by H. D. Gordon
“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” he said, and shifted on his feet. He was uncomfortable, and I didn’t need his aura to tell me this.
“Umm…” I said, because I can always be counted on to make the most brilliant of declarations.
Mr. Shy saved me from myself. He said, “I don’t know what you did, or how you did it, but I think you should know that I’m grateful.”
For whatever reason, this admittance was hard to hear, was making my tongue feel thick in my mouth and my lungs ache in my chest. I wanted to get out of here. I needed to get out of here.
But Mr. Shy was going to be heard. He continued, “Since the last time I saw you, I haven’t had a single sip of alcohol.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Hell, I haven’t even craved one. It’s like… like a part of me was mended, healed in a way that I had given up hope was even possible.” Mr. Shy paused, eyeing me in a way that reminded me of his daughter. “Am I crazy?”
I shook my head, clearing my throat twice before I could speak. “No, sir. I don’t think so. Not any more than any of the rest of us.”
He nodded. “I’m not as smart as Sammy is,” he said, and the ghost of a smile came to his face. “Or as her mother was, but I’m not a stupid man, and I know when I’m indebted to someone.”
“Sir, you don’t owe—”
Mr. Shy waved a hand, cutting me off. “Here’s what I do know, just hear me out and then you can be on your way. I can see you’re itching to get somewhere.”
I hesitated, then gave a nod of go-ahead, though I wasn’t sure I really wanted to hear this.
“You’re a strange girl, Aria Fae,” he told me. “And, in honesty, I don’t even want to think about what you and my daughter have been up to when you’re out all hours of the night. Frankly, the possibilities I have been conjuring are too scary to think about. But I do know that I’ve never seen Sammy happier than she has been since she met you. I’ve never seen her more full of life.”
I wanted to tell him to stop talking, to turn away and hear no more, but I didn’t trust my voice not to falter, or my steps to truly carry me away. So I stood on the stoop in the shadow of the apartment building, and listened to what the man had to say.
“Truth is, Sammy and I have been drowning since we lost her mother nearly a year ago. We’ve been hanging by threads—me, especially. I’m not too proud to admit that I was failing her as a father. I was failing as a man.”
He paused, swallowed, held my stare. “Then, on Christmas Eve, you came over, and you took my hand. I don’t remember too much else about what happened, but after you left I took a nap instead of crawling back into a bottle as I had planned, and when I woke up, it was like I was seeing the world through different eyes, like I could put things into focus again.”
I clenched my fists and looked down at my shoes, but did not see them for the moisture that was pooling in my eyes.
Mr. Shy said, “So, I wanted to thank you. Thank you for whatever sacrifice you made to help me be whole again, because something tells me it was a sacrifice. Just know I’m not going to squander it.”
I gave a nod, pulling the hood of my jacket over my head and turning to go. Mr. Shy called out to me once again, stopping me in my tracks.
“Aria?” he said.
I looked over my shoulder. My jaw was gritted hard enough to ache as I fought the oncoming tears.
“To me—and I suspect I’m not the only one in this God forsaken city—you’re a hero,” Mr. Shy told me, and then he winked. “I’ve lived here all my life, and nobody takes those stupid newspapers seriously. Grant City, even with all of its problems, is one big family, one big home, and the people here know when someone’s looking out for us.” He tilted his head, waving me away. “Just thought you should know.”
At last, I made my escape, dropping my skateboard to the sidewalk and zooming away as fast as the little wheels could carry me. But no matter how quickly I rolled, Phillip Shy’s words followed after me.
I could not deny that a part of me wished he was right, and I wondered that if he was, would that change anything? Would I still be able to walk away if I thought my efforts were really making a difference?
I didn’t know the answer to this, and it didn’t matter, anyway. My mind had been made up, and the worst of the leaving was already over. All I had to do now was the actual walking away.
