Infinite Risk (8 page)

“Who do you work for?” he demanded, twisting my wrist. “Dwyer? Fell?”

“Let me go, or I start screaming.”

In answer, he lunged to slap a palm across my mouth, probably intending to drag me to a more secluded location for interrogation. I responded with a move he'd taught me, twisting his arm behind his back so hard that it would break if he struggled. But before he could question that, I slammed him face-first into a building, conscious of how hot Aegis felt on my wrist.

Govannon didn't give me some cursed sword,
I'd said to Rochelle.

Did he not? Have you tried to put it down?

An odd, alien sensation prickled over my arm, as if the weapon was urging me to end Raoul here and now, and it struck me as eerily similar to the mirror where Cameron's spirit dwelled. I hadn't been present when Govannon forged this blade, so how could I be sure what went into its crafting? He'd used the sun god's heart to create it after all.

“I don't know what you want, asshole, but don't assume girls make easier targets.” For good measure, I knocked his head once more against the wall.

It should've been enough to daze him, but he was steady enough to chase me back onto the street. A couple of passersby gave us uneasy looks, and a woman muffled in an ugly homemade scarf crossed the street to avoid whatever conflict might be brewing. I balanced on the balls of my feet, ready for Raoul to come at me, but he was frowning.

“You're human,” he said, puzzled.

“And you're high as hell, apparently.” That was the only reasonable response; I had to make him believe my arrival was a coincidence.

Go tell Wedderburn I'm a normal girl.
They might still try to kill me because there were no rules protecting random mortals, but they wouldn't be prepared for the strength of my resistance. If Wedderburn learned I'd wreaked havoc on his headquarters and killed four gods in the game, he would never stop until I was a smoking stain on the concrete.

“Whatever,” Raoul muttered.

He whirled and retreated into the alley. I didn't chase him, hardly daring to breathe until a full minute had passed. Then I turned and went to the corner store in case he was still watching.
Nothing unusual to see here.
My food budget was down to a few crumpled singles and change.

“You're here a lot,” José said, ringing me up.

I knew that was the owner's name because he had it embroidered on the bowling shirts he wore. At first I only nodded, waiting for the total, because that seemed like a rhetorical question. I paid the requested $3.52, and was about to leave when he added:

“I can't pay, but if you want to clean and stock shelves for a couple hours, I could give you some groceries.” By his expression, he wasn't too sure about the offer.

So I said quickly, “That sounds good. I don't know if I can come every day, though.”

“It's not like I'm making a work schedule.”

A woman called from upstairs, “Did you talk to her?”

He yelled back, “I'm doing it right now.”

Something about the exchange reminded me of my mom and dad. It was always my mother nudging him in the right direction. So I was smiling when José made an apologetic face. “Sorry, Luisa gets impatient. She noticed you're new in the neighborhood and thought maybe…” He trailed off, only to start again. “It's hard to be sure if you should offer help, you know?”

I nodded. “People might get mad or take advantage or you could be inviting their troubles into your home. I get it.”

“Anyway, I said what I was supposed to. Have a good day.”

Though I had been cagey, I intended to work on Monday. Before that, I had a number of other things to do. Back in my room, I dug up a clean sponge under the kitchen sink and a can of cleanser. It wasn't meant for bathrooms, but I couldn't stand the grunge a second longer. It took me two hours of nonstop scrubbing, but by the time I finished, the room even smelled clean. For the first time, I took a shower without worrying about contact infections.

Wish I'd known Kian was coming over; I'd have done this sooner.

As I dried my hair with a stiff, scratchy towel, I wondered what Raoul was telling Wedderburn.
As long as I act normal, they can't prove anything.
But if they saw the Harbinger sniffing around, it would definitely raise the alarm. Probably I should tell him to get lost, but I'd promised he could watch the show, so I hesitated.

Why is it so hard to cut him off?

