Gilded Lies

by Lin Lustig

  Emerson served himself a slice of the loaf and a few potato halves. His mother cleared her throat. When he caught her eyes, she glanced at his plate, then at Ivo and Xen. He flushed and put the potatoes back. The meatloaf slice on his plate was barely the size of his palm. All it did was remind him how hungry he was, and how that hollow inside him grew worse every day. By the end of the meal he couldn't help it. He took just enough to stop the shaking in his fingers, but the less he ate the more weight he gained. Mom was finally going to take him to a real doctor next month, and he was relieved.

  “May I be excused?” Emerson asked, ready to spend the last few hours of freedom playing games into the wee hours before high school forced him back into reality.

  Mom yawned, showing every too-white tooth in her mouth, and then glanced at the dish-strewn kitchen. “Yeah. It's the boys' night for kitchen duty.”

  “What? Mom come on, I'm too tired.” Ivo rubbed his red-tinged eyes. He hadn't worked that hard today, the little whiner.

  “I know, baby. Me too.”

  “Emerson, help your mother in the kitchen,” Dad said.

  “Why? It's not my night.”

  “Because you're the only one who's not pooped. Get to it.”

  Emerson shoved away from the table, his chair legs squealing against the tile floor in protest. He didn’t mean to make them so tired all the time.

  Then the lights went out. The room plunged into darkness, but it was more than that. The pale light from the neighbor's house doused. The streetlight that perpetually shone through the bay window died. Night swallowed them. His parents moaned like animals in pain. Ivo and Xen yelped, and Emerson knew they'd be holding on to each other, but he couldn’t see anything.

  “I'm going to be sick.” Mom's voice. Something heavy thudded against the floor like a dropped sack of sugar. Emerson's eyes barely adjusted to the moonlight. Dad sprawled on the floor unconscious. Mother had run to the kitchen sink and was busy retching. His brothers cried as hard as Emerson had when he came to terms with what he was.

  He could feel it then, something pressing in on him in the dark. Not like hands or anything threatening, but it was heavy, squeezing him from all angles, warming him. He spun, but the power was out and there was no one else in the house to explain the weight and pressure in the air. It was like getting a hug from the sun. The hollow, ever hungry and gnawing, filled between one breath and the next. Pleasurable tingles rushed from his scalp to his toes and a deep sense of calm overwhelmed him.

  He'd never felt so stable before. So at ease.

  The pressure disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. His brothers stopped crying, and then Mom wiped her mouth and went to Dad's side, easing him up. It was still dark, but there were no more warm sun-soaked embraces from the empty space around him. All that was left was a fullness within and a hell of a lot of confusion.

  “Boys, find my phone.” The three of them felt across counters and chairs until Xen rushed forward with Mom's phone in hand. “It's dead,” she said. “Find Dad's.”

  Emerson found it first, but when he squeezed the button along the side, nothing happened. “It's dead too.”

  Dad woke and held his head in his hands. “What the hell was that?”

  Whoa, Dad swore. Emerson blinked a couple of times. “Ivo, go get that wind up radio you've got.”

  Ivo did as he asked, then handed it off to Emerson. “What do you need it for?”

  “If our phones are dead and the powers out, then radio is all we've got.” He cranked the lever several times. The whir and grind as it wound seemed too loud in the dark house. When he switched it on, the sound was all wrong, like three stations jumbled together into a mash of static and overlapping voices. Ivo grabbed it back and fiddled with something. A match flared with a hard hiss as Mom lit a candle, then Ivo tilted the radio down and flipped a switch. An emergency broadcast signal filled the room and they waited with held breaths. Flashes of apocalyptic nuclear war, zombie attacks, volcanic eruptions, even tsunamis rushed through Emerson's vivid mind's eye.

