“Whatever wrong you think you might have done, it’s forgiven.” He rests his chin on the top of my head. His breaths come in and out, heavy and quite audible.
I squeeze my eyes as waves and waves of emotion wash over me.
“I hope you can forgive me, too. Because I can’t forgive myself.”
I make the drive back to downtown in a lonely daze. Hannah went with James after she tested 100% human. I watched them walk away, wishing I could switch places with her. My legs trembled as they disappeared over the crest of the steep street, and I heard James’s Harley roar to life on the other side. It took everything I am not to run toward them, begging to let me come.
Now, I’m headed south on Pacific Place, almost back to the place where She-Bird and Griffin lie dead—if no one has found their bodies, that is. If they have, I’m sure the situation at Whitehouse HQ has gotten pretty interesting.
When I get to the parking lot where I stashed my Kawasaki, I pull in and park the SUV next to the delivery van I stole several weeks ago. I hop out and check the van. It looks untouched besides the four punctured tires and busted headlights I personally inflicted on it—which so far have been enough to keep anyone from repurposing it.
Nervously, I peek through the driver side window to confirm my bike is still inside the windowless delivery area. I spot the tip of a handlebar and breathe out a pent up breath. It’s ridiculous how relieved I am at the sight of it, especially when I could repurpose something much better out of the thousands of abandoned vehicles throughout the city. But I don’t have much from my previous life, especially things that link me to Xave the way my bike does.
He helped me make the choice when I bought it. Afterward, we worked on the custom details and adjustments I wanted, then rode it through Seattle together. I can still feel his arms around me when I take it for a spin and close my eyes against the wind. He’s been gone for some time now, but the way my chest tightens at his memory makes it seem as if it was only yesterday that I lost him. I miss him so much. I turn, press my back to the van and throw my head back. Shutting my eyes against the now-gray sky, I inhale and try to regain my composure.
I pull myself back into the moment and remember James ad how his words dismantled me. I don’t know why I thought having his acceptance would make things easier.
It doesn’t.
On the contrary, I feel as if the strength that has fueled me all this time just ran empty. Puff, gone up into the atmosphere, much like the air from the van’s tires. From the beginning, a big part of my drive against Eklyptors has been the desire to prove myself to James, to show him I’m good enough to be part of his team. Now, it seems I’ve been wasting my time and, all along, he’s considered me worthy, capable.
I exhale, unclench my fists which have tightened of their own accord, and find myself feeling sort of … aimless. I don’t need to prove myself to James anymore. I never did, it seems. I chuckle at the irony.
Could I leave now? Could I abandon this side of the fight and go back to IgNiTe? I think of the test James talked about, of the possibility of regaining my humanity in the eyes of my Symbiot friends. Would they blame me for wanting to go back? Would they accept me in spite of everything?
Or could I quit altogether? Lay down my weapons and let others do the fighting? Could I do that without disappointing James and the others, without feeling I failed them? Would they understand I’ve already given so, so much?
I laugh a short, derisive laugh.
Who am I kidding?
I may not have to prove myself to James anymore, but he did say he needs me and asked for forgiveness for what he still expects of me. But even if that wasn’t the case, there’s that small promise of revenge I made to myself. I have a score to settle with Elliot Whitehouse and Luke Hailstone. I’m not going anywhere.
Yes, James’s acceptance is satisfying, but it will pale in comparison to the pleasure of making Elliot and Luke pay for all they’ve taken from me.
For that, I can be courageous.
For that, I can be strong.
As soon as I enter the mess hall, I sense a charged mood in the air. Everyone is talking animatedly, hardly touching their meals. I move to the food line, ears perked to the many ongoing conversations. I catch words, but nothing definite.
Captains. Trip. Scouts. Shot. Igniters.
I snatch a red tray from the pile, place it on the metal rails and slide it forward. As I point at the braised pork chop, steamed vegetables and rice pilaf, I think of Hannah clutching a bag of chips to her chest, her face gaunt and pale. My stomach turns to stone.
The server—a tall, blond guy with a face as smooth and white as a toilet bowl—hands me a plate full of food. I force myself to take it.
“Good deal. Good deal, Narcissus,” I ramble in my usual Azrael fashion.
“I’ve told you a thousand times my name is not Narcissus,” he barks.
“Yeah, whatever,” I mumble.
He’ll never convince me he doesn’t spend hours in front of the mirror, looking for wrinkles and blemishes so he can zap them with his Eklyptor morphing powers.
I turn and give him a backward wave. My gaze sweeps the dining area looking for Lyra. She’s not here. My boots tap against the chevron-patterned linoleum floor as I practically march in place. Briefly, I consider dumping the food in the garbage can and leaving. My appetite has vanished, and eating among these beasts isn’t likely to improve it.
Except not staying might appear fishy, so I find a spot on an empty table and set my tray down. Dozens of Formica tables are lined up in rows, most occupied by camo-clad Whitehouse members. The place never fills to capacity, since people eat in shifts based on their scouting and fighting duties. Though it’s always seems crowded enough for my taste, especially when some of the diners are too big for the narrow chairs.
I stare at the pork chop and can’t help myself but wonder how many people are starving to death, hiding in vacant buildings, too afraid to go out and look for sustenance. I stab my fork into the center of the chunk of meat.
“Both shot dead. I knew Griffin, but not the other one,” Hounddog says as he and Gecko Man take a seat at an adjacent table.
I perk up and surreptitiously watch them, eyes on my plate most of the time.
Gecko Man’s tongue flicks in and out of his mouth so fast that he leaves me no doubt he could catch flies in a snap. The fleshy appendage flicks out a few more times before he gets it under control and says, “Fuckin’ Igniters! They’re getting bolder. But let them keep venturing closer. We’ll show them.”
So they found the dead scouts and think Igniters killed them. Well, they’re not wrong. No wonder everyone seems more irritated than usual. I press my lips tight to repress a grin. It’s nice to see my efforts giving the beasts some heartburn.
On my way back to headquarters, I avoided passing by the deli, fearing no one had found the bodies and trying to avoid being spotted anywhere near the scene of the crime. I wonder who found them.
Gecko Man’s protruding eyes blink with lids as big as napkins. God, someone needs to tell him he’s taking the bug-eyed look way past gecko and well into giant