Incorruptible

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Of course not. “Not in front of a lady, at least.”

  She seemed to find that funny, too, which puzzled him, because it was only the truth. But Jenna sagged in her seat, laughing until tears slicked her cheeks, and Michael found himself mystified but laughing as well, shaking his head slightly.

  Ahead of them, the semi slowed, and exited two miles later. The red Dodge continued, riding towards the far-off sea.

  A Normal Reaction

  Utah rolled by—rocks, sage, trees, widening patches of semi-desert. The wilderness birthed towns every once in a while, and by afternoon Jenna was hungry, her bladder was stretched, and even the new feeling of liberation and safety could take a backseat to a decent meal and the chance to stand up and walk a little. She didn’t want to say anything, but Michael kept glancing at her and finally pulled off at the next rest stop, a bleached concrete cube set on an arid, windswept plateau. Dust danced across the parking lot, swept by a brisk breeze, and the foothills around them all but vibrated. At first Jenna thought it was freeway noise, but the humming remained when she shut herself in a dank, grimy bathroom stall and was faced with the prospect of hovering over a toilet seat.

  Her legs ached already, and Vegas—not to mention L.A.—seemed an eternity away.

  When she emerged into a dry chill breeze, Michael was bent over a road atlas spread on the truck’s dusty red hood, frowning. His shoulders swelled under his jacket as he shifted, and Jenna halted at the top of the slight hill to the parking lot, examining him.

  It was normal to feel pretty damn charitable towards a big-shouldered man who threw his own body over yours when the world exploded. It was predictable, really, and it didn’t help that he was so diffident, so obviously pleased when she laughed at his infrequent jokes, or so carefully gentle. Eddie would have already popped her in the arm once or twice, telling her not to get fresh, and would have insisted she drive while also running down and critiquing every moment and movement while she did. The marks on Michael’s arms and chest didn’t so much say felon now as they shouted strong, and he seemed to know exactly what to do at any given moment.

  It would be nice to be that certain.

  She felt clearer now, almost lightheaded. Maybe it was all the mountain air, or maybe it was just that the low-level dread and creeping terror had fallen away. She hadn’t realized how that slow, poisonous gas had filled her days and nights back home, slowly suffocating every inch. Of course, there were different things to fear. Her nightmares were real—the question of whether they were simply warning her or if she’d been locked onto some crazy mental wavelength and actually witnessing demon-murders was pretty academic at this point.

  More troubling, and getting closer all the time, was San Francisco. Not the town itself, but the question of just what she’d seen crouching on the flaming wreckage of her mother’s car.

  Come on, Jenna. You know what you saw.

  His brothers came in all shapes and sizes, Michael said. Jenna shut her eyes, that terrible day unreeling under mental fingertips, swallowing her whole.

  The flames were greasy orange, the smoke billowing black, but the shape on the crumpled hood of her mother’s Volvo was red. Jenna, bleeding on painted concrete near the shoulder, stared past the man dragging her away from the car as the shape unfolded, hearing horns blare as cars further back, not caring that the world had just ended, protested the sudden stoppage.

  Tall and male, the shape was deceptively lean, and his long nose and strong chin reminded her vaguely of Eddie. Or Eddie had reminded her of that day, and maybe that was the feeling of familiarity when he’d twisted her arm during an argument, hissing be careful, honey, you’d better stay on the straight and narrow.

  She’d tried. God, how she’d tried.

  The man on the hood of her mother’s car had a shock of red hair—not carroty but crimson, an angry starburst. Blood hair, and her own bloody hand, lifted as the sounds coming from the gouting smoke and licking flame were swallowed up in roaring…

  “You all right?” Michael was suddenly right in front of her, the sunshine turning to gold in his hair and along his stubble; Jenna suppressed a flinch.

  “Fine.” Her voice wouldn’t work for a moment, so she coughed, cupping her hand over her mouth to catch it for politeness’s sake. The air was almost crystalline out here, despite a tinge of exhaust from the freeway’s nearby drone. “Just thinking about old ghosts.”