  “This is the...” The radio cut in and out. “Massive blackouts and backup failure. Internet is down,” more static. “Cyber attack?” Emerson was sure the announcer ended on a question, but he hadn't thought of cyber terrorists. What if they were shutting down the country? He'd keep his brothers safe. No matter the risks. He’d use his hollow to wear out anyone who got close. Or was it full for good now?

  The memory dulled and faded like Emerson was on a train leaving the station. The pressure in his mind eased and he refocused on the floor of their bedroom. His fingers twitched at his command as the ultra-vivid memory faded. It felt like he'd been there. What the hell? He rubbed his face, hating the refreshed guilt at taking from his family and the combination of fear and protectiveness at thinking the end had come. It hadn't. Systems rebooted, backups were restored, and smaller, fried electronics were replaced. It was an obsessive topic on the news for the year after The Shift, then yearly reviews on every anniversary, but it wasn't the apocalypse.

  His hollow had grown hungry again not long after life resumed. He'd been stealing energy for years, aging his parents and stunting his brothers' growth. He needed to take vital energy for his health but couldn't put others at risk. What he'd needed back then came at the price of his family. What he needed now couldn't come at the price of John. Being selfish and greedy in the past had hurt enough people.

  The memory left a film of scum over his skin. He felt like he'd relived the hour of that memory, but not much time could have passed here. For one, he didn't smell Thai food yet. So, Emerson stripped off his clothes and was halfway to the attached bathroom when the bedroom door opened. John leaned on the frame and made a pleased hum. Emerson continued to the shower—John following—and then turned on the water.

  “Did you need something?”

  John picked up his hand and held it. He let him, though the air was chilly against his skin. “I love you. You keep me sane in so many ways.”

  Could Emerson ask for more when he already took so much? He leaned into him, resting his head on John's solid chest. John's arms wrapped around his bare shoulders, and Emerson sighed at the contact, at the excess energy freely given.

  John's voice lowered. “Your ability is—”

  “A burden.” Emerson finished for him. “It serves no purpose...” Other than to take from people, he finished internally. Like his brothers. Like the men in his squadron who'd counted on him to keep them safe.

  “It does have a purpose. Without your ability I'd be a mess, and I...” John trailed off as he stroked Emerson's back, the flow of energy a balm against Emerson's guilt. “I need you.” John breathed.

  There was that swell again in his chest. Those little words. It meant everything. He needed John, too. The need to say so much all at once smothered him like a mouth full of peanut butter. It felt like his heart would burst and he tried to say he loved him too.

  “Marry me,” came out instead. Shit.

  CHAPTER 6

  Licia

  Licia climbed the stairs at the back of the tea shop and locked the door behind her. Her studio apartment did little to insulate the noise of the shop below, but she preferred knowing when people came and went, or when someone was teetering on an emotional edge. The studio was rectangular, the long wall was part kitchen, part storage, the short one with a window overlooking Milk Street, and finally her bed tucked into the opposite corner from the door. She didn't need much. Didn't want much. Harder to disappear if you kept too many belongings.

  Her wrists itched. She bunched the cotton of her long sleeves up to her elbow and rubbed the scars. The thicker tissue felt like a tiny washboard and helped her think. There was no way she'd get involved with UHP again. She couldn't, not after they'd seen her face. It had been a brief exposure, but they might know what she was. If they did, they’d be desperate to get their hands on her, just like Azami and any other test subjects they could find. It was only a matter of time before they found
others, but someone strong enough to worry Glen and John?

  She paced, paused to sweep her strawberry blonde hair back into a tie, then paced again. Her walls and wards were up at maximum, so she was all but muting out the emotional resonance of the shop below her feet. If any of their regular customers got uppity, she'd have to rely on her ears to tell her and not her emotions.

  Someone knocked at her door, making her jump. She lowered her wards a bit and tasted tart, unripe cherry. The familiarity of Noah's uncertainty made her relax, not that she'd let him see that. She blew out a breath and opened the door, looming as much as her five-foot-three frame would allow.

