Authors: Megan Morgan
Trina widened her eyes and backed away.
“He means mentally,” June said. “I hope.”
Trina tossed the folder on the bed and clamped her hands over her ears. She scurried backward and hunched against the wall, hands so tight over her ears her arms shook.
Sam stood. “She can’t stay that way forever.” He walked to the bathroom.
June sat on the bed next to Muse and waited, racked with guilt. Sam returned with a wet rag and started cleaning up Muse’s head.
After a few minutes, Trina slid down the wall, whimpering, and took her hands off her ears. “Oh God,” she choked out.
June picked her words carefully. “You will not try to escape this room as long as we’re keeping you here.” Her power flowed across her tongue, wrapping her speech. “You will not make any phone calls for help, or cry out to anyone outside, or hurt anyone in this room in an attempt to break free.”
Sam had Muse’s head in his lap, dabbing her scalp. “Tell her not to destroy the evidence, either.”
“You will not try to destroy or dispose of the results.” She eased her power back. “I think that covers it.”
Trina slumped against the wall, staring at June with glazed eyes. June needed to gargle an entire bottle of mouthwash to wipe that sin away.
“I hate this.” June got up. She had nowhere to go, though.
“Thank you,” Sam said quietly.
As Trina suggested, Muse’s wounds were superficial. Sam disguised himself and went out to get supplies and food. When he returned, he rubbed antibacterial ointment on Muse’s head and wrapped her in a bandage, so she looked like a little vanilla ice cream cone. Trina sat in a chair by the window and didn’t speak, watching them with a dull, depressed gaze.
“We’ll see if Aaron can get us a better hiding spot tomorrow,” Sam said, as they were making sleeping arrangements. “Of course, I’m hoping by tomorrow evening Occam will want to negotiate.”
“I hope his negotiation doesn’t involve sending us Micha’s head in a bag,” June said.
Sam and Muse took one of the beds. Muse had already fallen asleep on it after taking the painkillers Sam brought her. She twitched and shuddered in her sleep. Trina refused to get in the other bed with June, and June didn’t blame her. June gave her a pillow and blanket, and she curled up in the chair. June got in bed but didn’t expect to sleep.
She lay there, staring at the light from the bathroom stretched across the ceiling, the soft breathing around her a small comfort. Muse’s breath hitched with each shudder in her sleep. The occasional car passed on the street. Once, footsteps passed by the door, and June held her breath until they were gone.
Eventually, she checked the clock. Ten after midnight. So many hours before dawn.
She pushed the covers back and quietly got up. She padded to the bathroom and closed the door to a crack.
She leaned, both hands on the sink, and stared into the mirror. The overhead light was harsh, picking out lines on her face she didn’t know she had. Her eyes shone vivid green. Sam’s words from months ago came back, when he’d told her vividly colored eyes betrayed strong powers. She couldn’t hide them. They gave her away at every turn.
She sifted her fingers through her hair. Her light roots were a couple inches long, the black dye job on the rest faded. She placed her hand back on the sink and tilted her head. She looked old and tired. Her thirtieth birthday was coming up in a few months, though she had no reason to care. Where would she celebrate it, if she celebrated at all?
Would she even be alive to celebrate?
A movement caught her eye, and she jerked her head around. The door inched open and Sam peeked in.
“You all right?” he murmured.
“Define ‘all right.’” She stepped back and motioned him in. “Come in, so we don’t disturb the girls.”
Sam pushed the door open, slid inside, and closed it behind him. His tired face was full of lines as well. His hair had gotten longer too, now past his shoulders. His eyes were intensely dark, but not preternaturally so, just natural dark brown.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “You know how it goes. I felt rotten, doing that to Trina.”
“Good.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“It means you still have morals.”
She shook her head. “I’m gonna let her have the bed. It’s the least I can do. I’ll just…sleep in here, I guess.”
With that, she turned and stepped into the tub. She sat down on the cold, dry porcelain and stretched her legs out. She slumped against the sloped back.
“I haven’t slept in a bathtub since college.” Sam sat down on the side of the tub. “Comfy?”
