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“Hello, Marci,” Luke says from the comfort of an armchair.
I look around, unsure of whether I’ve stepped into a plane or someone’s living room. Luke’s lair occupies the first-class compartment of what seems to be a 747 jumbo jet. The aisles have been gutted of their uncomfortable seats, and the space has been completely remodeled into what could be called a welcoming space—if the blond, lying Eklyptor was removed, that is. There are lamps, two more armchairs, a small refrigerator with snacks on top, a Bose stereo, even a few well-supplied bookshelves.
“Been to IKIA lately,” I ask.
Luke chuckles good-heartedly. “It’s one of the spaces I keep. Not the main one, but my favorite.”
I stash that information in case it later becomes useful. I guess this is why I didn’t see many soldiers roaming around. I wonder where he houses the majority of his faction.
“You have to admit it’s pretty cool,” he says.
“It would be if certain props could be removed.” I give him a look, then extend it to Tauro who stands behind me.
“Fair enough.” The warm glow of a lamp shines above Luke’s head, illuminating the book he was reading. He sets the paperback down on top of the bookshelf. “We can do something about half the problem. Thank you, Tauro. I can take it from here.”
“I’ll be right outside, in case you need me.” Tauro inclines his head. I make an unnecessary show of getting out of the way of his horns. He ignores me and, somehow, manages to make me feel childish. He leaves silently as if he has levitating powers or something.
“Sit, please.” Luke points at an armchair across from his.
I plop myself down, acting unimpressed and unafraid. I’d hate to admit I’m neither one of those.
“Great minds think alike.” He smiles.
I frown at him. What is he talking about?
Luke leans forward very slowly, his hand reaching toward my boot. Gingerly, using thumb and forefinger, he picks a small piece of something attached to my shoelace. He places it on the palm of his other hand and offers it to me.
I move close to take a better look. It’s different than mine, but similar enough: a tracker. Crap!
Check. Or is that checkmate?
Is this how things will always go between us?
“Where is Xave’s box?”
“Not now.”
I bite my thumbnail, trying to disguise my frustration.
He sets it on top of his book which happens to be Lord of the Flies. I try to think of something snippy to say about his choice of literature, but I can’t. I’ve read the stupid book and enjoyed it, too.
I shift in my seat, “You said you wouldn’t force me to come.”
“I didn’t. You came of your own accord.”
“That’s bullshit. Let me go!”
“Can’t do that. I’m sure you understand why.”
“So what? I’m your prisoner, now?”
“Yes,” a simple, unequivocal answer.
I push to the edge of the armchair, fists clench.
“My hope is that, soon, you won’t look at it that way, though,” he says.
My breath catches midway down my throat. My entire body tingles with the urge to run, though I hold no illusions I would get far. Panic soaks me through and through. He means to release my agent, to help it take over once more. That’s the only way I would ever stay in this place. Will they torture me? Do they know that’s a sure way to break me, to weaken me so Azrael can shove me out of the way?
“I’d rather die,” I blurt out.
Luke regards me with concern, his iridescent blue eyes shining under the lamplight. They’re shockingly beautiful.
“Die?” he says the word as if he’s never heard of the concept. “There’s no need for death when there’s a consensus.”
“It wouldn’t be me. I would never see things your way.”
He rubs his chin in a manner that looks too deliberate, except all of his movements are like that now, so it may be quite accidental.
“Oh!” he exclaims, some sort of understanding coming over him. “You think I mean to bring your agent forward.” To my surprise, his mouth twists with distaste. “No! I would never attempt that!”
For a moment, I think I should pinch myself. This must be a bad dream or a joke of some kind. That or Luke is seriously high. What could make him think that Marci Guerrero, a human, would ever see things the way he does?
Luke straightens and adopts a very serious expression. “I . . . I like you as you are.” He holds my gaze for a short instant, then looks down at his hands so shyly that it makes me think it’s an act. He’s never been the shy kind. Never.
And what the hell does he mean, anyway?
