Any Port in a Storm (27 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

We go straight to the meeting hall when we arrive at the Summit, and before we even open the door, the sound of yelling reaches us. Usually the late night meetings are placid affairs, but this is anything but placid.

Something heavy thumps into the door.

"Slummoth slime on a cracker," Mira says. "What the actual fuck are they doing?"

I pull open the door, and I have to step over an unconscious Mediator to get through it. Mira's question seems like a good one.
 

We've walked into an all-out brawl.

Most of the fighting is going on down on the floor, though to our left three people are duking it out across two levels of terraced seats. Alamea's at the front of the room, untouched in the maelstrom, and to the side, Ben's trying to keep a woman from getting him in a chokehold. I hope she succeeds.

A young Mediator I recognize from the last elevation ceremony as being just out of training tries to snake by me, and I grab him by the ear. He twists and yells, and I have him on his knees in three seconds.
 

"You've got one minute to tell me exactly what started this," I say.

"Mediator Wheedle said Alamea was endangering the city by allowing shades to go unsupervised. Ow! Will you let go of my ear?"
 

"Nope. Keep talking."

I know this kid from the front desk over the summer. He's as green as a grass stain and clearly wasn't paying enough attention in training to fight back.
 

"Mediator Wheedle said that these shades are going to keep killing people and that it's going to reflect on the Summit and that Alamea's weak for not cracking down." The kid squirms, which probably makes his ear hurt worse.

Mediator Wheedle. I know Ben can't help his name, but it makes me want to punch him even more.

I'm just glad no one has the tits to try and fuck with Alamea at this point. If people were throwing fists her way, that would be even worse, though as far as silver linings go, it's pretty dingy.

I drop the kid's ear. "Go on, get." He scurries away.

Finally someone spots us, and a couple stormy faces come our way.
 

"Oh, hells, no," I say. It actually stops the two Mediators in their tracks. "You so much try and lay a hand on me and I will use Ben and Alamea as goal posts and punt you through them for three points."

I take two steps down the aisle toward Alamea, and one of them rushes me. I've got the higher ground and the apparent advantage of brains, and I plant a side kick on the Mediator's sternum.

He doesn't fly all the way to Alamea, but close. He lands on his back at the foot of the stairs to the dais, and his friend thinks better of coming at me and steps aside.

Ben's managed to get the woman off his back, but she's dodging every one of his punches, and if he's not careful, she's going to catch him with a round kick.

Someone takes that moment to run at Alamea, who very calmly delivers an upper cut to the Mediator's face, knocking her out cold.

"Enough!" Her voice thunders through the room with the force of a summer storm, and it distracts Ben enough that the woman he's fighting does exactly as I predicted and lands a round kick on the side of his head. His eyes glaze, and he slumps over, and I resist the urge to cheer.

"With the exception of the three newcomers who didn't realize they were walking into the pages of the Outsiders, every Mediator in this room will be subject to disciplinary action pending review by your superiors." Alamea steps to the edge of the dais and off of it, stepping over the Mediator I kicked to the floor with barely disguised disdain. "We are not schoolyard bullies, and this is not a rumble. You are grown adults and the first line of defense of this city."

Though her words are measured, when Alamea approaches me, I can see that her hands are nearly shaking with fury. Her locs swish behind her, and she looks past me without even seeming to see me. When I turn, I see Gregor at the top of the stairs, looking down at the remains of the fray with his blocky face blank. He makes eye contact with Alamea, but he doesn't say anything.

What I wouldn't give to see inside both their heads right now. I can feel Mira and Ripper's body heat behind me, and the room's sudden quiet is pierced only by the occasional groan and heavy sighs of people getting to their feet. I don't even know what to do. Never in my life would I have expected to show up to the Summit and find this.

Beneath the pierced bubble of fighting, the tension still roils and stretches, and I know it's only a matter of time before it snaps again. Alamea walks right past Gregor and out the door of the meeting chamber. After a minute of looking around and watching people stuff tissues up their nostrils to stem nosebleeds, I make for the door as well.

Gregor stops me in the threshold. "Storme, what are you doing here?"

"I stopped by to pick up some tea," I lie blandly.
 

He snorts and gives me a fond smile. A pang twangs through my chest. Six months ago, Gregor's fondness would have been a nice thing. Now it makes me feel like I'm his lapdog. And Alamea's lapdog. I don't want to be anybody's lapdog.
 

"Carrick said they lost the killers again," he says, pitching his voice low enough so that only I can hear him.
 

"I thought that might happen," I say. "This has to stop, Gregor."

"I know." Weirdly, I think he even means it.
 

"Any other jobs for us?" I ask. I don't know what I want him to say; the last thing I want is a repeat of what happened down by Chattanooga, but he has to think I'm still in his corner with my towel and my gloves, ready to fight on his team.
 

He shakes his head. "Catching the shades who are killing our citizens is our first priority."

Now he just sounds like a gods damned politician. I nod and start to walk by. I turn to Ripper, who's lagging behind with Mira, but Gregor reaches out and catches my arm.

"Be careful, Storme," he says, looking over my shoulder at the Mediators in the chamber. "And don't forget your tea."