  “They can’t hurt you anymore.” He squinted a little against sunlight. The sunshine picked out blond tips on each individual eyelash; his stubble was dark at the roots. His chest was ridiculously broad, and she had the sudden urge to put her palm flat against his T-shirt, covering the stab-scar, feeling the solidity of muscle and that strange, steady heat. Her palms all but itched with the idea, so she put her hands behind her and dropped her gaze to his throat, the Adam’s-apple strangely vulnerable. “I’m here.”

  It was a nice thought. She opened her mouth to deflect, to keep some distance, but what came out instead was a plaintive question. “They won’t send you back home, will they? When we get to L.A.?” It seemed kind of like the military, where you were posted to wherever and just had to deal with it.

  “Not if you ask for me.” He leaned forward slightly, and his own hands dangled at his sides, palms turned slightly forward before he pulled them back. The cold didn’t seem to bother him. It would probably get warmer, though; that’s what desert meant. “If you, uh, request me as your guard. They’ll try to talk you out of it, because I’m just a low-level grunt, but…”

  “I don’t care.” The obstruction was back in her throat. She was about to make a gigantic fool of herself, and couldn’t stop. “We can find work in L.A., right? A place to live, and maybe we can—”

  “You’ll live at the Eyrie.” Did he look, of all things, shocked? “You won’t ever have to work again unless you want to. You’re an Incorruptible, Jenna. You’ve got more important things to do than some dead-end mortal job.”

  Oh, how I wish that were true. “Too good to be true usually is, Michael.” Was it still too good if there were demon-monsters lurking in the shadows? How many of the strangenesses or the nightmares, how much of the bad luck, had ever been normal?

  She kept thinking of little things, like how Mom always knew who was calling when the phone rang or how Jenna had sat up in bed, not afraid but expectant, and suddenly known that her father, struggling in hospice care, had stopped breathing at last? The clock had said 3:47 a.m, and that was the time on his death certificate.

  “I know it sounds that way.” Endlessly patient, Michael just stood there, watching her. “At least you can come and see, right?”

  The breeze was trying to shove her hair into her face, and she hadn’t thought to dig in her purse for an elastic. Maybe she was cracking under the strain, the way some in the family whispered Mom would after Dad…

  Jenna returned to herself with an internal thump she was surprised didn’t echo. “It’s not like I have much of a choice.” She sounded prissy and spoiled, she realized, and stole a glance at his expression.

  Thankfully, he didn’t look angry, or even mildly perturbed. Just thoughtful, and he held his thumbs near the outer seams on his jeans like a soldier waiting for orders. “I know. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Why are you so nice?” It finally burst out of her, and she squashed the tiny internal voice that was trying to tell her to calm down, don’t rock the boat, you don’t want to be left alone at this damn rest stop, do you? “Why don’t you get angry and tell me to mind my own fucking business or shut up?”

  His jaw actually dropped a few fractions, and his eyes widened. “I would never.” He rocked back on his heels, and that helped—it meant he wasn’t looming over her, it meant she could breathe, but at the same time, she felt oddly bereft. He was a good windbreak. “I know you’re had it rough, Jenna, okay? I know—”

  “What do you think you know?” I’m not angry. Why am I yelling? It wasn’t like her to raise her voi
ce; she tried to push the unsteady, explosive feeling swelling inside her ribs away, corral it. It didn’t want to be corralled. “I didn’t ask for this! I never did!”

  “I know.” He didn’t get angry even then, just took a cautious step back, putting his toes down first and rolling through, a cautious, catlike movement. Not as if he was afraid—Christ, he outweighed her by an order of magnitude—but like was was giving her room. “Go ahead, get mad. It’s all right.”

  “Jesus, can you stop being so nice?” Jenna’s voice broke in the middle of the high-pitched, forlorn cry, and she almost clapped her hands over her mouth, horrified at herself.

  Because she was angry. She was furious, and she hated the feeling, because it was only a short step from there to Eddie Rayburn, wasn’t it? bad enough to have monsters chasing her, but to become one was even worse.

  “Anger’s a normal reaction.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Besides, you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. She stared at him, speechless. What was with this guy? Of course, he wasn’t, well, human, right? Nothing human could recover from a stabbing in mere hours. Maybe that was it.

