Gilded Lies

by Lin Lustig

  “If you’re willing to pay, I’m willing to snoop.”

  It was a fair deal.

  Back at John's condo, Licia reveled in the warmth of the building. Her worn and ancient hoodie wasn't going to do against the winter, and as she rode the elevator to John's floor, she stripped it off and examined the threadbare elbows, resigned to its retirement. Before the elevator opened, she could taste two emotional sources. She hoped John and Emerson had come to terms, because she'd trust John (mostly) but Emerson was a lawful type. Ex-military turned bodyguard with a strong sense of morality if last night was any proof.

  What a disaster last night had turned into. She pinched the bridge of her nose and tried not to think about the blood and sour fear. The elevator stopped, the doors sliding open for her.

  John strolled past the foyer doorway with his attention glued to his phone, brow creased in concentration, or maybe concern.

  “How was your audition?”

  He jumped. “For Shift sake, don't do that to me. It was fine. I think. Maybe.”

  She toed off her shoes and joined him the kitchen, hoping he was about to dish out some more food. The cannoli hadn't chased away her hunger for long. Emerson was already in there, pulling out a saucepan and another pot. His emotions were not as chaotic as she'd expected. Some resentment, a touch of bitter hopelessness, but he tasted mostly like contemplation which left a sweet tobacco flavor at the back of her tongue. She wanted to know his thoughts, but also didn't want to push him over an emotional edge. He glanced at her, causing a spike of rancid disgust, then went back to focusing on his task.

  “What did Glen say?” Emerson filled the large pot with water.

  “Nothing good.” John sat at the kitchen bar. Licia gave them room, sitting instead on the red chair that looked horrible, but was amazingly comfortable. The living room and kitchen were a few yards apart and separated only by the transition of silver throw rug on the golden bamboo floor. “May I?” John rounded the island and held out his hand to Emerson. Emerson offered his wrist and the moment John touched him, pressure eased from Licia's abdomen.

  “Oh finally. Thank you.” She sighed. They both paused to look at her. “He leaks.”

  John coughed. “Excuse me?”

  “You do know that you're always giving off a bit of arousal, right?” His spicy frustration said otherwise. “Never mind. Get back to Glen.”

  Emerson turned away to pull out cans of crushed and diced tomatoes and started making pasta sauce. John returned to his seat at the kitchen island.

  “He found more proof that GANF is dumping money into UHP's Jammer program. Like, a lot of money. Mass production levels of money.”

  “Why would they want to mass produce Jammers?” Emerson asked.

  Licia threw up her walls to keep her dark emotions from leaking out. “So GANF can get in on picking us apart, without getting picked apart themselves.”

  “Unlike you, I don't think everyone's out for blood.” Emerson's voice was acidic towards her. His emotions tripped over the edge as he took her in, but if he needed to have an outlet for his hate, then she was a good target.

  “Regardless of motives, it can't be good for us. I'll make sure the Anons know GANF is a potential threat.”

  Licia had been aware of GANF but hadn't had many run ins with believers. Her clientele were disenfranchised kids and desperate adults, not religious fanatics. All she knew was GANF followers were judgmental and twisted by their belief in the so-called natural. What was more natural than being born unique? Conforming, apparently.

  Emerson and John glanced at each other and her wards weren't strong enough to block out the storm of emotions brewing between them. She needed to distract them or get the hell out of the condo. A stillness settled over Licia's body against her will. Familiar pressure filled her head and the world seemed flat, like a photo. Her sight faded.

  It took only a second to remember where she was. Glen's. On the run. With John. Not long before they took on WHRP and Aubrey. It was so long ago, but as she settled into her remembered body, it was too real all over again.

  “They plan to sell the cure at nearly a million each. They claim it's cheaper than long term care and chemo, with only one magical dose.” John tossed the papers across the room. They scattered over the floor. Licia collected them, hoping to keep her last ally from kicking them out like the others had. She was tired of bouncing from place to place and made a mental note to have a better network in the future.

