“Uh, thanks,” he said, scowling a little.
I couldn’t quite tell how I’d trod on him there, but clearly he’d not taken that quite the way I intended. “What?” I asked.
“Doesn’t matter.” He picked up one of those fried donuts that was coated in sugar grains and took a bite. I tried not to flinch thinking of all the calories it must have had. Time was, I would have taken one of those down, too. Since getting together with Isabella, I was on a much healthier eating path.
“Clearly my intended compliment bothered you,” I said. “Spill it. How did I offend you by calling you a good guy?”
I watched him watch me as the gears turned in his head while he debated answering the question. After a moment, he put down the doughnut and leaned in to share a piece of his mind with me. “All right, I’ll lay it out: you and your sister got problems, but really, you’re both alike in a lot of ways. One of them is that you both have this whole … veterancy thing going on.”
I blinked. “Is that a word?”
“It should be,” Augustus said. “You’ve been doing this for years. Been here, done this, been there, done that. Seen everything. Or at least way more than me. Which, fair enough. I’m the new guy. I get that. I’m the rook. But you both still treat me like I’m the kid, and I don’t know, maybe it’s been long enough you don’t remember what it’s like being treated as the kid—it sucks. I don’t want to go clean my room and put away my toys, get hit with smug as hell shit like ‘Oh, Augustus, you’re a good boy—’”
“I said ‘guy—’”
“You meant ‘kid,’” he said dourly. “You can’t even argue with that.”
I looked back at him, and most of the anger had fled his dark eyes. “Okay, I meant ‘kid.’ That’s true. But—you are new—”
“I know that,” he said, “but you don’t have to be a smugly superior dick about it. I mean you can either be an empowering mentor or be a very experienced and patronizing jackhole, but you can’t do both at the same time.”
“How am I being a … patronizing jackhole?”
“This is how it goes when your sister and I go on a mission,” he said, talking with his hands. “She teaches the whole time. Not great, but she tells me what’s going on, how she’s run across this type of experience before, whatever. I mean, I have to pry it out of her, but she’ll talk for a while until she gets her point across at least, and she’s not so busy trying to convince me she’s right that she’s overcompensating for—”
“I’m not—” I sputtered, not really sure how to respond to that. “Overcompensating? I’m—uh—I mean—”
“Come on,” Augustus said, “you haven’t been in charge. You haven’t been running the show. You’ve been second fiddle for years, and you’re sick of sitting back and thinking about how this thing would run if you were in charge. Well, guess what? You’re in charge. Stop talking about how it’s going to be and just do your thing. If your way is better than hers, you get to show it. Just stop beating me over the head with how much different you are than her. Because I like your sister. She’s not stupid, and she’s not pointlessly cruel, which you seem to think she is. She doesn’t love hurting people, she just doesn’t shy away from it.” He shrugged. “Do your thing and stop making grand pronouncements. It reeks of a lack of confidence.”
I sat there, trying to use my mouth to form words. “I … am confident,” I said after a moment, unintentionally confirming the opposite.
“Yeah, okay,” Augustus said, and I could tell he was through arguing with me by the way he went back to his doughnut.
I sat there silent, watching him eat, listening to the ambient noise surrounding me from the crowded restaurant. It was a low roar, a hum of families, of children’s delighted screams, of parents exhorting them to be quiet, of silverware and plates clattering. Somewhere, far in the distance, I could hear the stony koi pond’s waterfalls burbling away. “All right, maybe I’m a little insecure,” I finally admitted.
Augustus looked up at me warily, popping in the last bite of doughnut. He spoke with his mouth still partially full. “You don’t need to confess your sins to me.”
“It’s not a sin,” I said, feeling the burn of shame. “It’s a fact. You’re right, I’ve been second fiddle for a while. Maybe I am talking louder than my actions. I should just do and stop worrying about saying. That’s a fair critique. It’s just been a while since I’ve been in charge.”
“Mm,” Augustus said, spooning mushrooms into his mouth. “You still aren’t in charge. Phillips is.”
“Well, you know what I mean,” I said. “I’m in charge of this op.”
Augustus didn’t respond to that, but I could tell by the way he turned his eyes away that he was thinking something else. I started to ask him what that might be, but he stood before I could. My eyes locked on his plate, which was still mostly full, and then I looked up as I started to ask him why he was going back when he hadn’t finished his last helping. As I opened my mouth to speak, I stopped because he was just standing there, mouth slightly agape. Right then, I realized that the buzz of conversation, of families speaking and dining and living had died off around me. The lonely sound of a plate shattering caused me to turn and look for whatever had rendered Augustus speechless.