  And if he wasn’t human, he might not be exactly safe, either. But if he wasn’t, why would he have protected her this far?

  “You’re crazy.” It was the only thing she could say, and it popped out of her mouth like a word balloon in a comic strip.

  “I don’t think I am, but they’ll check at the Eyrie. Psychological testing’s part of the package.” He was still absolutely level, serious as a heart attack. He looked human enough, right down to that stubble and the faint asymmetry of his face. “I mean it, Jenna. I’m glad you’re a little angry. It means you think I’m safe, so you can afford to let it out.”

  Was that the problem? “I guess.” All the hot prickling under her skin went away and her shoulders sagged all at once. “I’m sorry.” Now she was abruptly conscious that she’d been yelling at the one person who probably didn’t deserve it in this fucked-up situation.

  Maybe Eddie had rubbed off on her. Or maybe, just maybe, she couldn’t tell what was reasonable anymore, because she was being chased by monsters, for God’s sake. Or maybe both, a rough knotted snarl she didn’t know how to begin untangling.

  “You don’t have to apologize.” He gave the empty parking lot a once-over; there weren’t even semis in the truck half.

  Given the state of the restrooms, she didn’t blame them. Nobody would stop here unless they absolutely had to. The landscape was beautiful, but it had a strange sterility, too. Almost as if it had been drained, except for tiny flickers of life hiding below the arid, inhospitable surface.

  “Yes,” she said, heavily. “I do. I guess we’re getting back on the road, huh?” I wouldn’t blame you if you left me here. She could sit on the curb and wait for the monsters—inhuman or otherwise—to show up.

  It might even be safer, she decided. For him.

  “Yeah. You hungry?” And to top it all off, he still didn’t look angry. Just hopeful, with a small, pleased smile. His blue eyes kindled and his mouth was kind, and his hands weren’t tense at all. He just stood at the edge of her personal space, the breeze combing past both of them, and waited for her to make up her mind.

  Fine. Sure. Whatever. What does it matter, anyway? “I am.” Surprisingly, it was true. Her stupid body kept demanding nourishment and sleep no matter what else was happening. There was a certain comfort in the fact. “You?”

  “Yeah.” He extended a hand, its palm cupped to catch sunlight, and waited some more.

  Jenna laid her fingers in his. Warm skin, rougher than her own. He didn’t squeeze or pull, just turned, threading his fingers through hers. He was so warm. No wonder he had to eat so much, his metabolism was probably a locomotive engine.

  “There’s stuff in the cooler,” he said, tentatively. “We can eat while we drive.”

  Something Right

  There was a whole lot of nothing and more mountains to get through before stopping again, but Jenna put the cooler between them and started making sandwiches. It was a good idea—a package of rolls, a package of deli meat, a package of cheese, a dab of mustard from a well-shaken container, and voilà, you had road-food. She didn’t say much, but the sudden sharp spike of irritation in the parking lot had comforted Michael immensely. Feeling safe enough to lash out was better than her former numb, cautious politeness. It cleared the air, and he felt a lot lighter than he had on the other side of the tunnel.

  It was almost like being on vacation. Not that legionnaires got vacations, or felt very comfortable attempting them—ease and peace were dangerous, they drew you away from the Principle. Training and routine were much firmer guardrails.

  The road curved back and forth, sometimes just a little, sometimes in great swinging arcs. What forest there was turned dusty olive instead of the dark green of firs, and the open spaces were full of sand and sage instead of rolling grass. Towers of stacked stone eroded by time and wind abrasion stood chimney-sentinel, and as the afternoon wore on Jenna began to make soft remarks about the landscape, pointing out strange and whimsical things.

  She didn’t ask about the Legion, or about the unclean. Rather, she seemed to crave normality, and he did his best to give her some. It didn’t hurt to pretend they were…somehow, in some way, friends. Or perhaps more.

  Well, he was taking her to safety, so it kind of counted, right? He could imagine, inside the secret chamber of his skull, that they were together by choice instead of simply thrown into a rolling metal rectangle by an outer threat.

  The land changed again, smudged peaks in the distance resolving clear and sharp, and they plunged into national forest land as the sun sank. A redgold glare filled the windshield, and when they finally hooked south to begin the descent to Las Vegas she had fallen into a deep reverie, watching the country roll by.