  “The cost doesn't matter if we're ending the process,” Licia reminded him. She set the now neat stack of papers on the table beside the couch and clicked on the lamp. Glen's living room was obsessively neat and clean. She felt wrong even sitting on his couch.

  “She's harvesting doses and injecting them into sick patients within six hours. That's the viable window of the kid's blood. She'll either have to be on site or the patient will have to be close enough for the blood to be shipped.”

  An idea popped up. “Then we spring Azami free before they record the next patient testing. If no one can witness the cure firsthand, then the hype will die off.”

  “Except there's the entire research team within UHP with detailed records.”

  “Yeah, records of a fourteen-year-old's blood being injected straight into patients regardless of blood type.”

  John raked his fingers through his hair. “We'll have to find a new way into the buildings.”

  “I'll worry about that.” He stopped his agitated pacing and sat next to her. She was tempted to lean against his shoulder to give support, but it was exceedingly uncomfortable to touch him. Even accidental touch left her feeling revved up and she didn't need that kind of distraction right now. It's wasn't like she should be giving anyone her sympathies anyway. She had to watch after herself and that was it. After this thing with WHRP was solved, he could fuck right off into the sunset and leave her to enjoy the shadows in peace.

  “I don't know what to do.”

  Licia realize she'd missed part of his rambling. “About what?”

  “Aubrey. She's not a monster, not really. She just wants to help. Do you think we can change her mind? Make her see why her approach is wrong?” John leaned his head back on the couch, his long nose pointing straight to the ceiling like an arrow.

  As far as Licia was concerned, anyone who was willing to torture a child was too far gone, but if she told John that, he'd run, and she needed him to get inside WHRP. If he groveled, his wife would take him back, but that was the last thing Licia wanted. And the last thing John needed.

  “Maybe. The last confrontation wasn't promising though.” Why was she being so gentle with him? She should tell him she planned to end the bitch.

  “You know, I still love her—in a way,” John's voice dropped to barely a whisper, like he was afraid someone outside would hear. There was no one else in the house, and no one on the property as far as Licia was aware.

  He uncrossed his legs and sat up, bowing his head. “I was never in love with her, but she was there for me when no one else was. She had my back, took care of me, made sure I had a place to call home.”

  Ah. She could understand that. “Helped you feel like you belonged,” she looked away. “My gang was the same. They were my family, but they betrayed me just as she's betrayed you.” When her words didn't perk John up like she'd hoped (she let down her walls enough to check) she let out a sigh and felt color rush to her cheeks before the words were out. “I've got your back. You can belong with me.”

  He snorted, “Be one of your lackeys?” He caught sight of her face and lost his smile. “You're serious.”

  “I don't have anyone. You don't have anyone. I generally trust you. Is there a problem?”

  Now he grinned. “Not at all.”

  Licia covered her hand with her sleeve then stuck it out. “Partners. For now.”

  He shook. “Partners for now, friends for life.”

  “Gross.”

  He laughed and leaned back again, a lazy smi
le still on his lips as he stared at her. “You're not all bad, are you?”

  She crossed her arms, feeling like that smile was somehow disarming her. “No one is all good. No one is all bad. We all have to find our way in the gray.”

  “Sure, but at least I don't kill people.” John seemed surprised by his words and reached out, beginning an apology.

  Licia held up her hand, pleased her anger rebuilt her armor. “No. You're right, but you can trust me not to kill you. That's what our pact means. That's what it means to be my friend.” She said the word with distaste, knowing all too well how abusive friends became. Still, the fondness for John lingered even as she gave him her cold expression. After all of this was over, she would be free of him, then that fondness could wither and die.

