Scorched

Inwardly I cursed, but too late. My stomach croaked audibly.

He laughed, warm whiskey. "C'mon, lady, chill out. If I was your enemy, you'd already be dead. Whoever you're running from, they haven't found you so far. Will a few more minutes kill you?"

I sighed, defeated. "Okay. Fine. Can I wash up? And can I, uh, use your phone?"

"You gonna call the cops?"

"No." Like I'd tell him if I was.

"Then knock yourself out." Glimmer tossed me a cell phone, swiveled back to his glowing screens, and ignored me.

I grabbed my clothes and headed out back to the bathroom. My wound dressings got in the way of having a shower, but I washed up as best I could with a towel. The water from the bath taps tasted coppery, but it was hot, and his soap smelled of vanilla and spice. My freshly washed jeans felt crisp against my skin. I didn't see a washing machine. Had he done them by hand?

I pulled my T-shirt over my head, uneasy. Maybe he truly didn't mean me any harm. Then again, I'd heard of serial killers who treated their victims like pets.

I tied my boots and smoothed my damp hair. The mask, I stuffed into my pocket. He'd already seen my face, and clearly knew I was augmented. Probably knew everything else about me, too. What did I have left to hide?

I studied the cell phone he'd given me. Full reception, even though we were underground. Maybe he had a repeater or something. I squirmed, suspicious. It was a risk. But I didn't know what else to do. No one at FortuneCorp had this number. If I didn't stay on the line for very long, they'd never find me. Right?

I held my breath, and dialed my brother's number, the only one of his four that I could remember. Despite everything that had happened, I couldn't believe Adonis would lie to me.

He picked up after three rings. "PR."

I swallowed, dry. "Hey. It's me."

"Jesus." A muffled sound, like he'd put his hand over the phone. "Where are you?" he whispered. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"The doctor from the asylum. Someone told her where I was. I…" Stupid tears blinded me. Fuck. I'd forgotten how much I'd missed his voice. How much he gave me strength. "Someone's after me, Ad. I don't know what to do."

"Okay. Verity, listen to me." Calm, collected, in charge, like always. "You can't come home. It's not safe for you here. Find somewhere to hole up, and I'll sort this out. Equity will listen to us once she's calmed down. I know she will. But I can't protect you unless I know who your enemies are."

Relief sweetened my blood, but at the same time, tiny poisoned claws pricked my heart, sour with suspicion. He would say that, wouldn't he? a harsh voice hissed in my ear. If he was in on it, that's exactly what he'd say. "She'll listen to you, Verity, just tell me everything…"

No. It wasn't true. If he was in on it, he'd say, "Come home, Verity, I'll take care of you, it's not safe for you out there. Come home."

Adonis loved me. He was on my side. I knew it in my heart.

But that didn't mean his phone wasn't tapped. I struggled to keep my voice low. "No. I have to do this on my own. I'll get to the bottom of this, I promise. I'll be in touch. I… I just wanted you to know I'm okay."

"But—"

"Talk soon, Ad." I ended the call, and broke the phone open with shaking fingers. Pulled out the SIM card, and crushed it beneath my boot. Now, no one at FortuneCorp could trace me. At least, I hoped not.

I wiped my leaking eyes. Enough with the self-pity. I had things to do.

Taking a steadying breath, I walked back into the room. The delicious smell of cooked tomato and oregano watered my mouth. Glimmer was messing about in his little kitchenette, his crazy hair sticking up like a mad scientist's. He looked like a cross between Dr. Jekyll and Pepé le Pew.

It was unsettlingly charming.

I held out the gutted phone. "I, uh, had to break your SIM. Sorry."

He shrugged. "It's okay. I go through dozens." He yanked a bowl from his microwave and shoved it across the cracked bench towards me. "Hungry?"

My stomach grumbled. Lasagna, my favorite, homemade, steaming hot and dripping with herbed tomato sauce and cheese. Beat the hell out of Pop-Tarts. "Um—"

"Eat," he insisted. "I've had a dozen chances to poison you already. You've got serious trust issues, you know that?"

I snorted. "Hey, pal, you're the one with the secret underground lair."

That crooked smile. "Yeah. Well. A little paranoia is an occupational hazard."

