2 Brooklyn James

by James, Brooklyn

  Tony digs in his pocket, pulling out the shiny silver pendant, gently hooking it at the back of her neck.

  “Where’d you find this?” She runs her hand fondly over the Savior hanging from the cross.

  “At your old house. In the bottom of the rubble.”

  “Thank you.” She gives him a subtle smile, trailing her finger across his dimpled chin. His presence offers great comfort, her body now relaxing from its tremor.

  Tony cautiously places his hand over the crucifix, testing its temperature. “Be careful of that thing,” he warns. “It was all but on fire back there. Everything around it was smoldering.” He looks at her intently wishing he could read her mind. “What do you want to do? You wanna go back there and take care of Angelo Tulane? You want me to haul him off to the Pen? What do you want? Tell me. I’ll make it happen.”

  She looks at him, her eyes full of adoration. “You’re too good for me. Too good to get mixed up in all of this.”

  “Stop saying that, DeLuca,” his voice on the rise. “I’m in it.” Getting to his feet, he pulls her up, supporting her weight until she gathers herself. “I know you got a plan. Start spilling.” He pulls her around to the trunk of the cruiser, popping the lock. Digging inside, he pulls a duffel bag to the surface.

  Gina eyes the familiar Vanguard PD issued bag embroidered with the last name, DeLuca. She looks to him expecting an answer as she pilfers its contents. Her badge, boots and full black fatigues are neatly arranged inside.

  “Chief cleaned out your locker. After the trial. Gave it to me.”

  “And you carry it around?”

  “For just such an occasion, yes.” He smiles, noticing Gina’s hand tracing the outline of her badge. “You miss it?”

  She nods quietly, tucking the pin away in the bottom of the bag, pulling from it what is still rightfully hers. “I’ll change while you drive,” she urges, making her way to the passenger door.

  Tony shuts the trunk, impatiently tapping on the roof of the cruiser. “What’s the plan?” His eyes shift in the direction of Angelo Tulane’s residence.

  She shakes her head, looking back at him from the other side of the car. “He’ll get his. Trust me, it’ll be far worse than what you or I could ever do to him.”

  Tony smiles, the light bulb turning on. “Ah, now I see. You’re one bad mamma-jamma, DeLuca,” he quotes the Rick James tune, chuckling. “Glad you’re on my team.”

  She smirks, holding back a laugh. “Get in the car, Gronkowski.”

  “Off to the bank, and then what?” he continues to inquire, piling in, pulling his seat belt around him.

  “Then we…well, you don’t have to,” she begins to clarify.

  “Then we,” he cuts in, once again solidifying his participation as he pulls out onto the roadway.

  “Then we pay Manny Briggs…Hell Hound…whatever you want to call him…a visit,” she spits it out, hastily pulling clothes from her body in exchange for her blacked-out duds.

  “Do you think that’s wise? I mean, should we call in the rest of your crew? He…it…this thing sounds pretty damn ferocious. We don’t even know what we’re up against.” He looks her way momentarily, her bare skin capturing his attention.

  “Exactly. I don’t need anyone else’s life on my conscience. I’d argue that you shouldn’t accompany me,” she stalls the response on the tip of his tongue by throwing her hand up in the direction of his face. “But I know I’d be wasting my breath. And would you mind keeping your eyes on the road?”

  “I have great peripheral vision,” he teases before honoring her request. “Not like I haven’t seen it before,” he mutters.

  “Well then, mind your manners if you want to see it again,” she spars pulling her shirt over her head. “Besides, I don’t plan on catching him at home. ETNA’s got him on a string right now looking for me. The last place they’ll expect to find me is at his dwelling, right?”

  “Always one step ahead, huh?” he says, impressed.

  “We can only hope.” She shoves her feet down into her boots, lacing them tightly at her ankles. “I figure the only way to buy some time is to distract Briggs. If I know Dr. Godfrey and Dr. Ryan, they’re already on ETNA’s trail.”