  Noah's shoulders hunched down, but he still towered over her. “There's a guy downstairs who wants the special.”

  Not what she needed right now. “You know what to do.”

  He flicked his gaze downstairs then back at her. “But I'm not—”

  “You've worked with me for two years. You're nineteen and ready. Trust me.” She softened her voice a little. Noah was one of her ilk, not Abnormal, but soft and gentle. His kindness would be his downfall, but she'd been teaching him how to handle it. He'd get through this. “Don't let me down. Monitor the dose, set a timer, give him the private booth. I'll be down in a bit.”

  Noah straightened with a nod and turned his gangly-ass around to march back down the stairs. She only needed a few minutes to herself, but she bet Noah could sense she'd be moving on soon. There wasn't a reason for her to stay in Boston anymore.

  But following John's request wasn't an option. Being near him again wasn't an option. Dealing with his overly charming, irresistible ass-kissing actor ways wasn't a fucking option—not when being near him made her soft. So she called Glen instead and considered giving him her number. Except, she didn’t want him texting just to see what she had for breakfast.

  “Tell me what's really going on.”

  “L-Licia, hey, good to hear from you. How's Boston?”

  “Cold. Why is John calling me about UHP?”

  There was a guttural cough as Glen cleared his throat. “My contact inside UHP says this one is beyond her reach. We found out UHP has been experimenting on them for at least a year, but it may have been longer. I'd imagine they're a top asset, which means they're going through what Azami went through...” He trailed off, and Licia ground her teeth. Azami had been a child when they'd freed her, and she was well into her twenties now, but Licia still thought of her as the pincushion they'd liberated. She still blamed John for it all, but he had been just a helpless puppet. Maybe it was time to get involved after all.

  “I'll handle it.” She hung up without waiting for a reply. It was better to keep Glen at a distance, though he was irritatingly persistent. Thirteen years he'd been following her every move and if she didn't rely on him to watch her back, she'd have removed him.

  She found the scrap of paper acting as her address book and typed John's number and address into her burner phone. Then a burst of pressure made her vision skew, like a thousand little stars streaked before her eyes until everything was bleached away. She couldn't move, couldn't shout, and couldn't feel the edges of her walls and wards, leaving her defenseless against the emotions running rampant downstairs. A dozen flavors invaded her tongue before her mind slipped away entirely.

  The room was familiar. Stark white, clinical. Where the fuck was she and why couldn't she move? She felt like a passenger in her own body, able to watch and see and think, but not control. The hospital room came into sharper focus, as did the eight-year-old girl connected to a series of machines with tubes on her arm, head, and hand. She looked familiar.

  In Licia's lap, she held a middle grade chapter book. She could feel the page's dry scrape along her fingertips and the soft feathering of the stacked edges.

  “Read it again?” The girl in the bed asked.

  “I'll read it again next week, but only if you promise to stay healthy enough for visitors.” Licia set her hand on the girl's. She let down all her walls and let a rush of hope and faith well up. The whole floor would feel it. Letting it out was exhausting, but it was such a moment of joy to see the kids light up. They needed it more than she did. These kids were facing shit that even adults couldn't handle, and they did it without letting it destroy their innocence. The teenagers in the ward didn't handle it as gracefully, but they were teens. She knew from personal experience how crappy teens were at handling pretty much anything.

  The semi-private room's door clanked open and a mix of male and female voices crowded the space. Licia leaned back to glance beyond the curtain, seeing a handsome man surrounded by two cameras and a woman obsessively scanning a planner.

  “You have ten minutes per patient, then we have to get across town for your interview at four,” the woman said.

  The blond man with wide shoulders and a trim waist gave her a smile so bright Licia pulled her wards tighter on instinct to keep his vanity away from her. “Just a couple minutes per patient should work. We only need enough footage for the website,” he said.

  She tried to block them out and focus in on helping the girl in front of her feel content. Her influence, unfortunately, didn’t cooperate. She could feel the invading group relax. She reined it in. They didn’t need her kindness.