The Summit supplies all of us with free tea and coffee, probably because they know most of us never get any sleep. I haven't brought any home in ages. After Gryfflet used coffee to poison me last summer, I've lost my taste for the stuff.
 

But when Gregor follows us into the Summit lobby, I make sure to go to the glossy, built-in cabinets in the foyer and take a few boxes.

Ripper and Mira and I talk the whole way back to Mira's house, but none of us have any good strategies for dealing with what's coming next. I leave, feeling like the whole night was an unresolved mess of upsetting happenings, one after another.
 

And with all the running I've been doing, I'm hungry again.

Carrick's not home when I get there, and I feed Nana, going to the fridge to see if I have anything at all. I have peach jam and some bread in the freezer, so I make four pieces of toast and start to eat them at the kitchen table.

My phone rings, and it's an unfamiliar number again. Thinking it's Carrick, I answer. "What now?"

"Was there something before?"
 

I almost drop the phone at the sound of the voice.

It's Mason.

My heart has to be flopping around on the floor somewhere, because I just felt it drop out of my ribcage.
 

"Mason?"

"Hi."

Short and to the point, as usual. Shades.

I swallow, not sure what to say.
Good for you, getting away before all hells broke loose. How's the desert? Meet any nice camels? Oh, hey, thanks for leaving me to deal with this mess?

I don't end up saying any of it, because I can't seem to get any words out.

"Are you there?"

I force out a yes.

Again, though, I don't know what comes after it. Finally, I find some words and string them together. "Where are you?"

"Pakistan."

That seems to get my tongue working again. "Wow, could you have gone any farther away from here?"

"Physically, I think not." There's a hint of a smile in his voice, but also a hint of regret.

I will not think about that regret. I will not.

"Yeah, well. I think you had the right idea," I say.
 

"I heard things aren't going well there." His words are more sure of themselves now, and the difference is stark. He almost sounds like a stranger. Almost.

That makes me laugh, and the sound startles Nana, who I didn't even see come in. She makes a squeak and runs into a chair leg. I reach down and touch her back, cooing at her.

"Is that the rabbit?" Mason asks, sounding more pleased than I want him to.

"Yeah. That's Nana."

"You named her Nana."

"After the dog in Peter Pan," I say. "That poor dog never got to do anything fun."

"I don't think I know Peter Pan."

"Probably not," I agree.

"What's happening there? Saturn told me —"

It finally sinks in that if he heard things weren't going well here, someone had to tell him if he's all the way in fucking Pakistan.
 

"You talked to Saturn? When? Is he okay?" Now the words trip over each other to get out of my mouth, and Mason goes silent.

After a beat, he starts talking again. "He called me yesterday."

"Yesterday? That asshole knocked Mira out and took off, then he left her a cryptic note on her pillow." I remember that Mason left me an also-sort-of cryptic note under my pillow when he left, and the thought ignites my irritation all over again. "And you gave him your number? What is it with you damn shades and notes? Can't you just stick around and say what you mean?"

I think I've startled him, because he doesn't speak again for long enough that I wonder if he's lost the connection, and my heart worms back up into my chest and starts doing double time with the thought of the call ending.

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?" My head spins, and I find myself wishing I'd just wake up and find out that this whole day was a stupid dream.

"Yes." Mason's intake of breath sounds genuine enough to me. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

"Well, everything, for a start," I snap. Then I take my own deep breath and tell my heart to stop beating so quickly. I tell him everything that's been going on, from Saturn's disappearance to Jax and Miles, who he never knew well. I tell him about Gregor and Alamea and Mira and Ripper and how some fucking shade is cutting a swath through the populace of my city and starting with places I know and care about.
 

"Saturn at least is okay. You don't have to worry about him."

Trust a shade to hear everything I just told him and tell me the one thing I already knew.

"He'd be a lot of help if he'd turn back up," I say. "Him running amok around Nashville and leaving notes on pillows isn't the most useful thing he could be doing."

"He has a reason."

"Which is?"

Mason hesitates. "It's not my story to tell."

"Hells, Mason."

"I'm sorry."

"Why exactly did you call?" I ask. It's not out of malice, just curiosity, but I hope he's got a reason beyond,
oh, sorry your life sucks.

"I miss you."

Well, that's nice. I have to think a little too long before I say, "I miss you too."

"I wish I could help."

"You could, you know."

"It took me two months to get here," Mason says.

Yeah, traveling without a passport has to be a pain in the ass. Someday I'll have to ask him how he got across the Atlantic.

I don't think either one of us knows what to say after that, because for a minute or so there's just the sound of our breathing, and I remember too well those nights we spent hand in hand in my bed, learning to trust one another.
 

"I should go," he says.

"I'm glad you called." I think I mean it.
 

"Whatever happens, you can handle it." He sounds sure, and for that I'm thankful. I don't know if he's right, but I'm thankful for whatever it is that makes him believe in me.

"Have fun in Pakistan," I say.

When we hang up, I sit in my kitchen, listening to the sound of my own breathing. In the movies, true love is a thing that just is. But for me, Mason broke something when he left. I know he had to, and I'd never blame him, but love to me means you stay and fight.

My remaining piece and a half of toast is all soggy.