  Licia's senses returned to her body, and with them came a wash of emotions that burrowed under her defenses. Discomfort, sadness, fear, and a flash of anger that boiled on a low simmer. The emotions left a mix in the back of her throat, tasting too much like bile. She marched into the kitchen past Emerson and tore open a cupboard, finding an open sleeve of crackers and jamming two into her mouth at once. They were dry and salty, but better than the alternative.

  “Licia?” John watched her with concern. She fortified her defenses and forced herself to swallow. “What did you see?” John stood, probably catching the cagey way she refused to look at him. The emotional transfer felt even stronger this time. Overwhelming.

  “Nothing new.” Befriending John had been a huge mistake. They failed to uproot WHRP back then, and because of that UHP grew out of what was left. They were still collecting and testing specialized individuals. John's friendship made her soft. Made her make mistakes. She never should have let that happen.

  “Did you feel anything?”

  “Plenty. And I'm going to burn them to the ground for making someone suffer like Azami did.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Tarrah

  Reality came back. Bugger off, damn it. The hospital room sharpened around her, like a camera slowly pulling into focus. Tarrah made sense of the machine by her bed, the monitors stuck to her chest, a clip over her finger, the IV tape itching on the back of her hand. Why did she have to return? There was nothing for her here.

  She faded in and out, sleep claiming her, though she'd done nothing but drift in and out of visions all yesterday. It had been a while since they’d been this frequent. It was still too early for light to peek through her window. She hoped she’d be present to watch it snow tonight.

  The door clicked open and Tarrah made herself focus. Dr. Benson, of course it was her. At least she'd be able to get these restraints off.

  “You found your way.”

  It's not like she really went anywhere. Every time she'd had to describe the visions to Dr. Benson she'd explained that it was like being a fly on the wall, seeing a world unfold through people that she'd never met. She hadn’t even been sure they were real, but Benson had taken an interest in her case back when she was still in London after tests and tests. So many blood draws. Then some kind of measurement for a marker in her system officially made Dr. Benson take on her case. Because Tarrah was unusual. Abnormal.

  She’d signed away her life that day. If she could go back, she'd stay in England, and she wouldn't sign her rights to this woman, but she'd bought into Benson's verve, the hope of survival. Of living.

  “Have you felt any change on the Jammers?” Dr. Benson crossed her arms, but in that soft way a mother did when she was concerned over her child. Tarrah's actual mother only ever crossed her arms in an attempt to hold herself together. It was strange, all the faces swimming in her head and yet it was hard to remember her mother’s.

  “They didn't work.” Tarrah hadn’t expected them to. The last batch hadn't done anything.

  “They didn't stop your visions, but last time you weren't relapsing this often, either. We need you healthy to help others. You know that, right?” She sat at the bedside and picked up Tarrah's hand. The contact was startling, but not unwelcome. “You're essential if we're going to help the others out there like you.”

  “But I still can't leave.”

  “You have the unique opportunity to know exactly what your worth is. You are everything to this program. I know you didn't understand everything when you signed up, and I know you're angry, but this is your life purpose. Your discomfort will mean that thousands of people will get to live a life free of the fear their abnormalities bring. They won't have to worry about hurting the people they love or themselves.”

  She thought back to the world of Licia and John and Emerson. How Emerson suffered intense guilt from an ability he couldn't stop. How Licia's power left a gap between her and other people... Even John had been limited because his effect on people always warped their reactions. What if this was how she could help them? By not being real. By just being a fly on the wall. By giving up.

  Even if she continued to fight, what hope was there?

  “Okay.” The best she could do was believe that her life could be sacrificed for others.

  Dr. Benson brushed back Tarrah's hair and smiled kindly, but it didn't reach her eyes. “Good girl.” She pushed a button. “Andrews, the patient is ready.”

  The patient. That was all she was now. Who needed a name when all that mattered was their body?

  Dr. Benson withdrew her hands and squirted hand sanitizer on, rubbing them together. “I want you to tell me your symptoms.”

