25

Vic

“You don’t want to stay for the coronation?” Argent teased, a bit of her usual spirit showing through.

Vic scoffed. “Do you?”

She shook her head a little, but said, “My place is here.”

“Will you have a funeral first?” Vic asked.

“I don’t think so.” Argent reached out and traced a circle on the stone bench with a finger. “Death is so rare among our kind. And Father—well it will take us a while to imagine a world without him in it.”

Vic wondered what a while meant to them. Decades? Centuries?

“I’m sorry,” Vic said.

He’d lost his own father, and some days it still hit him hard, out of nowhere, like a truck. He didn’t know how to comfort someone whose father was never meant to die.

“It had to happen,” she said, reading his expression. “I know you don’t understand, but it is the law. Silver was in his rights. He didn’t do anything illegal.”

“I understand,” Vic said. “But illegal and wrong aren’t the same. He could have found another way.”

“You act like he hadn’t tried for decades, for a century,” she said. “Silver was out of time. Humanity was out of time.”

Vic didn’t like it. He would never like it, but Silver’s father had forced him to it, into stopping him. Still, Vic ground his teeth that he’d been used, that his gun had been used.

And then there was the other thing.

Because if lawful and legal were sometimes wrong, then illegal sometimes had to be right.

Vic remembered what Death had said about old tools.

But who made the call? Who decided when someone had outlived their usefulness?

Death apparently. She made the decision when your time was up.

Vic had been given no say about what had happened with Mercy. Neither had Adam, in the end. She’d pushed him to it, left him no choice. He’d been the gun, the tool.

Vic felt sick again.

If that’s what being a Reaper meant, then he wanted no part of it.

He could leave all of this behind, the magic clothes, the floating cities. They were fantastic, but if the price was condoning murder, then Vic could give it up, couldn’t he?

But what about Adam?

Just trying to sort out his feelings was a ball of sharp bits in his chest.

Yeah, it was definitely time to go.

He’d already decided to go home, felt like that was the right decision. Nothing hurt more than sitting on the fence, and it was time to make a choice.

“I’m ready,” he said to Argent. “Please.”

She held out her hands. Vic took them and they spun.

It felt like one of those games he’d played as a kid, turning and turning until you fell down, dizzy and on the edge of puking.

Then Argent let him go.

Vic was back outside his apartment, his clothes as they’d been when he’d left, his bag beside him on the ground. He checked and yes, his gun and baton were in his pockets.

“Road trip over,” he muttered.

His only souvenir was the sunglasses Argent had given him. Vic pocketed them carefully, a little surprised she hadn’t taken them back.

It was night. The streetlamps were on. The Denver air felt a little colder, a little more on the edge of winter. Summer was definitely winding down.

Vic’s heart lay heavy in his chest.

Adam was back there, in Guthrie, dealing with whatever shit he was dealing with. Another monster. Someone else to be put down.

Vic could go upstairs. He could shower, sleep, and go to work tomorrow.

He climbed into his car instead, tossed his bag in the back seat, and drove west down Colfax.

His mom’s house wasn’t far. Vic hadn’t been home that much before he’d been shot. He’d enjoyed moving out, being on his own.

Jesse still lived at home, probably would until he got married. If he ever got married. Vic was too nice to call his brother a mama’s boy. That and Jesse still had quite a lot of muscle on him.

His mother was at the dining room table when Vic got there. Jesse was out, but Vic got an enthusiastic greeting from Chaos, Jesse’s pit bull.

“Shh, girl,” Vic said, scratching her between the eyes.

“Vicente,” Maria said, looking up from her cup of evening tea.

She’d been getting herbal lately, developing a fondness for floral teas and scented candles. She had a little tray with a pot of hot water and a selection of mugs and packets full of tea bags.

A vase of the black roses from the backyard sat on the table. They’d bloomed that way when Vic had become a Reaper. Adam had called them a portent. Vic didn’t know if they’d ever change back. His mother kept them quiet, not wanting to call attention to Adam and the way he’d saved Vic. She considered it a miracle, a blessing, but knew other people might not think so.

The dining room, with its purple wall full of photos and the low hanging fixture over the table casting a sunny glow said home to him. It said family, and Vic realized why he’d come here. He needed a bit of that at the moment. He needed his mom.

“I thought you were with Adam,” Maria said, nodding for him to take a seat. “Jesse said you went to Oklahoma.”

“I did,” he said, pulling out a chair. “But I came back early.”

“You fought?” she asked.

“Yeah, sort of,” he said. “How did you know?”

“Your face,” she said with a smile. She gestured to the tray. “Have some tea.”

Vic did not argue. He took a mug, chose a bag of English Breakfast, kind of wishing it was coffee. He’d been drinking a lot more coffee since he’d met Adam. The guy had a serious addiction.

“Tell me about it,” his mother said. “If you want, if it will help.”

“I’m not sure it will,” Vic said with a shrug. He shook his head. “And I never thought I’d be talking to you about boy trouble.”

“Never?” she asked.

“It’s still kind of new to me,” Vic admitted. “You know, liking men and women.”

“I did wonder sometimes,” she said. “None of those girls ever stuck. They never seemed right for you. And I like Adam. I like the way you brighten when you’re talking about him.”

“How about Dad?” Vic asked. “Do you think he would have understood?”

“I don’t know, Vicente. Your father could be very traditional, you know that. He wanted what was best for you boys, but he had his own ideas about what that meant. If he knew or had any thoughts about it, he never mentioned it to me.”

Vic looked at the picture of his graduation from the academy. He stood between his parents, dressed in his uniform. His dad had been proud of him. He beamed as much as Maria.

He missed his dad so intensely that his heart seemed to pause. He’d seen Adam put a fist to his chest sometimes, rub it. Vic did that now.

