Storm in a Teacup (25 page)

"Yeah. I have to be there at eleven. Then I have to go to that debriefing Ben mentioned."

"What's that?"

I sniff. "Mostly Gregor telling us we're all failures and that the earth is doomed."

"The earth is doomed?"

"Not really. He just likes to make it sound like we can't do anything right." I wonder what he'll spin it to this time. "He might tell us what we're supposed to do next. About...you. And the rest of the shades."

"And you will help them?" The closest way I can describe Mason's face is consternation.
 

I frown back at him. "I don't really have a choice. I don't know what he'll say. Maybe I'll get a pat on the back or a 'Gee, Ayala is a brave son-of-a-biscuit, but dumb as a post' or a suspension for a week. I don't know."

"Son-of-a-biscuit." Mason smiles. "My mother loved biscuits."

I can't help but return his smile then. A second later, the question of what my mother would have loved flits through my mind and wipes away my grin. "Well, she was from the south. We Southerners love our biscuits. Especially smothered in gravy."

"So you don't know what your people will do next to find mine?"

"I wish I did, but no. I don't."

The not knowing is as troubling to me as it seems to be to Mason.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

After three nights with Mason next to me, sleeping hand in hand, I wake up Monday morning in a strange sort of normal. He greets me with a close-lipped smile and releases my sweaty fingers.

We've survived another night. Now I get to face Monday.

I beat my boss to work. Alice is already there, of course, and her nails have dulled from blood-red to bubble gum pink. I don't think I've ever seen that shade on her, and I look to her teeth immediately to see if she's matched her lipstick. Yep. Sure enough, both lips and front tooth share the same shade.

See, Mason and his crew have gone and ruined color comparisons for me. I can't think the word shade without seeing a bunch of naked people eaters.
 

My office feels too mundane in the aftermath of my week. I haven't been in since last Tuesday — or was it Monday?
 

It's hard to sift through the accumulated news stories on my desk, and my hands move with a mechanical slowness, like a robot underwater if that would even work.

I hear Laura before I see her.

"Is
she
here today?" The question must be addressed to Alice, so I sit back in my chair to see what comes next.

I picture Alice rubbing at her thumbnails the way she does when she's anxious. "She's in her office," Alice says in a coarse whisper. At least one of them remembers I have the ears of a human, plus some. Laura wasn't making any effort to be slippery about her question.

Laura grunts and appears in my doorway a moment later. "You. You're back." She's short, round, and has a hairline that bears suspicious resemblance to the double crown pattern baldness in those witch-sponsored hair loss commercials.

"My concussion and various injuries have healed nicely, thank you for asking." I roll backward six inches in my chair and give Laura a beatific smile. "The Summit will be exceedingly grateful for your lenience."

"Can it, Storme. I've heard enough from your Summit this week."

She stumps into her office before I can ask her what in the hells she's talking about.

The rest of my work day goes by without incident — unless you count the extra stack of articles that poofs into my inbox during my lunch break as incident. It keeps me at work until nine fifteen and obliterates any chance of me getting home to check on Mason before I have to meet up with Gregor at the Summit.

I'm starting to wish I'd taught him how to use a phone. I can never tell what his oddly transferred mommy memories left him.

The Summit parking lot is peppered with vehicles when I arrive at ten minutes to ten. I spot Ripper's dull black truck and Gregor's Hummer. I always save a snort for the Hummer. Sometimes people just match their cars.

Human idiosyncracies aside, a dribble of bile creeps up my throat. It tastes like fear. I have no expectations for this meeting tonight. It can't be like any of the other debriefings I've been to — and there haven't been many — because there has never been a mission like the one we undertook Thursday. And I've been so sequestered in Fort Storme with Mason all weekend that I haven't even watched the news to see what they said about the Summit making a warehouse go boom.

Hell, with all the shades we got, maybe the mayor even gave us a parade. Wouldn't that be something?

Nah. The whole city probably went back to ignoring demons and leaving them to us. Like always. Talk about a thankless job. At least postal workers get tips around Solstice-time. We barely get the rare perfunctory nod-and-cough.

The entry hall of the Summit is cold and silent as the marble that floors it. I make my way up to the debriefing chamber, trying to think of the last time I had to take this route. I think it was a couple years back when I helped a small crew clean out a nest out in Crossville. Talk about going boom — we haven't collaborated with the Knoxville Summit since then. As I recall, they almost set Mira on fire.

Accidentally.

I think.

The debriefing chamber is a small auditorium with stadium seating. And when I say small, I mean it seats maybe fifty. The whole terraced seating arrangement makes it look somehow stunted, like a baby auditorium that never made it to puberty.

A little less than half the seats are already full, and I take one about a third of the way from the back next to some Mediator I don't know well. His name might be Todd. Or Tad. Or Toad. No clue.

Gregor's at the front, and he hasn't noticed my arrival. Alamea's with him, fiddling with a remote control for the projector.
 

If they show us slides, I'm leaving.

I see the back of Mira's head in the front row. Ripper's with her. No Devon, of course. He's still at Vanderbilt University Hospital in a body cast, under constant guard of three witches who are tending to his wounds. I feel a surge of sickly-sweet guilt. I should go see him. Maybe tomorrow.