I brought my head around to see a man walking up the aisle between the restaurant booths. He was wearing a flannel shirt, the kind of thing you’d either find in a hipster’s closet or an L.L. Bean catalog page. He wore it tucked in, with blue jeans, and old, worn-out tennis shoes, like he was a farmer straight out of the Midwest.
Except he wasn’t. He really, really wasn’t.
It was the scarring that shut everyone up. He looked like he’d been burned over and over again, until his flesh could no longer hold any shape at all, like his skin had been poured over his head in liquid form, sloughing over his features until they settled and cooled on lumpy bone. It was almost like he was wearing creature makeup, some effect from a monster movie that looked disturbingly real. He had no hair on his head, on his eyebrows, or his face, and his furious eyes found me while his lips remained more or less lifeless, pulled back in a rictus that exposed perfectly even teeth barely hidden behind a misshapen mouth.
“What the hell …?” Augustus muttered.
I just stared, feeling the blood drain out of my face. It was him. He’d changed dramatically since the last time I’d seen him, when he disappeared in a blaze as my sister unleashed a white phosphorus grenade that scourged his flesh with unquenchable fire. But it was really him, and I couldn’t help but feel a very slight quiver inside as I spoke his name aloud in something lower than a whisper.
“Anselmo.”
13.
Sienna
I came back into Shorty’s Bar and Restaurant to find that an apparent evening crowd had moved in. I know—I was shocked too, but apparently Bayscape Island was actually big enough to produce a crowd, albeit a small one. There were probably seven people in the place besides Brant, who was holding court at the bar, talking to a dark-haired guy in a police uniform that was somewhere between grey and black. He was holding one of those large-brimmed lawman hats under his arm and leaning against the bar, smile creasing his handsome profile as I walked in. Brant was nodding along with whatever the lawman was saying, and I watched them stop talking as I approached, making my way across the restaurant portion of the establishment.
I ignored the other groups seated at the tables around me and headed for the bar, feeling another rumble in my belly. I’d hung around my cabin for a little while, Jacuzzi’d for a bit, tried to ignore that uneasy feeling that someone was messing with my head. I hadn’t heard any more voices, so that was a plus. Part of me was staying just to show the voice I wasn’t scared, I think.
I watched the lawman draw his head back from Brant as I walked up, regarding me with a cool glance as I plopped down on one of the barstools. Music was playing in the background, slow and full of feeling. The lawman nodded to me and moved off down the b
ar as Brant broke off and headed my way. He caught my gaze and smiled. “Back for another round, eh?”
I paused, finally realizing why the music playing sounded so familiar. It was Scott Bradlee and Postmodern Jukebox playing their Haley Reinhart-fronted version of Radiohead’s “Creep.” It was slow and lovely, full of soul and feeling. I looked into Brant’s smiling face as he leaned against the bar and nodded toward the ceiling to indicate the music. “They’re playing your song.”
Brant just grinned in reply. “You think so?”
“Jury’s still out,” I said. “Though I did have another, presumably-unrelated-to-you haunting experience at my cabin a little while ago.”
One of his eyebrows arched up. “You seem calmer than I’d expect from someone having paranormal experiences.”
“First off,” I said, “I’m not having a paranormal experience because there is no such thing. Someone is screwing with me, and I’m going to give them enough rope to twist in.”
He nodded, cautious. “Nice. And second?”
“It takes a lot to scare me,” I said, putting my elbows on the bar.
“Is there a third point?”
“If I get boozy enough, point three may be graphic and oddly specific promises of violence for the parties responsible,” I said. “I’m not the forgiving sort.”
“I’m getting that,” Brant said. “Was there a drink order hidden in there somewhere, or am I wishfully thinking?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t come back for the ambience,” I said, looking around at the newly semi-crowded room. “Though I like your music choice. I’ll have what I had before.”
“Non-booze-flavored beverage coming right up,” Brant said, nodding as he turned back toward the bar.
I watched him work for a minute before I spoke again. “You’re not afraid?” He glanced over his shoulder at me as he poured amber liquid into the mixed drink he was making me. “Of my threatening nature?”
He shrugged. “I’m not responsible, so … no. Though it might be interesting, purely from an intellectual standpoint, to hear these threats that you’ll make later.” He set the drink in front of me on the bar.
“And you’re not afraid of me?” I asked. “You know, as a patron who wandered in this afternoon sounding crazy as hell and talking about hearing voices?”
That brought him up short, and he took a few seconds to craft an answer. “Well, I guess my natural curiosity is overcoming my caution in this case, because … well, you’re sort of a celebrity, and we don’t get many of those around here. It’s like if, you know, one of those drunk and crazy actresses came wandering in and trashed the place. Sure, I’d have to clean it up, but at least I’d have a hell of a story to tell.”