CHAPTER 56
“I knew you’d come to your senses,” Nick told me when I called him later that evening to tell him that I would be returning with him to the Peace Brokers.
“Don’t be a ding-a-ling,” I said, pausing while he laughed. “This isn’t easy for me.”
Nick sobered, but I could tell even over the phone that this news had made his day, and that he was excited and relieved. “I know it isn’t, Aria,” he said. “I know you must be hurting and I’m sorry, but you know it’s the right choice. You know where you belong. With us. With me.”
Was it the right choice? I wondered. Did I know that?
I swallowed and told him I’d be ready to leave come morning. I just had a few more affairs to settle, and then we could be on our way. Nick agreed and promised to pick up the train tickets out of town. We would head back to Blue Hook, New Jersey, where there was a small Broker base, and from there we would likely be assigned new stations.
We hadn’t really discussed our relationship, but since it was a two-hour train ride to Blue Hook, I knew Nick well enough to know that we would. Nick Ramhart was not the kind of man who played games, and I had no reason to doubt his feelings for me. As operatives, long-term relationships were not looked fondly upon. However, recognizing that people would just do it anyway, the Peace Brokers semi-tolerated inner-organization relationships.
Upon reaching adulthood, most operatives worked in pairs, and as covers in the human world, often times these pairs would have to pretend to be married. If a pairing worked out, two PB operatives could spend their entire lives together.
As I pulled the blankets and sheets off my fold-up bed and stuffed them into my trunk along with the books Caleb had given me, I remembered the first time I met one of Nick’s female partners, and how jealous I’d been. He had just turned eighteen, and of course, they’d paired him with a gorgeous half Vamp who looked to me like she would suck him dry if given the chance. Her name had been Sydney, and she’d later died in the line of duty, which had made me feel bad about all the ill I’d felt toward her.
Nick had been paired next with a rather unsavory half Succubus who was masculine and belched loudly during and after all their meals, which had driven him insane but pleased my pre-teen self to no end. I even made up rhymes about Nick and Selma sitting in trees and k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
“Shut up, Aria,” he’d tell me. “It’s not funny. You better hope you get paired with Prince Charming when you’re old enough, otherwise you’ll never hear the end it from me.”
Thinking about these memories now, about how I knew every single one of Nick’s partners, and had spent many a night devising plans to make him own, made a small smile come to my lips. Every single thing I’d been wanting for so long was about to be handed to me, but for whatever reason, I wasn’t as happy as I thought I should be.
It didn’t take long to pack up what little material things I actually owned. In fact, all of my belongings fit firmly in my old trunk, which I usually reserved for my weapons and such.
My wardrobe had grown since I’d moved here, and I thought there would be just enough room inside my trunk for my staff and black, upgraded jacket. As I folded it on top, the black mask I had taken to wearing at night slipped out of the pocket and floated down to the floor.
The mask, with its two holes that framed my eyes, seemed to stare back up at me, and it struck me with gut-clenching clarity that I had said goodbye to most everyone I needed to say goodbye to, but I hadn’t yet said goodbye to her.
I hadn’t said goodbye to the Masked Maiden.
Bending, I scooped the mask up into my hand and stared down at it, turning it over in
my fingers. I wouldn’t be needing it anymore. Peace Brokers hid in plain sight, not beneath hoods or behind masks.
I found myself wandering over to the window, where my brick view waited for me. I didn’t realize until I was standing there that I’d retrieved my black jacket from the trunk, and now it and the mask were dangling from my fingers.
I shrugged the jacket over my shoulders and pulled the hood up over my head, concealing my mane of reddish-brown hair. Then, I was slipping on the mask and hoisting myself up onto the windowsill.
Night was just beginning to swoop in over Grant City, and I figured I may as well get it out of my system, may as well go for one more rooftop stroll, one more hit of the drug that I’d nearly addicted myself to.
Besides, I was not the only one who had goodbyes to say. The Masked Maiden had a few ends of her own to tie up.
