”

Realization strikes. “You
wanted
him to reject your plan.”

“Loopholes,” she sing-songs mockingly.

“What has gotten into you? You’re, you’re—’

She turns. “Like you?”

Yes, I realize, but I don’t say so, worried it’ll only encourage her.

She smirks, knowingly. “Do you know, Meda, that I worried all the time?” She reaches down and hauls up her pant leg. I start when I see her leg is whole, smooth, but wrapped in a brace to make it appear is if it was still damaged. She grabs one of the straps and starts jerking it free. “About everything. Your problems, my problems, Chi’s problems, the world’s problems. Constantly. I juggled everything, tried to manage everything, tried to
save
everything.” She jerks at another strap, then another, her movements becoming harder and faster. “And all for nothing.” She says this with a bright smile, as if it’s some silly story from the past. “We’re losing the war. We’re all going to die, and I am going to burn in hell for all eternity, and you want to know what?”

I just shake my head, at which part of her monologue, I’m not sure.

“It’s a
relief
.” She rips the whole brace from her leg in a jangle of metal, tossing it across the room. She shivers, an ecstatic little movement, like that of an energetic puppy when the collar comes off. “The worst has happened; I have nothing left to lose. Selling your soul, ooooooh . . .” She shivers again. “It’s horrific, terrifying. Painful. So, so painful.” Her eyes flash with memory. “But the first time any creature opens its eyes, it’s got to hurt. The shock of it, the brilliance of it. The ability to see just how small you are.”

A hard edge enters her voice. “You are burnt down to what you really are, to what is really at your core.” She thuds a fist against her chest. “There’s no room for the tattered bits of righteousness we cling to. The bedraggled little security blankets that allow us to tell ourselves that we’re ‘good’ disappear. We see what we would be if we could just let go of our illusions.” She looks up, moving with an agitated energy. “And do you know what is at my core? What keeps me going, what really motivates me?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Hate.” Her tone is vicious, the word like a lash. “I pretended otherwise. Crusaders shouldn’t hate but, oh, you saw it, I know you did.”

I wouldn’t disagree, even if I wasn’t too shocked to speak. I did see it; it’s what brought us together.