No ready answer sprang to mind, and my phone pinged, distracting me. Unsurprisingly, it was from Kian, the one person who had my number.
I have way more fugly clothes than I can fit in my backpack. This may take two trips.

Sweet, plenty of store credit for you,
I sent back.

That night, I wore my hair down, not because I was trying to look pretty, but because it was significantly warmer. The usual suspects sat on the bus: women in uniforms coming off cleaning shifts, a couple of homeless men, three teenagers who took turns staring at me and shoving one another. I wished I had some headphones but staring out the window did almost as well in sending the
UNAVAILABLE
message.

At 3:56, I got off at the stop nearest to Madame Q's House of Style to find Kian already waiting. His cheeks were red flagged with cold, and he was pacing with a backpack stuffed so full that it seemed like one good shove would topple him. When he spotted me, his face brightened with a smile that was relief and delight commingled.

“Ready for some shopping?” I asked.

“To unload these clothes anyway.”

The thrift shop was open until six, so we had a good two hours to browse. But first Mrs. Quick inspected Kian's clothes, muttering in delight. “My God, this is vintage, all vintage.”

Holy shit, did that mean they never bought him anything, just dug into the attic and gave him stuff his uncle wore in high school? Well, no wonder he looked like a perpetual fashion victim in outfits from the seventies nowhere near his size.

“Is that good?” he wanted to know.

“Not for you,” I mumbled.

“It means a better trade-in value,” she replied.

Kian blinked. “It does? Why?”

Mrs. Quick went into a long explanation involving hard-to-find styles and cosplay and hipsters who didn't want vintage
look
, but I tuned out long before she came to the end of it. The upshot was that Kian ended up with forty-five dollars in store credit as opposed to my pitiful $2.50, as I'd only brought one T-shirt to trade. I suspected the owner was being kind too.

I went nuts picking out stuff for him to try on: black jeans, faded jeans, gray cargo pants, striped button-up, oversize hoodie, T-shirts so quirky they were cool. In the end, he took everything I suggested and still had five dollars left over. To my surprise, he led me to the outerwear section instead of telling Mrs. Quick he was ready to check out.

“I'm getting you a present,” he said firmly. “Don't argue.”

I didn't. After browsing a little, I chose a matching hat, gloves, and scarf in dove gray. They were so gently used I couldn't tell anyone else had ever owned them, and when I lifted the set to my cheek, it was whisper soft.
Perfect.
It was priced at $7.39, which meant we could afford it if I kicked in my measly $2.50.

“All set?” Mrs. Quick asked as we came over.

Kian nodded. “If you could, ring everything together and combine our credits, please.”

“Not a problem.”

She added everything up, confirming that we had eleven cents left. “I don't give out cash on credit purchases, though.”

“It's fine. Leave it on our account.” Kian grinned like we'd opened a store charge card together or something. “I have more vintage to swap, so we'll be back.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” she said. “In fact, I'm about to call a buyer I'm fairly sure will be interested in some of your shirts. You'd make good money if you sold on consignment.”

He shrugged. “I'm not worried about that. You're helping me a lot already. Is it okay if I use the changing room?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Quick said.

When he came out, he had on the gray cargo pants and blue hoodie. “Better?”

“It only matters how
you
feel.” But he did look handsome. The casual fit of clothing purchased in his size lent his thin frame a gangly grace.

His answering smile made his eyes shine like the green waters of a deep forest glade, glimmering with flashes of sunlight. “When you're around, I feel like anything is possible.”

My heart turned over, and I fell a little in love with
this
Kian, who was not—and never would be—mine.

 

OF CONTRADICTIONS AND DARK WISHES

Outside, I put on the hat, wriggled my fingers into the gloves—the tiny kind that seemed like they'd never fit human hands—and wrapped up in the scarf. Despite still not having a proper coat, I instantly felt warmer. Kian watched, not quite smiling, but I could tell he was glad. At first, I only noticed the flaws that made him so different from the boy I fell in love with. But now he was familiar enough for me to see that he didn't need perfecting: from the sharpening of his chin when he smiled, to the lean line of his jaw, to the nervous way his Adam's apple bobbed when he caught me looking.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

Fortunately, our bus arrived just then.