"Everybody here?" Gregor turns to face us, eyes scanning the crowd. They light on me, and he gives a small nod. Alamea does the same after a beat, and I shift my butt on the hard folding seat. It creaks with my movement. A couple other Mediators turn to look at the noise.

Great.

"We're here tonight to debrief Mediator Intervention A778B5, shade central extermination."

Ugh. I forgot they named these things.
 

Gregor's going on. "We're pleased to report no Mediator deaths and only two casualties. Mediator Devon Monk will be released from Vanderbilt in twenty-nine days, and Mediator Ayala Storme is here tonight, having recovered from her injuries." His eyes glow as he says it, sort of like backlit purple marbles. It makes me almost as uncomfortable as the formal tone in his voice. "Twenty-three of the hybrids were destroyed with the warehouse, and there have been zero reports of shade activity in the days since the explosion."

A smattering of applause greets this announcement, and I follow suit with a halfhearted pat of palms. No shade activity? Mason's sure there are more shades in Nashville. Is he wrong, or have they just learned to better cover their asses?

Figuratively.

Or maybe literally. My shoulders quake for a second when I think of a bunch of shades strolling downtown dressed like hipsters or suits.

In my paranoia, I've missed what Gregor just said. And I'm pretty sure it was about me, because suddenly every violet eye in the room is trained on my face.

"What?"

"You've been awarded the Silver Scale, Storme." Gregor rolls his eyes and beckons.

The Silver Scale.
 

They're giving me a fucking medal?

A medal.

There's no other explanation. Nope. I must have died Thursday night in the explosion — hopefully not with a bunch of shades feasting on my nether regions — and the last few days with Mason and forty pounds of rapidly-disappearing flank steak in my fridge were just the final blips of my brains neuroses working themselves into oblivion.

So why does the blood-rushing tingle in my very hot cheeks feel so real?

I make my way to the front of the stunted auditorium, and Gregor clasps my hand. A flash goes off.

Whoever just took a picture of me is getting stabbed later.

Gregor takes hold of my silk blouse — one of my favorites with a ruffly faux-cravat at the collarbone — and punctures the expensive fabric with a spike of a pin. Cold metal hits my skin with the weight of the thing as he drops it. I look down at my left breast. There it is. A bright purple band of ribbon with a heavy platinum disc hanging from it, engraved with a set of scales.

I've never known anyone to get this medal. Not Alamea, not Gregor, not even...anybody. I suck at history. I don't even know if anyone's gotten this in my lifetime. So why is it perched on my boob?

Oh, hold on. Alamea's about to tell me.

"Ayala rushed into the warehouse to save Devon's life at supreme risk to her own. It was only when we went through the wreckage of the warehouse and tallied the bodies that we understood what she faced. She came out baptized in the blood of the slain, but not before she pushed Devon out first. For what could have been the ultimate sacrifice, made in full knowledge of the dangers she faced, the World Mediator Summit bestows this Silver Scale on Ayala Storme."

Well, fuck.

No wonder Laura didn't fire me.

I make it through the next half hour in a blur of handshakes and so many pats on the back I wonder if I'll have a bruise tomorrow. The weight of the medal bears down on the thin silk of my blouse, and it feels heavier still for the fact that I've got Mason shut up in my apartment and twenty-three deaths that forged this bit of platinum.

Twenty-three deaths I can no longer justify.

The official award ceremony is set for a month from today. Apparently I get to keep this medal and then they'll give me a loving cup.
 

As long as it's filled with wine, I'll take it.

I have a feeling I'm going to need a drink.

In fact, I could use one now. I've gotten no less than six offers to buy me a shot, but there's no way I can go out tonight with Mason home alone.

Instead, I stare around emphasizing how dazed I am, hoping someone will blame the concussion and figure out a way to excuse me for the night.

It only takes about eight minutes in all the hubbub. Mira makes her way through the throng, elbowing Ripper and Gregor and Todd-Ted-Toad out of the way.
 

"You bunch of fucking rakath spines. She's still recovering from her head injury, and you've all been banging away at her shoulder like her head's not directly attached to it. Get away and give her some fucking air already."

I give Mira my best thanks-for-rescuing-me smile, which can't be that good because I don't think I've ever used it before.

Everyone backs off, muttering about Mira's mouth. She loops an arm around me and leads me from the debriefing room. Out in the corridor, she scrutinizes my face — well, my eyeballs — and then harrumphs. "Well, at least your pupils are on straight this time. I'll tell all those goons you'll take a rain check on their shower of alcohol. You go on home. Think you can make it okay?"

I'm not used to anyone taking care of me, and I find it strangely affecting coming from Mira. Then I shake myself. If I tear up, she'll slap me. Concussion or not. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Tell them I told you to give at least half my drinks to you."

"You must have gotten your head bashed harder than I thought. That's the best idea you've had all week. Get your ass home."

That's one order I'll follow with relief.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I find Mason on the balcony, looking out over the city.
 

This wouldn't be strange, except he's sitting on the balcony rail, his legs dangling over the edge. I know he can jump two stories without breaking his bones into kibbles and bits, but seven? That's a stretch even for my liberal imagination.

I'm afraid opening the sliding door will startle him off his perch. Instead, he just turns and slides back onto the solid terra cotta tile of the balcony floor. "You are later than I expected."