  “How many…like him…Briggs? Do you think there are more?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why we need time. To figure out what we’re up against.” She pulls her auburn hair back, winding it into a tight band. “If they would stop at me. If they only wanted me. It would be worth the sacrifice. But it’s bigger than that, Gronkowski. This whole Vigilare thing…you, me, Aubrey, Emily, Hell Hound,” she sputters the ridiculous handle contrived by Dr. Godfrey. “It has to end. Every single one of us has to be terminated.”

  “Simmer down Schwarzenegger. I don’t wanna die,” he defends.

  “I don’t mean we need to be annihilated. Just the blood. Whatever Dr. Godfrey did, he needs to undo. There has to be a way. All this supernatural shit. It’s just that…a façade…it’s not real. It’s not conducive to human life.” She pauses, tilting her head to the side. “Do you think I’m the alpha and omega? If I die, does it all stop?”

  “Don’t even think about it, DeLuca,” he scolds, craning his neck in her direction. “That doesn’t even make sense. Your blood is the key. Terminating,” he throws her phrase back at her bitingly, “yourself doesn’t make your blood stop flowing through Aubrey…Emily. Hell, according to Dr. Godfrey, I don’t even have your blood in my veins. I don’t have the right blood type. So how do you explain that one?”

  “How much farther?” she changes the subject.

  “Couple of blocks.”

  “Okay. Give me the rundown of this building. I figure you’ll stand guard. I’ll find the side entrance, if there is one,” she begins scheming.

  He beams a smirk to rival a braggart’s. “Why don’t we just go in the front door?” He holds up his department-issued key ring. “This branch is on my patrol.”

  Gina slaps her hand against his arm. “Shut up!” she exclaims, mirroring his grin and grabbing at the key ring.

  He swipes it from her reach, pulling up in front of the bank. “My car. My key. I’m first in,” he trumps her.

  She shakes her head, hopping out of the car, Tony hot on her heels. “Deal. You get the door, I get the safe deposit box,” she barters.

  “Ha!” he howls. “Just like old times.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Emily Truly and her newfound acquaintance, Max, sit on the rooftop of his apartment building, fifteen stories high. Both of them comfortable with life on the edge, their feet and forelegs dangle over the side as they look out over the uncharacteristically quiet city.

  “In a few more hours we’ll be able to see the sunrise,” Max says, hungrily popping another sushi roll into his mouth from his take-out box.

  Emily skillfully maneuvers her feast of Kung Pao chicken with chopsticks. “You do this every night?”

  He shrugs. “Sometimes. When I can’t sleep.”

  “Still convinced the boogeyman hides in your closet, huh?” she teases, another jab at his youthful appearance. He laughs, popping a piece of tuna tightly dressed in rice and wrapped in seaweed into his mouth. Emily eyes him, taking note of how his bad boy image contends with the innocence of his smile. His dark hair appropriately spiked on top giving way to skillfully tailored sideburns. His eyebrows and eyelashes keeping up with his hair in their thickness, accentuate his piercing steel blues. “How old are you anyway?”

  “Old enough.” He rubs his hands together freeing them of any residual food particles, closing the lid on his empty to-go container. “Twenty. I’m twenty years old.” He looks to her, his eyebrow arched. “You?”

  “Add three,” she confesses, taking another bite.

  “That’s it! The way you’ve been grilling me? You ma
ke it sound like you’re old enough to be my mother. Twenty-three,” he dismisses.

  “My age is in no way indicative of my experience.”

  “It never is,” he agrees knowingly. “So what was that? Back there at the pool table? Where did you learn how to do that?”

  “Magic,” she mocks spookily, alluding to New Orleans’ reputation for voodoo.

  “A medicine woman taught you that?” he huffs.

  “The same one that taught you?” she returns sharply, neither one of them willing to divulge the source of such skills.

  “So…what can you do, exactly?” he presses.