  “Okay Mr. Beechum, if this works your popularity rating should raise a projected two percent.” One of the camera operators said. Licia twitched. He was doing this for popularity? She let her wards slip to get a feel for the room. As expected, the pretty one tasted like vanity and self-importance, but the four kids in the room were turning bitter and salty. Frustration mixed with helplessness. Yeah no, not okay.

  Licia excused herself from the girl's bedside and rounded the curtain like a dust devil. “Hey. You. What the hell? Are you seriously exploiting children for your image?”

  Pretty man looked quickly side to side like she might be talking to one of his crew instead of him. “Sorry, miss...” He waited. She didn't supply a name. “I set this up weeks ago. The kids know I'm going to be here and I'm sure they're looking forward to seeing their favorite actor. Besides,” his grin turned into something warmer and she felt heat rush to her cheeks. Cute or not, she wasn't about to let him turn this around and instead flicked out a lash of shame through her walls. He continued less suavely. “I, well I... yeah alright. You're right, this was a bad call. Pack it up. We'll head to the interview early.”

  The crew protested, but the woman with the planner didn't miss a beat and pushed them out. The pretty one hesitated. “I'll do it right next time. The name's John by the way.”

  “I don't care.”

  He smirked and eyed her up and down with a mix of confusion—which tasted like miso—and a bit of intrigue—lemon. She put her wards back up and waited to make sure he'd leave.

  The hospital room then tunneled out, growing further away until her vision went white. Her toes and fingertips tingled first as her vision started to clear.

  She was back in her apartment. Sounds from below filtered in through buzzing ears, then cleared. She made fists, then when her legs were her own again, she sat straight down on the floor, forgetting about the phone that was still locked in her grasp.

  That was... weird. She hadn't realized she was bothered enough by John's call to remember exactly how they'd met down to the last taste. John was useless, sure, but maybe this time he needed her guidance like he had back then. He was easily swayed by the tides of opinion and often pulled off course. She'd anchored him back then, maybe she needed to anchor him again.

  Or maybe she was supposed to castrate him. It was a fifty-fifty chance either way.

  Shaking off the last odd chill from the memory, she opened her one and only bag and filled it with her clothes. She'd grab some tea from downstairs too, then deliver the bad news to Noah. He was about to get a promotion.

  CHAPTER 7

  John

  John had to count his breaths to stay calm. Slowly he stepped away from Emerson and gave his brain a chance to make sure h
e'd heard him correctly.

  “What?”

  Emerson startled, but recovered. “I mean... unless you wanted to—It's okay if you still don't tell everyone...but if we're married then—” He floundered and sputtered, his arms joining in with hectic movements.

  John cleared his throat, struggling to find the right words. He couldn't do this, not again. How could he even explain why? Emerson had no idea what John had done. The shit he’d shoveled into their path. If Emerson knew... that was it. It was too late to do anything but keep the past where it was. More silence fell. A whole universe seemed to grow between them. He had to say something. Anything.

  “No.”

  Emerson stilled. “Sorry, that was sudden. Caught in the moment.” He waved it off.

  “Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't want to get married. Ever.” John pressed his lips into a flat little line. He didn't want to hurt him, or lose him, but there were lines he couldn’t cross. Marriage didn’t fix anything, and it didn’t mean it wouldn’t impact his career or his brand. Yes, that made him an asshole but there was more to it, and he couldn’t let Emerson see the real reason.

  Emerson didn't say anything, and his focus seemed lost in that infinite space stretching between them. Fuck. One word and John assured the end of their relationship. He could feel it.

  “I'm sorry.” John stepped back, waiting to see if Emerson would stop him. He didn't. The nicest thing he could have done was break up with him in L.A. and never bring him to N.Y.C., and certainly never fall in love. John didn't deserve him, and Emerson sure as hell didn't deserve a bastard like John.