  Michael drove, listening to her soft breathing, and let the fantasy fill his head.

  A volcanic orange glow stained the desert night, drowning stars and a nail-paring moon. It was Vegas, the dame of the desert herself—not nearly as beautiful as an Incorruptible, especially if you knew what lingered under her skirts. Michael found a gas station before the city proper and got them off the freeway; as soon as their speed dropped Jenna woke with a gasp, her hands leaping in the cab’s gloom like small frantic birds.

  “It’s all right,” he said immediately. Orient and comfort, that’s the first step. “We’re getting gas. We’re right outside Vegas.”

  “Really?” She rubbed at her eyes, her breathing quick and light. “Oh, wow. I dropped off.”

  “You need the rest. It’s another five hours or so to L.A.” Michael hit the blinker and piloted them diagonally across three lanes—oncoming and the middle turn lane—and over a bump into the parking lot. Fluorescent light drowned out orange city-glow and stung eyes used to watching a dark ribbon starred with headlamps and brake lights; Jenna rubbed at hers again. “But it’s late. We’ll stop for a little while.”

  He meant to be comforting, but her face fell. She’d slipped out of her parka, its extra bulk no longer a necessity. “Shouldn’t we get there as soon as possible?”

  “I scrapped the phone, nobody knows where we are. Might as well get some rest in a good hotel.” He cut the engine and found himself looking across the cab at a woman with sleep-mussed dark hair and a shy smile. Her T-shirt, tucked neatly into her jeans, all but clung to her, and his mouth was suspiciously dry. “Besides, how often do you get to Vegas?”

  “I’ve been here once in my whole life. My mom and I got a couple rolls of quarters apiece and played the slot machines.” Her smile widened, and she looked around with interest, as if they could see the Strip from this far away. The gas station’s fluorescent glow reached her hands and knees but not her face; her eyes were soft gleams. “It was fun.”

  Michael suddenly wanted, very badly, to keep that smile on her face. “Why don’t we stop somewhere nice, then? Get a room,
do some gambling.” It wasn’t hard to tickle slot machines or make a roulette ball fall where you wanted it, and he’d played his fair share of poker in army barracks across the years. He didn’t think she’d be much good at that game—everything she felt was written across her soft, pretty face, underlined and in neon.

  “We probably shouldn’t stop to…” She realized it was a joke and shook her head, still smiling, but a thin shadow of fear lay under the amusement.

  Well, he was clumsy as usual; he should just stick to his duties and nothing more. “Next time we can gamble. This time we can just rest for a little bit.”

  “Either way, it sounds expensive.” A question lay under the words, and she reached for her door, pausing and pulling her hand back as she remembered the drill.

  He could feel good about that, at least. “Money’s easy.”

  “Oh, really?” An arch inquiry as she stretched, pointing her toes, obviously eager to get out and use her legs. “Besides, if they can track a phone, they can track credit cards.”

  “I’ve got clean cards.” It might have irked him, that she didn’t think he had that particular matter well in hand. “And more than enough cash.”

  “I don’t want to know how you got it,” Jenna muttered, folding her arms and all but fidgeting. Of course, she probably had to use the little girls’.

  Michael reached for his own door. “Standard procedure to keep a fair amount of liquidity in case you need—”

  “I said I didn’t want to know.” But her smile remained and even strengthened, bathing him in the Principle’s forgiving warmth. “You’re really funny, Michael. Let’s go, I need the restroom.”

  A half-hour later they were deep in a tangle of brightly lit streets, circling. He’d studied his faithful atlas that morning, so he had a good idea of the city layout by the time they got to the Wisteria Hotel, its front alive with creeping vines watered assiduously morning and night. Masses of flowers hung in carefully trimmed color-blotches, and the pillars along the front porch as well as the two massive glass revolving doors sparkled with self-satisfaction. Bands of tourists and those longing to fleece them thronged the wide sidewalks, and the entire place throbbed with light even at this hour. More than that, though, instinct told him it was comfortable and there was a vacancy, the Principle arranging matters now that a legionnaire was attending one of its bearers.