"Uh-huh. And what is your occupation, exactly?"

"I watch things. Record them. Do a little cleaning up. As you see." He extended his hand in an after-you gesture. His wrist was scarred on the inside, I noticed, old pale lines criss-crossed over the veins. I looked away, uncomfortable. He wouldn't be the first augment to loathe his own skin. Steel slicing soft flesh, warm blood spurting, the bitter taste of copper…

I took the bowl and spoon and headed back to his desk. He sat, bathed in his screens' pale light. I took a cautious bite of lasagna. Mmm. Delicious herbs and roasted tomato made my mouth weep, and I gave up and dug in.

"What's all this?" I mumbled, my mouth full. Touchscreens, data flows, a virtual display projecting fine white light in three dimensions. It reminded me of the set-up in Adonis's living room, only bigger, flashier, more sinister and a whole lot cooler.

"My eyes and ears." Glimmer's fingers darted over the keyboard, and real-time CCTV flashed up, fuzzy black-and-white video of bright-lit shelves of cigarettes and snack food, a security grille, logo-painted windows. "Will you look at this? That's the fourth time the Gallery have robbed that same convenience store in six months. Someone forgot to pay their protection."

Curiosity got the better of me, and I leaned over his chair. Twenty-four-hour news channels, local and national, video upload websites. Stock market watch lists. Sapphire City Chronicle website. Bank and tax records. Police department database, dispatch comms, vehicle movement maps. Custom search engines, automatically sorting and filing hits. An optical satellite tracking system, GPS, cell phone grid triangulations, all overlaid on a digital map of Sapphire City. His own files, reams of information, dates and names and events meticulously catalogued. And all of it about crime and criminals.

Here were images, filed and numbered, mug shots, security cameras, paparazzi snaps and surveillance shots. I swiped through them on the big touchscreen. Gallery hooligans, the unaugmented kind with shotguns and pistols, robbing banks and gas stations, holding hostages, fighting with riot police, whipping up violence at mass demonstrations against poverty or war. Torched housing projects, the charred shells of stores and warehouses. Corpses, shot, burned and mutilated, the victims of gang violence and other angry Gallery shenanigans.

But also the augmented, masked and costumed. I leaned closer, spooning in another tomato-drenched mouthful. Damn, he could cook. This image showed a skinny African-American woman, in a fish-tailed black Goth skirt criss-crossed with scarlet ribbons. Her arm was cocked back, long-nailed fingers bent like talons, midway through hurling a cloud of screeching insects at a fire engine. Her hair flew in a bright crimson tangle, and her eyes were painted with cruel black makeup like a mad Egyptian queen.

"That's Witch," Glimmer said absently, typing as he talked. "She's Gallery. Real name Patience Crook. Owns an occult shop, crystals, tarot cards, all that quasi-Wiccan stuff. Only she's the real deal."

I raised my eyebrows. Nice. We'd never been able to track her true identity down. I swallowed the last of my dinner—mmm, delicious, he'd make some woman a good wife one day—and left the bowl on the desk. "You got some good info here. How come I never heard of you?"

"Maybe I don't want to be famous."

"Give it a rest, Glimmer. You know what I am. We're in the same game. How come we never met?"

He shrugged, but his black gaze darted away. "I keep to myself."

"Right." I flicked to the next image. Another Gallery villain, a stocky guy with long greasy hair, slamming his fist through a shopping mall's glass ceiling and freezing it to glittering icicles. "Awesome," I remarked. "My good buddy Iceclaw. Charming son of a devil. Nearly lost three fingers to frostbite one time because of him…"

I bit my tongue, appalled. Jeez, did I just share? What was this, a crime-fighters' coffee club? For all I knew, this Glimmer character was Gallery too, and playing sly tricks with me.

But I didn't think so.

Call me naïve, but some fragile instinct warmed my blood about him, and it wasn't just that he was sorta cute and smelled great and cooked like a punk-ass Jamie Oliver. He was good-guy material, no question.

And I had to admit, it felt good to be back in the game.

"Likewise," Glimmer said, either oblivious or pretending not to notice my discomfort. "Iceclaw's real name is Declan Finney. He doesn't have a regular job. Just hangs around the docks, crushing knuckles and collecting tribute money from the Dockside Boys."