  “The same as before. Heat creeping up.” As she said it the warmth spread. “Something pressing down, like a weighted blanket.” The pressure began. Was she just imagining it? “Then things grow distant. I can feel it pulling me away.” Would she go back to them? She'd never returned so many times to the same people. Once, maybe twice, but this was new. Was it because they were so close? Then she remembered it didn't matter. She wouldn't be going to them. She was going to die here as a tool for their survival.

  Dr. Benson asked a question, but Tarrah answered with the only thing left to say.

  “It's like I'm underwater.” The world blurred and faded, and Tarrah gave up the fight.

  CHAPTER 23

  John

  He tried to reach out to her, but Licia stormed past and shut herself in the guest bedroom.

  Emerson watched her go, then stirred a handful of noodles into the boiling water. “I don't want her staying here.”

  “Better here than on the streets.” John pushed his hair out of his face and tried not to be hurt that she'd shut him out. Last night he'd made sure she was stable after what happened in the park and she'd almost let down her walls again. She was always keeping everyone out, but she didn't need to do that with him. He had long since accepted her for what she was.

  “—a murderer,” Emerson said. John snapped his gaze up.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said we can't live with a murderer.”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “Is it always? She said she'd killed dozens.”

  John made a frustrated sound. “I promise you she hasn’t.” There was no way she’d killed that many, not with how death hollowed her out. “She's had a difficult life.”

  Emerson gave the sauce a taste and then turned off the burner. “I'll help you, support you, and balance out your ability, but you need a plan to deal with UHP and then she's gone, or I am.”

  As if it was so easy to figure out how to deal with the situation. People on the Anons kept demanding more information, Glen wanted instructions on what to do next, and for some reason they kept turning to John for answers. What the hell did he know? He was too busy worrying about breaking Emerson's heart and the woman down the hall who wouldn't get out of his. He still had his career to deal with, performances, Prisha, all of it. He felt like a container beginning to split at the seams.

  “Dinner's ready.” Emerson drained the pasta and set out plates.

  “Right. Thanks.” He filled a plate with pasta and sauce, then headed for the guest bedroom.
Emerson gave him a look, but he ignored it. No one knew Licia like he did. She wasn't infallible. He knocked on her door and waited.

  But then the world lost depth. John's sight faded and another vision took over.

  He and Licia hid at the broken-down home of one of her still-loyal members. This was after killing the man in the street—days after. He remembered the scent of stale cigarettes and mold and how the dirt permeated his skin. Winter in L.A. was the only time he’d ever felt a chill, but in this hovel, he couldn't escape the sense that everything was damp, and cold, and permanent.

  John sat on the questionable couch and ran his hand through his too-long hair. The days had added blond stubble to his jaw, and he was beginning to think he belonged in the filth. His birth name was being dragged through the mud, but the connection hadn't been made to his chosen name. Licia shared the couch but stayed on the far corner from him.

  “I got the office manager to slip me the most recent lab results.” John struggled to speak the damning words. “Aubrey made a breakthrough. The girl's cells can cure cancer.” John felt sick. The implications of the poor kid being mined for her illness-curing blood. He feared Aubrey would go further, dissecting the child to reap unknown benefits from her skin, marrow... hell, even her hair.

  Licia tore little pieces from a slice of toast and arranged them on her plate. One out of five made it into her mouth. “So?”

  “Cancer. The kid's blood cures cancer. They tested an infusion on a woman with stage four breast cancer and the tumors just... disappeared. Her body attacked them like a virus and expelled them. Overnight.”

  She waited a beat. “It doesn't change the plan.”

  “Doesn't it? My wife is sitting on a cure that has been sought for centuries, and all it takes is one life to save thousands. How can we just... end that?”

  Licia ignored the rest of her toast and spun back to John, her knobby knees and sharp elbows in stark relief to her black clothing. “The girl is fourteen. A minor.”

  John agreed in principle, but he was powerless here. “Her parents signed off on the testing.”