She folded her hands on her stomach. “You know what they say, you do your best thinking in the bath.”
“You shouldn’t think too much. The more you think, the worse you’ll feel.”
“This feels like before, when Jason was trapped inside the Institute. Only now, I’m worrying about Micha and Jason. And Diego. And my mother.”
“Life is just waiting for the next thing to worry about.” He stood, but instead of leaving the room or sitting down on the closed toilet lid, he stepped into the tub as well.
June drew her legs up, frowning at him. Clearly, he wasn’t kidding and fully intended to get in the bathtub with her, so she scooted to the side to give him room. He settled down on the other end. Being much taller than she, once he stretched out, he placed his bare feet next to her shoulder.
She had no choice but to drape her legs over Sam’s hips. “This is absurd.”
“Yes, it is.” He winced and wiggled around. The taps were on the wall above him, but the faucet had to be right in the middle of his back. “I think we could use a little absurdity right now.”
Being tangled up with him so intimately was weird, but not bad. Not bad at all.
“Are we going to stay here all night?” June asked.
“If that’s what it takes.”
She didn’t ask what they were trying to achieve. She wasn’t sure they would get to it, either.
Sam got out again and retrieved blankets and pillows from the room. She got out so he could make a thin mattress of sorts on the bottom of the tub with the blankets, except for one, and then they got back in. She was more comfortable than she would have expected, once she snuggled under the last blanket with a pillow behind her. Sam tucked a pillow between his back and the faucet.
They lay staring at the grungy tile above the shower. The outer room was quiet. Everything was quiet. So much, she heard someone cough in the room next door.
“What would you be doing right now if none of this had happened?” Sam asked.
She shrugged under the blanket. Sam’s foot rested against her arm, shifting restlessly.
“I guess I’d still be tattooing people,” she said. “Running my shop.”
“It’s something to own your own business.”
She nodded. “Diego and I finally got our shit together and rented the building a couple years ago. It’s a small space, but it works. And the apartment above it was open, so I rented that too and I live there. Then we took a couple artists on, and it’s been going all right. We’re covering the bills and turning a little profit.”
“Is that all you ever wanted to do?”
“I guess. I was always an artist. Jason had his acting. I had my art. If I wasn’t tattooing, I’d be doing something artistic.” She paused. “I miss it, you know? Holding the gun. Putting ink under skin. Drawing isn’t quite the same.”
“I’ll bet.”
“What about you?” She stretched, shifting her knees across Sam’s hips. “What would you be doing right now if none of this had happened?”
“Raising hell, I suppose.” He waved vaguely. “Keeping the Paranormal Alliance on track. They have multiple chapters and run their own meetings, but once a year we have a big get-together and discuss the year ahead. That’s coming up in a few months.”
“Maybe you’ll get to attend.”
He snorted. “Do you know your darling Micha once called our gathering a ‘meeting of the militia?’ He insists were going about things the wrong way, even though we do the same things he does. We develop educational programs. We give to charities. We have outreach programs. But apparently we don’t operate to his benevolent specifications.”
“He really called you a militia?”
“If we were a militia, we would have taken over this city a long time ago.”
“What do you do besides run the Paranormal Alliance? From what I hear, you’ve got some political influence. You obviously have money. Does that all come from the Paranormal Alliance? Or do you have a real job?” She couldn’t believe she hadn’t asked these questions before now. Somehow, discussing their personal lives seemed strange, in the midst of everything else.
“I’m actually a politician. I come from money. Groomed for the Ivy League, and that’s where I ended up. Did damn well, too. By the time I got out of college I was in that circle of influence, the upper echelon of Chicago. I actually rubbed elbows with our illustrious President. I was planning to run for mayor, eventually.”
She lifted her head and stared at him, stunned, and sort of awed, too.
“Surprised?” he asked.
“Yes.” She dropped her head back. “And no. I can see you as a politician. So what happened? Why aren’t you mayor now?”
“The thing about being in politics is you see way too much of the plight of the common man. You might think politicians don’t care about the people they represent, but good ones do. It’s just that sometimes it can get overwhelming, especially when the problems are coming from all sides, and some of them—most of them—are things you can’t do anything about.”