Somehow I held it together long enough for us to reach Lofton, a neighborhood near downtown, but not close enough to walk. Kian practically thrummed with excitement. It was harder for me to summon the same level of enthusiasm while looking over my shoulder. Yet I couldn't appear
too
nervous because, as far as Nine knew, the weird guy I met downtown was a meth head or whatever. I shouldn't be on the alert for a stalker, but I could let my guard down.

So my nerves felt raw when we hopped off the bus. I scanned the area, trying to look like any girl who might be uneasy as dark closed in. Cans and bottles littered the sidewalk, along with crinkling plastic wrappers, half buried in the slushy remnants of the snowstorm. There were a few pedestrians, likely headed toward the Marquee Bar. They'd kept the old signage that used to list
NOW SHOWING
but instead had been replaced with drink specials and theme nights. Apparently, they always showed movies, but only focused on classics on Saturday.

Getting in turned out to be way easier than expected. There was nobody posted at the door, and the lobby had been turned into a standing bar with an industrial vibe. Ten people stood around with beers, but since I didn't want to drink, I led the way through the open double doors. The big room that had been a theater still had a sloping floor, but it had been terraced so that a handful of tables sat on each level, and most seemed to have been rescued from an old diner, mostly four- and two-seater booths. At the back/top, they had free-range tables with regular chairs, probably to accommodate bigger groups.

Nobody offered to escort us, so I grabbed a small booth near the middle. Eventually, a waiter came over. “What'll you have?”

The lighting was dim, so he probably couldn't tell how young Kian was. It helped that he was tall too.

I glanced at Kian, who shrugged. So I peered at the menu, seeking the cheapest options, answered for both of us, “Two Cokes and a basket of fries.”

“Coming right up.”

Since we didn't order booze, he never checked our ID. Technically, we needed to be twenty-one to get in here, but I was a little let down over how easy this was. I mean, I didn't want to get questioned or kicked out, but still. After dropping the money at Psychedelic Records, it would be nice to put the licenses to use.

Other people filed in and kept coming, even after the lights went down. Leaning forward, I whispered, “How come they don't have a cover or sell tickets?”

“Pretty sure they make their money off drink markups.”

That made sense, but since we'd gotten here early enough to snag a table, they couldn't exactly refuse to serve just because we weren't drinking expensive cocktails. Soon our Cokes and fries arrived. Kian still loved his with a ton of ketchup. I nibbled, aware of my own heartbeat like it was the tick of a clock. When the previews started, they included all the vintage stuff on the show reel, like going back in time. Which I'd done recently, just not this far. I settled in to watch
Casablanca
. The first time I'd watched it with Kian, I was riveted and it even made me cry, but this time I was more interested by the expressions that swept his mobile features. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise as I memorized each smile, each intake of breath.

But around the halfway point, he glanced over, seeming to notice that my attention wasn't on the movie. “Are you bored?”

“Not at all. I love this movie. I've seen it like ten times.”

And always with you.

That seemed too much to bear; I was alone in my love story, whispering the secret to myself in the dark. Somehow I mustered a smile that must've convinced him, and I tore my gaze away and locked it on the screen.
You can't ruin this by being sad and weird. His life is already different because of you.

As the credits rolled, I wiped the tears from my cheeks. Fortunately, the ending made it credible, so Kian patted my shoulder. “I know, right? No matter how many times I watch it, it always gets me. Part of me wishes they could have a happy ending but—”

“If Ilsa stayed with Rick, she wouldn't be the woman he fell in love with. She was always fighting for a cause that mattered more than her own happiness.” In that moment, I identified with her
so
hard.

“Exactly.” His green eyes sparkled with the pleasure of talking to someone who got it.