  She wipes her mouth, closing the lid on her Kung Pao chicken, setting it off to the side. Tucking her hands under her thighs, she questions her impulse to confide in this kid, Max.

  “Let me guess. You’re not supposed to talk about it, let alone nurture it?” He jumps up into a standing position on the ledge of the roof.

  “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” Emily grabs at his pant leg. “Sit down,” she whispers harshly looking around as if someone might see them.

  He smiles knowingly with the surge of adrenaline rushing through his system, for which she is responsible, her telekinesis fully effective on him. “If you’re not going to tell me, guess you’ll just have to show me,” he challenges, lifting his arms out to his sides letting his body fall limp.

  Emily inhales sharply, trapping her inertia, her body rigid as stone.

  “Woo-hoo-hoo!” Max yells, standing there on the ledge, his body limp yet immobile, unable to fall to the ground. The wind gently blows through his hair as he takes in his bird’s eye view of the street below.

  Emily leans backward toward the rooftop throwing herself into a reverse somersault. Pushing off with her hands, she rounds up into a standing position, safe from the edge. Her impulse forces Max to do the same.

  “Hells yeah!” he shouts, his body moving through time separate from his own cognition. His knees wobble returning his body to him as he steadies himself, miming the posture of a surfer.

  Emily pivots, releasing her pent-up fear, furiously taking hold of each side of his leather jacket. “Don’t you ever do that again!” Her chest heaves up and down, her body shaken.

  Max excitedly caresses her face, planting a gracious and sultry kiss on her lips. Pulling away, his chest matches the rhythm of hers. He looks at her intensely, his smile elated. “People talk about out-of-body experiences. Now, that was an out-of-body experience.”

  She pushes him away, kneeling, still trying to catch her breath.

  He rushes to her side. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” she hisses. “You could’ve fallen to your death. That’s what’s wrong.”

  “But I didn’t,” he argues, his face still aglow. He places his hand over her throbbing neck in an attempt to calm her. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you? What are you thanking me for?” she continues to vent angrily.

  “For catching me,” he boasts.

  She huffs. “Like I had a choice.” Her body calming, her neck relaxes under his gentle hand, compelling her head to fall forward accompanied by a relieved sigh.

  He meets her forehead with his own, making physical the visceral connection he feels to her. His chill exhalation trickles over her flushed skin, relieving and slightly intoxicating. “The power you possess,” he begins, “is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a rare, priceless thing. You’re a treasure, Em.”

  She fights the urge to give into a moan, exchanging it for something more comfortable, resistance. Pulling her head away from his, she belittles, “Now you’re showing your age. You’ve known me for a few hours and you’re already using pet names.” She stands, tidying herself.

  He rises, holding out his hand to her. “Come inside, I’ll show you some real grown-up tricks,” he counters with a grin. She rolls her eyes. “Seriously. I wanna show you what I can do,” he references his power, eager to share. Emily gives in empathizing, knowing the despair that accompanies the responsibility of keeping such a talent under wraps. He quickly leads her down the fire escape and into his apartment, pulling her to the kitchen where he cranks the dial on his stovetop burner all the way up on high. The flames burn bright orange forming into blue-tinted tips. “Trust me?” he prefaces.

  She looks at the flames then to him with a sneaking suspicion. “That depends. I trust you to make me an omelet, but I’m not sticking any of my body parts over that flame.”

  He chuckles at her quick wit, taking her hand. “Close your eyes,” he coaxes, waiting out her initial reluctance. Momentarily her lashes come together. He bares down on the flames with full concentration. “Feel anything?”

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” she divulges.

  “Open your eyes.”

  She does so slowly, looking to him. He does not falter, his stare fully manifested on the stovetop. Emily follows his gaze finding her hand comfortably resting in the flames, unscathed. She wiggles her fingers, moving them in and out of the orange glow, their temperature maintaining complete homeostasis. With one focused exhale, the flames turn to ice and disintegrate into the burner.

  “You thirsty?” he asks without skipping a beat.

  Emily watches him speechless.