She listened, intrigued.
“My career was really getting started around the time the Institute opened. That was a hot subject then, hotter than it is now. The paranormal plight was on everyone’s lips. I wasn’t the only paranormal politician at the time, but I was the one most open about it, so a lot of the issues came my way. And I saw things. I saw the oppression and mistreatment. I saw the misrepresentation. I was harassed myself of course, but I didn’t care as much about that as I did about seeing others abused and mistreated.”
He sounded a lot like Micha, but she refrained from pointing that out.
“I had an intimate view of the inner workings of the Institute at the time, since they schmoozed with the city as much as possible, sliding their way in. I knew something wasn’t right. I could see it. I could feel it in my gut. But when I started asking questions, people didn’t like that. The founders of the Institute were powerful people. They had money and influence. Some had celebrity status. They were known and loved. They could fund bribes, buy their way in, apply the necessary charm. Their corruption started long before the doors ever opened.”
“And that didn’t sit well with you.”
“Not in the least. There was a big movement at the time amongst the paranormal people to stop the Institute from opening, but it was faltering and weak. I’m good at organizing, so that’s what I did.”
“And thus the Paranormal Alliance was born. Wow…”
“Of course I knew my enemies would want me out of my position when I made that move, so I prepared. I’m good with money too, so I did a lot of investing. I made sure I could pay the bills and fund the organization before I quit my job. I’ve written a couple books since then, gotten a lot of attention around the world with paranormal people. They’ve kept my bank account full.”
“A humanitarian and a scholar.” She wasn’t mocking.
“They call us zealous, and radicals, and we’ve gotten a reputation, but what of it? We help our own. We don’t do things violently, even though we could. I couldn’t leave politics completely of course. That’s why I still hold a few positions. I’m like you, with your art. I itch for it. Micha claims they only tolerate me because of affirmative paranormal action, and that I strong-arm my way into everything. I say he can choke on my dick.”
She wiped a hand over her mouth to hide a smile. “There’s so much bickering, when you guys all ought to be on the same side. Like you and Aaron. You guys all hate the Institute, so why are you fighting each other? You’re like rats in a cage, chewing each other’s legs.”
“It’s not as bad as it used to be. We’re starting to band together. But I’m never going to like your boyfriend and his holier-than-everyone attitude.”
She tried to kick him in the side but succeeded in merely squeezing him with both feet. “I told you, quit calling him that.”
“Pardon me, your fuck friend.”
“Why do you keep bringing that up? Are you jealous?”
He adjusted the pillow behind him. “You wish.”
“All this makes me realize I know so little about you. Are you married? Or have—someone? Like, is Muse…”
He narrowed his eyes. He had one arm on the side of the tub and drummed his fingertips against the porcelain.
“What?” She frowned. “It’s a simple question.”
“I’m not married. Nor have I ever been.”
“All right.” She searched her brain for another subject. “You told me before you’re part Israeli.”
“My grandfather came from Israel, yes. In nineteen forty-eight, to escape the Arab-Israeli war. He came to Chicago and started his own business, a printing company. He met my grandmother, an American woman, shortly after. She worked at her father’s shop nearby. I’ve heard that great love story so many times.” He made a disdainful face. “How the sunlight fell on her hair and blah, blah. His parents didn’t like it because she wasn’t Jewish.”
“Your grandfather is Jewish?”
“A Hiloni Jew, yes. Which means he’s not religious. Most Israeli people are Jewish, of various sorts. My father was raised up in the culture, but he abandoned it when he got older. There are parts of Judaism that still believe people with paranormal powers are influenced by dibbuk, evil spirits. My mother is a shapeshifter. They met in college. He couldn’t abide by the idea that the woman he loved was evil.”
“So I take it your father and grandfather don’t get along?”
“They’ve had their differences over the years, but my grandfather was always proud of him, or at least it seemed that way. My father is very good at business. He’s also involved in politics. I think that’s why my brother and I—” He stopped short. “We were raised in it, and it’s what we became.”