***
If I got caught doing this, I would be labeled a total creeper, but that didn’t stop me. I was leaving Grant City, anyway, and I would be leaving all the drama behind with it.
I peered in through the glass, balancing on my tiptoes on the one-inch ledge of the windowsill. When I saw that the room was dark, and my ears only picked up one young heartbeat inside, I licked my lips and knocked gently on the window.
Two more knocks, and there was a stirring on the other side. Two big brown eyes popped into view, blinking as they tried to take in what had woken them. When Maleia saw that it was I who was perched outside her window, a grin lit up her perfect little face, but I didn’t miss the fact that there was something behind her gaze that was too aged for a child of only six years old.
This change in her was my doing; there was no doubt of that. It was one of the reasons I had to go. Sam’s father could insist I was a hero all he wanted, but the truth was, everyone in this city was safer without me.
Maleia retrieved a little pink chair near a bookshelf in the room and dragged it over to the window. Stepping up onto it, her dark hair puffing out in pigtails on either side of her head, she unlatched the lock on the window, and I eased it open and slipped inside.
As soon as I was through the window, two little arms wrapped about my waist and held me tight.
“I was hoping you would come visit me,” Maleia said, careful to keep her voice low. “Do you like my new room?”
I glanced around, noticing that the new apartment Maleia and her mother had moved to after the fire was much nicer than her old one.
“I like it very much,” I said.
“I have a window now,” she beamed. “So you can come visit any time you want.”
I hugged her close, squatting down before her to get a look at her face. “How are you, sweetheart?” I whispered.
A grin spread over her face. “Better now that you’re here.”
I smiled in return. “How have you been sleeping?”
Maleia shrugged, biting at her lip. “I sleep okay, because I know you’re out there, protecting us from the bad men.” She padded over to her little desk in the corner and returned with a piece of paper, holding it out to me. “I made this for you.”
I took the paper and looked down at a crayon drawing of the Masked Maiden—hood, mask, and all. Beside her was a little girl that I supposed was Maleia, for her pretty brown skin and two black puffs of hair. The two figures were holding hands, smiles touching their ears. Behind them, rectangles with square windows resembled the buildings of Grant City, and the words “my hero” were scrawled messily across the top.
I wondered how many tears my poor ducts could produce in a single day, sniffing and trying to clear the lump that was forming in my throat.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “It’s awesome.”
This clearly pleased the child, because her little chest puffed out, and she gave a single nod. “You can hang it on your ‘frigerator if you want. That’s what mommy does.”
I smiled, gently folding the paper and tucking it into my jacket. “That’s exactly what I’ll do,” I promised, giving her one last hug and shooing her back toward the bed.
Maleia crawled under her covers, and I tucked them under her chin, placing a small kiss on her forehead. I could flee a thousand miles from this city, but I would never forget the girl. She thought I’d saved her, but the truth was, she’d saved me. I was not the hero. She was, simply for being able to carry on.
Maleia yawned, her eyelids heavy as she sank into her bed. “Are you going to fight some crime now?” she asked.
Nodding, I said, “Something like that.”
Her eyes slipped closed, her breathing growing steadier and deeper. “Good,” she mumbled, before drifting off to sleep. “Someone’s gotta stop the bad guys.”
Though I was glad to see that the child seemed to be doing extraordinarily well all things considered, I wished I hadn’t come here this night. I wished I had just kept my distance, because somehow, unbeknownst to me, I’d gone and gotten myself wrangled in, and freeing myself from it was proving heart-wrenchingly difficult.
CHAPTER 57
I told myself to ignore it. It was not my problem. This was not my circus, and these were not my monkeys.
But like a moth to a flame, I found myself unable to turn away. With a sigh and a shake of my head, I leapt over to the building beside the one I was currently traversing, swinging from fire escape to drainage pipe, and finally, landing on the concrete near the spot where I’d heard the cry for help.