If only he could talk to Eduardo. Vic loved his mother, deeply, but right then he missed his dad so much that it ached.

“Did you and Adam fight about this?” she asked. “About you being bi?”

“No,” Vic said. “He kept something from me, and it’s a pretty big deal.”

“But he told you?” she said, taking a slow sip from her mug.

“When he had to,” Vic said. “Otherwise he wasn’t going to.”

Maria pursed her lips.

“You love him.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Vic said, and it hurt like a kick in his chest because he hadn’t said it out loud before, not even to Adam, too scared that Adam would think it was just the magic and run away like his hair was on fire. “I really do.”

“Then you forgive him. You let him know he messed up. You give him another chance.” Maria held up a single finger. “One more chance. And you forgive him.”

“It’s not that easy, Mom.”

“I know,” she said, her voice firm but a little sad. She stared into her tea for a moment, then as calmly as if she’d been imparting one of her bits of historical trivia she added, “Eduardo cheated on me once.”

“Papa?” Vic asked.

“Maybe more than once,” she said with a shrug. “I only knew about the one. I only wanted to know about the one.”

“What?” Vic asked, still stunned. He knew he sounded like an idiot, but he didn’t know what else to say.

“It was before we were married. He was young. We were young. He used to like to go out dancing. Sometimes I’d go with him. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t,” Vic said, trying to imagine his mother the professor at a nightclub.

“He went home with some girl. I don’t even remember her name. How funny is that?” Maria laughed. “But word got out. And I was done with him.”

“But you still married him?” Vic asked.

Her smile became sly. “Eventually. But I wish I’d forgiven him sooner. That old saying about carrying anger is true. It just burns you, not the person you resent.”

“So what, just forgive him?” Vic asked. “Forget it?”

“Forgive him,” she said. “No matter what, because that’s what’s best for you. Don’t let it make you angry and bitter, Vicente. Anger is a slow poison.”

“Carry water in your bucket,” he said, quoting something his father used to tell him and Jesse when they were fighting. “Throw out that gasoline.”

“Exactly,” Maria said. “But you don’t forget. Don’t resent them, but don’t be a doormat either.”

“I can’t imagine you had any trouble with that,” Vic said.

His mother was smart, strong. She was warm, but she didn’t take any crap.

“It can be harder than you think,” she said. “I loved your father. I love you boys. Sometimes the hardest thing is watching someone you love make a mistake that you know is going to hurt them, but you can’t tell them. They have to learn for themselves.”

Vic knew the look she gave him or Jesse in those moments. It said, Go ahead. I’ll get the bandages and peroxide. He just hadn’t realized she’d ever used it on Eduardo.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” she asked, nudging him out of his thoughts.

“Please,” he said. “But I still don’t know what to do about Adam.”

“Can you let him go?” she asked, pushing back her chair to stand. She gestured toward the kitchen.

“I don’t know.”

“I couldn’t let your father go,” she said. “I wanted to. I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad we had everything we did, especially you boys, right up to the end.”

Maria stood on her toes to peer into the cupboards. She was shorter than Vic. He had her slender frame but had gotten Eduardo’s height. Jesse was the opposite, shorter, but broader-shouldered.

“I don’t know what I have in here,” she said. “Jesse would live on pizza if I let him.”

“Let me,” Vic said, smiling, knowing that her invitation had been a lure, hoping he’d cook for her. He was happy to fall for it.

His mother never had been a great cook. Eduardo had been the one to make them enchiladas and sofrito. Maria’s time in grad school, getting her doctorate, meant Vic had cooked for him and Jesse when Dad was working, then later, when Dad had been too sick.

They didn’t talk about it much. The cancer.

“Got it,” Vic said, finding a can of black beans. “Ten-minute tacos.”

“If you insist,” she said, smiling.

She watched him stir in garlic and onions.

“Have you cooked for Adam yet?”

“No,” he said.

“You should. That boy is too skinny.”

“Mom . . .”

“I know.” She held up her hands. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I do like him. He didn’t cheat on you did he?”

“No,” Vic said. “And I like him too.”

There was a bag of cabbage that would make a topping and give the cooked beans a little crunch. The corn tortillas in their bag were still good but they’d go stale soon. It was good Vic was using them.

They ate in silence. Maria sipping her tea and cleaning her plate.

Vic wolfed his food down. He’d forgotten how much he needed to eat. Tilla’s fried potatoes had worn off a while ago. Now Vic needed a shower, then sleep. He hoped it would calm the churn of feelings mixing in his guts.

“He’s a good boy, Adam,” Maria said, taking the plates to the sink. “He doesn’t know it, but he is.”

“I don’t think he’s ever had the chance to see it,” Vic said.

She opened her mouth to say something and closed it. She was trying not to push, to let him sort it out. And there it was, that expression that said she’d be there if he needed her, ready with tea or first aid.

Vic leaned to kiss her on the cheek.

“Goodnight, Mama,” he said.

Vic drove home, not smiling, but eased a bit.

He got his mail from the box and walked upstairs.

His apartment had that weird feeling when no one had been home for a few days. It was small, but he could imagine sharing it with someone. He imagined coming home to find Adam here, home from the garage. Vic could cook. It was a domestic picture he wasn’t uncomfortable with.

“Dammit, Adam,” he said aloud. He seemed to be saying that a lot lately.

“Mrow?” something said.

Vic blinked. A black cat was curled up on the couch.

“Spider?” Vic asked, knowing it couldn’t be any other cat. “That’s your name, right?”

The cat sprang off the couch and began rubbing against Vic’s ankles.

“Why aren’t you with Adam?” Vic asked.

“Who’s Adam?” someone else said.

The mail fell out of Vic’s hands.

“Papa?”