Scarred

A silent scream hollowed my chest, and my mindmuscle burned. I felt like tearing down the broken ceiling to crush us all. The fact that I'd earned his mistrust a dozen times over only made it hurt more.

I reached the door to my room—dark, cold, empty—and hesitated, restless. My muscles watered with exhaustion, my eyes smarted with grit. I needed to crash. But my thoughts howled in wild circles, my power pacing like a caged beast in my belly. My senses had graduated from tingling through prickling to a malicious stinging cloud that wouldn't be silent. Sleep seemed about as likely as a lightning strike.

And I still had business tonight. The memory of those teenage hooligans—y'know, the ones with identical, improbable powers who'd whipped my ass?—wouldn't leave me alone. Who were they working for? What was the artifact they'd taken, and why did they want it?

More to the point: had Razorfire really deployed them against his own guy? And why?

Sure, maybe I was paranoid. Seeing archvillain conspiracies lurking under every rock, every breath of wind and rustle of leaves part of an elaborate plot against me.

Wouldn't be the first time it'd turned out to be true.

I crept to the cell next to mine and pushed on the unlocked door. "You awake?" I whispered.

Dim green glow filtered from a computer screen, throwing the tiny cell into shadows. A cursor blinked solemnly from a window brimming with wingdings code. Schematics and circuit diagrams were stuck to the whitewashed walls with tape and gum. The crumpled bed had disappeared under a heap of silicon hardware, cables, parts of phones; more of the same cluttered the desk, next to coffee mugs and empty cola cans and two unwashed dinner plates.

Glimmer lay asleep at his desk, green light rinsing his face. Head pillowed on one arm, dark hair with an albino splash in front tumbling onto the keyboard. His warm vanilla-spice scent drifted, both comfort and accusation. I inhaled more deeply, like I did sometimes when he wasn't watching. Oyy. Even working nineteen hours a day in a grubby cell deep in the ruins of a sadist's hellhole, he managed to smell like this. If Glimmer were a villain—if he'd even a breath of badness in him, which he didn't—you'd flee from that scent alone.

He looked exhausted, dark stubble stark against his too-pale face. Time was, he'd worn his mask twenty-four-seven around me. No longer. He'd nothing to hide, except that he was young and talented and didn't deserve the shitty deal Razorfire had hurled his way.

I bit my lip. Once upon a time, Glimmer had been my friend. God, I longed to talk the way we used to. Trade insults, give him crap about his hair product. Say, dude, you'll never believe what happened to me tonight and have him scoff at me, charm me with his grin and his wise-ass wit. I wanted to be dazzled by his white-knight geekboy brilliance, and hunt criminals together safe in the knowledge that he'd never betray me, never give up. Hell, the jealous part of me wanted to smack his pretty face for being so much better at it all than I.

Compelled, I drifted my palm over his cheek, just a twitch from touching. His breath warmed my hand, and my pulse quickened, shame and loneliness and some deeper compulsion I didn't understand mingling like inks in my blood. I could wake him. Stroke that velvety hair from his eyes, take heart from his sweet, crooked smile…

But if I touched him, he might look at me.

Instead, I stuffed my hand into my inside pocket and yanked out the DVD of security footage I'd taken from Turnip Man at the museum. Unearthed a pad of yellow sticky notes from the mess on the desk, and stuck one onto the plastic case.

Check out 12:57 am. Who the fuck are these clowns?

xox

V.

P.S. Your lasagna is better.

Quietly, I set the DVD by his keyboard, where he'd see it when he woke. Like he didn't already have enough work to do.

Glimmer's lashes fluttered, and he murmured, immersed in some unwelcome dream. My throat ached. My rude thoughts about him earlier in the night seemed petty and stupid. All his bad opinions of me? They were justified. He was strong, steadfast, a proper hero. Whereas I was unreliable, weak, indecisive, confused about the simplest decisions.

Maybe part of me resented him for making me feel inferior. And okay, maybe another, secret, blushing-girly part would've liked it if he were a bit more jealous about the whole drunk-and-laid thing. He was smart, cute, had a heart of unblemished gold. Any woman would want him.

But mostly, I just wanted my friend back.

I could wake him right now. Tell him how sorry I am for being such a screw-up. Beg him to help me get through this, to be there for me, the way he'd always been since the moment we met…

Bzzz-bzzz.

My phone, vibrating on silent. Shit. It wouldn't give up.

Swiftly, I backed off, and shielded the screen's light with my curled hand. That message I'd ignored a few hours ago, after I'd escaped from the museum guards…

My nerves crackled, ice and fire. The bright letters telescoped, and all else, including time, slipped away.

Confused, firebird?

Let's talk. You know the place.

R.

My throat swelled, throttling me.

Memory swamped me, nightmares of pleasure and passion and utter conviction, both delight and torture. It was unique, singular, terrifying. And I adored it.

I gasped, shivering. I was sweating, my mouth sticky. My hands shook. A junkie denied a fix.

Oh, God.

Keep it down, urged Common-Sense Verity, the sensible and incredulous me who still lurked somewhere inside. It's not what it seems. It's just a learned response. You know that. Fight it!

Glimmer stirred, a fragrant shadow amongst shadows. "Verity?" he mumbled, slurring. "Whassup?"

My guts hollowed, desperation swimming against a warm velvety undercurrent of desire. Glimmer could help me. I knew he could. Fight it!

But I didn't want to.

“Nothing,” I murmured, oddly calm. So calm, it should’ve terrified me. But I was already beyond fear. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” And I pocketed my phone and walked out.

~ 4 ~ (#u63e7c8ce-943b-5dfe-abee-c0561b1a1f92)

On the bridge across the gateway to the bay, fog spiraled in slow motion, weaving intricate ghostly shapes around the soaring suspension cables. Damp pre-dawn crept chilly fingers up my coat sleeves. Piquant sea air stung my face. To landward, the white halogen spotlights of newly refurbished Rock Island Prison glistened faintly through the mist. Somewhere below me swirled the dark, invisible sea.

I'd walked here, confident, flitting coolly across darkened parklands and Sentinel-free streets. But now, crab-clawed nerves gripped my guts. Damn, I needed to pee. My fingers shook. My lungs wouldn't take in enough air. At my back, a car whooshed by, and I jumped like a startled frog, ribbit!

Fuck. My sweaty palms slicked the railing, ripe with fear and anticipation. My senses fizzed, and I glanced over my shoulder, certain I was being watched. But I saw no one.

Deep in the rusty cells of my mind, Common-Sense Verity kicked at the walls and screamed what the hell are you doing? The rest of me just felt like a high-school girl on prom night. I hadn't seen him in person for weeks. Suddenly, it seemed so unbearably long.

This was our place. Always had been, since that very first night, when I'd wept and screamed into uncaring darkness, and he'd come for me. Not my father, not my brothers, but him, alone, when no one else would.

And he wasn't here.

My knees watered, like they did when I was small and my father scolded me for some thoughtless mistake. Oh, God. I was too late. He'd already left. I should've picked up that message as soon as it chimed. If I'd displeased him…

Feathers of flame teased the back of my neck. "Hello, firebird."

I whirled, my heart pounding.

And there he stood. Vincent Caine, richest guy in town, lately CEO of Iridium Industries, genius inventor of the Sentinel (among other flashy, ubiquitous bits of kit) and mayor of Sapphire City.