Reaching into my jacket pocket, I removed my staff and whispered the incantation that grew the weapon to its full size. I twirled it around in my hand, relishing the familiar feel of it as I approached the sounds of the scuffle that had drawn me in.
Night had fully fallen over the city, the streetlights and the sounds of post-work festivities beginning to rise into the air. It was New Year’s Day, and many people were still in party mode from the festivities the night before. Strings of white Christmas lights were wrapped about balcony railings, and the smell of pine and poinsettia would soon fade away, melding with the exhaust and sewage that commanded the immediate atmosphere.
The cry I’d heard had been that of a woman, and this probably was part of the reason I could not turn away. Grant City seemed to be a place where the physically weaker sex was prayed upon, though admittedly, taking Dyson Gracie out of the game had staunched that trend.
As if speaking of the past had somehow summoned it, I peered around the corner of the building I was standing beside and saw something that made my blood turn cold.
There was black van at the other end of the alley, and two men in black were dragging a distraught woman toward it. The lady kicked and yelled, but was silenced when one of the men backhanded her hard enough to make my own teeth hurt.
“Shut up, bitch,” he growled, raising his hand again and provoking a whimper from her.
I was around the corner in a flash, and before the butthead even knew what hit him, he was lifted into the air. His body slammed against the bricks of the building, the air rushing out of him with a grunt and a whoosh.
His buddy barely had time to process this before I cracked him upside the head with my staff, hard enough to flip his lights out, but not with enough force to cause any permanent damage.
As he crumbled to the pavement, a thick arm was wrapped around my neck, cutting off my air in an instant. My feet left the ground and kicked at the air as I corrected my stance and bent forward at the perfect angle, throwing the man over my shoulder.
He let out a curse as his body met with the concrete. Before he could recover, I placed the heel of my boot over his throat.
“Don’t move,” I warned. “A little pressure and I could crush your windpipe.” Looking up at the wide-eyed woman who he’d just backhanded, I said, “Get out of here. Go find help.”
The woman hesitated only a moment before nodding and taking off.
The man, white, middle-aged and stout bodied, said something in Russian that didn’t sound like a compliment.
“Where were you taking her?” I deman
ded.
He mumbled more Russian, turned his head slightly to the side, and spat blood onto the pavement.
In answer, I put weight on the foot that was restraining him at the same time as I hit him in the solar plexus with the blunt end of my staff. His eyes bulged out of his block-shaped head.
“Don’t make me ask again,” I said. “Where were you taking her?”
He hesitated, and my patience evaporated. Two more harsh taps to his solar plexus finally loosened his tongue.
“To the docks, you stupid bitch,” he gritted out, once air was available to him again. “Always to the docks.”
My heart sank. I’d known that there was still crime going on in Grant City, and that this included the taking of woman, but I guess I had sort of hoped that my removing Dyson Gracie from the game had put an end to it.
Now, I could not deny that things had continued on despite my efforts and ultimate victory over the Halfling Werewolf who’d been directly seeing over the kidnappings. Hearing this, walking into this situation and seeing it firsthand, sucked more than it probably should have.
It was as if nothing I’d done had been any good at all.
I felt anger bubble up in me, and fought hard against the urge to break this dude’s face into a million tiny fragments. My staff lifted into the air over my head, and whatever look came into my eyes must have been something sinister, because the thug beneath my weapon looked almost comically scared.
His hands shot up to shield his face, and he cried out, “Please, don’t! Don’t kill me!”
“She’s not going to kill you, moron,” came a voice from around the other side of the idling black van.
My head snapped up and my eyes narrowed as a woman maybe five years my senior walked into sight, the click of her boot heels following her. I had never seen her before, but I would have to be blind not to pause at her beauty. Her hair was thick and long and black, her eyes dark and her skin a flawless olive. Her lips were painted blood red, and her hips swayed with the swagger of someone who has a metric ton of confidence.