I’m speechless and not about to spur this conversation in any way, so I zip my lips and make sure my body language says it all. I push away until my butt hits the back of the armchair and tightly cross my arms over my chest.
He doesn’t get the hint and goes on. “You are the Marci I’ve known for over ten years. I wouldn’t dare change anything about you.”
“Yeah,” I say nonchalantly. “That’s great. I like me this way, too. There’s one thing we can agree on. Just don’t get your hopes high on us agreeing on much else.”
His head bobs up and down as he nods several times. His expression is sad and, something about his smooth skin going through the tremendous effort of forming downward lines around his mouth and eyes, makes his sadness look epic.
“I can understand your hostility,” he says. “Our situation was greatly mismanaged.”
“If you’re referring to the callous screw up of pretending to be my brother, that’s gotta be the understatement of the century,” I say, then open my eyes wide and put on a shocked expression. “Gosh, something else we can agree on. Hell must have teleported to the Arctic, and Satan’s balls froze solid.”
Luke sighs. “Do you think we could have a civil conversation?”
“What? Am I getting on your nerves or something? I thought you said you liked me just as I am.” I don an innocent expression and bat my eyelashes.
“I guess we can’t. Not that I blame you.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, let me start with an apology.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Apologies are for spilled milk, not long-lost-brother shenanigans. And don’t get me started on the blatant murder and attempted extermination of an entire species. Oh, and there’s also that time you stole the person I thought was a mother. Good one, by the way! That was extremely classy.”
He cocks his head to one side. “So you know about Karen?”
I nod, wondering where she is. Somewhere in this airport?
As if reading my mind, Luke says, “She . . . um, I’m sorry to say that she’s dead, a casualty in a battle against Whitehouse.”
The words feel like a blow to my chest. I do my best to harden my expression. “No, you killed her when you put an Eklyptor in her brain. She’s been dead to me ever since.” I have buried her deep inside of me, and I don’t plan to exhume what remains of her—not even at this news.
“I’ll never forgive myself for that mistake.”
“It makes no difference to me,” I blurt out, trying very hard not to care. “I also know you’re not my father’s son. So tell me, how the hell does this mess work? I can see only one possibility, one I have a feeling you’ll have no trouble explaining.” One that makes my stomach turn with an explosive mixture of disgust and rage.
Luke runs his forefinger across the arch of one of his eyebrows. He looks like someone who’s trying to gather courage. He doesn’t want to talk about it which means it must be as repulsive as I imagine. A pang of denial hits me straight in the middle of the chest. I jerk to my feet and walk to the small refrigerator at the opposite end of the cabin and stare at the snacks piled on top.
How could they do that? How could they?!
Suddenly, I don’t want Luke to explain anything. I don’t want to hear him apologize, grovel, justify. Confirmation is all I’ll ever be able to take from him, so I ask, “Did Karen give birth to you?”
“I would like to—”
“Just answer the question!”
He gives a deep inhale. “Yes, she did.”
“Where did I come from?”
“You—”
“No, stop! Wrong question.” I pick up a small packet of cheese crackers, try to focus on the yellow letters written on it. Yes or no. That is all I need from him.
“Did Karen give birth to twins?” It’s a stupid question. The hospital records say she did. She said she did. Dad said she did. I guess I’m just prolonging the inevitable.
“Yes.” Luke has caught my drift. He’s smart like that.
I throw a glance over my shoulder. His chin is on his chest, his eyes focused on his shoes. I look back at the crackers and fold my fingers around them.
“Did she give birth to me?” My voice shakes with the question. I know the woman isn’t my mother, our DNAs don’t match. This, under normal circumstances, would be an absurd question. But Normal died months ago, leaving us with Ludicrous who, besides being deranged, also happens to have a cruel sense of humor.
The crackers fall to the floor and my hands are halfway to my ears before I stop myself. I don’t want to hear this, but it’s not like I’m five years old and I can refuse to listen, singing la la la.
“Yes, Marci. Karen gave birth to you.”