  He grabs a cup setting it under the spigot. Before the water can hit the bottom of the glass a cube of ice forms, followed by four more before he allows the water to run free, filling up the rest of the tumbler. He pulls it from the sink, handing it to her, encouraging her to take a drink.

  She peers at him from over the rim of the glass, the water crisp and refreshing against her palate.

  “Okay. Now it’s your turn,” he encourages.

  Feeling inadequate, she gets defensive, “Saving your life wasn’t enough?”

  “Come on,” he pleads. “I never get to do this. We’ll take turns. You show me something, then I’ll show you something.”

  “How many somethings do you have?” her tone resonates with a hint of jealousy.

  He grins, rubbing his hands together. “I can do this all night long. Come on.”

  “What time is it anyway? I should get going.” She heads for the door.

  He leaps in front of her, leaning against the frame. “Please, Em. You don’t understand. This is the first time in a long time...well, in forever, that I haven’t felt like some kind of freak.” The desperation is evident in his expression. “I just want to share it with someone. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t have anything else to share,” she finally admits. “What you saw on the rooftop...that’s it. That’s all I got.” She turns away from him, pacing, her arms flinging to and fro. “I can’t freeze fire. I can’t turn water into ice. I don’t have sparkling emerald green eyes that can see into the soul. I’m a generic Vigil...” she stops herself, realizing she’s already said too much.

  “A generic Vigil what?” he asks confused.

  “Nothing. It’s a metaphor,” she diverts. “You know how in war, foot soldiers...ground pounders...they go in and scope things out and make a little noise, but they don’t win wars. Pilots manning planes packing heavy artillery...bombs and explosives. They’re the superheroes...the elite. They win wars.” She stops looking directly at him. “I’m the foot soldier...the grunt.”

  “You’re not giving yourself enough credit. Have you even tried? Tested your limits?”

  She shoots him a venomous glance, causing him to wince. “I try harder and train harder than anyone,” she clarifies, disturbed at the blood, sweat and tears she has sacrificed. “Then she comes waltzing in with all the divine traits. And she doesn’t even want it.” Emily snaps herself out of it, once again divulging more information than she should.

  “She? Who?” he questions.

  “The bottom line...I was b
uilt to serve. I do not function independently.” A heartbreaking revelation for someone so independent.

  He walks toward her, a smile on his face. “Built?” he says, his hands inspecting the back of her neck. “Do you wind up? Or is there a chip?” He attempts to lighten the mood.

  She huffs, holding back a chuckle.

  His hand trails from the back of her neck down the right side, inspecting her scar. “Battle wound?”

  “You could say that.” Her skin forming goosebumps under his cool hand.

  “Sorry,” he says, pulling away, self-conscious.

  She intercepts his hand, placing it back on her neck. “I think it feels nice. Refreshing,” she says with a smile. What the hell is wrong with you, Emily? She questions her own actions, strangely out of character.

  “So, how did you save me...on the rooftop?” he digs, unsuccessfully wishing his hand warm.

  “Telekinesis.” She shivers, cursing her body for the autonomic response.

  “Tele what?” He quickly pulls his hand from her neck.

  “Kinesis. Or kinetics. The act of movement,” she defines. “That’s my thing...my one thing,” she adds, disappointed. “I can command others to do things, physical things triggered by my own body. Miming, essentially.”

  His eyes flicker with wonder. “You mean someone can be walking down the street minding their own business and you can make them fall down. Just like that, boom! Or like, a guy could be in a bar hitting on some super fine chick and you could embarrass the shit out of him by making him pick his nose or something. Ha!” He laughs. “I’d pay to see that.”

  She chuckles, shifting her hand back and forth. “Sorta. It doesn’t work on just anyone. Only those with Vigilare pedigree,” she absentmindedly admits. “And it’s not for play, for entertainment. Only for necessity. ‘Showoffs will be humbled,’” she quotes the warning Dr. Ryan has spoken on several occasions.