I snorted into my drink. “The girl at the rental place asked if I was going to trash my cabin. That’s the second time someone’s asked me to do that, like destroying the place is good for business in some way.”
“I don’t think it’d be all that good for business, to be honest,” Brant said, “though we are going into the slow season, so maybe it wouldn’t matter as much. That said, as fascinating as I find this bit of oddness to break up the monotony of a very slow week, I’m not all that excited about seeing this … uh … whatever you’ve got going on,” he waved a hand at me, “getting much more intense than it already has. You’re fun to banter with and all, but I’m not wealthy, and I had to get a high-deductible insurance policy on this place—”
“Understood,” I said, nodding my head. “I will avoid trashing your place of business unless our very lives are in danger.” Not that it would matter; acts of metas weren't covered by insurance anyway. Needless to say, I kept this helpful information to myself, since it would probably only have served to make him nervous.
His face grew pale. “Uhm … how likely is that to happen?” Nervous-er.
I started to answer him but was interrupted by a gentle tapping on my shoulder. I spun quickly to see Jake flinch back from my sudden movement. He was standing there next to Sarah, who was watching the whole thing with a cool eye, which was probably how she watched everything. “Whoa!” Jake said. “No harm intended.” He held his hands out in front of him. “Just wanted to say hi.”
“I didn’t even hear you come up,” I said, the muscles in my back at full tense. My fists were clenched, already prepared for an ambush, and I could hear my heart pounding even over the music, which had moved on to the Postmodern Jukebox version of “Poison” sometime during my conversation with Brant. Good taste, bartender.
“Didn’t try to sneak,” Jake said, taking a step back to stand next to Sarah. “Sorry. Wasn’t intending to surprise you, either.” He lowered his hands, and for the first time I noticed the gold watch on his left wrist. It had handsome links.
“I should be apologizing,” I said, lowering myself back onto the barstool. “Or I should buy you a drink, or something.”
“I like this idea,” Brant said from behind me, “because it involves money going into my pocket rather than coming out to make repairs to my oh-so-quaint establishment.”
Sarah’s cool gaze flicked over me. “Your hand is bleeding again.”
“Huh?” I looked down and unclenched my left hand. Sure enough, there was crimson spreading out across the bandage. “Hell. Must have squeezed it tight enough to break the skin when I, uh, overreacted to your husband’s approach.”
“I often overreact to his approach, with similar results,” Sarah said, sliding onto the barstool next to me. If I wasn’t mistaken, this was probably as close as she got to sympathy, but it was sprinkled with her über-dry wit. “I’ll take a martini, Brant, since the young lady’s paying.”
“I feel like I just got an unpleasant glimpse into your sex life,” Brant said, frowning slightly as he stared off into space past Sarah. “I don’t think I like it.”
Sarah’s eyes rolled hard. “You’re reading too much into it. Now go fix me a drink.”
Jake slid onto the barstool next to mine, sandwiching me neatly between the married couple. I probably would have felt more uncomfortable, but Sarah was already ignoring me in favor of the little bowl of mixed nuts sitting on the counter. “Settling in?” Jake asked, with that broad grin I’d seen him display more than a few times already today.
“More or less,” I said, getting back on my barstool with a little effort. Those things were tall, and I am not.
“So which is it?” Sarah asked, not even bothering to turn to face me while she spoke. “More? Or less?”
“Probably less,” I said, giving her side-eye. Brant was a few steps away and turned his head to look at me as I spoke, but he offered nothing to my story, which was good. I may not have been the most popularity-obsessed person around, but even I wasn’t eager to share a crazy story with near-total strangers. I looked up and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that stretched above the bar. I let my sightline drift over to the tall, dark-clad lawman to my right at the end of the bar, and caught a flash of him staring at me before he averted his eyes to go back to his drink, a tall glass of golden beer. “Much less. I don’t settle so easy.”
Sarah made a full-shoulder shrug even as she stared straight ahead. “At least you’ve always got a ready quip about it.”
“Less useful than you’d think,” I said, taking another drink of my beverage. So sweet.
“Have you had a chance to look around the island much yet?” Jake asked. Brant put a big mug of dark beer in front of him unasked, and I watched Jake take a long pull from it while he waited for my answer.
“I pretty much sat around this afternoon,” I said, skipping over the part where most of the actual sitting was done in the Jacuzzi bath, with the jets working my weary-yet-technically flawless muscles. “And when I spoke to the girl at the rental place about exploring the rest of the island, she was pretty discouraging about the whole thing. I got a real, ‘whatever you do, don’t go to the elephant graveyard’ vibe from her, and we all know that’s really just an invitation to do the th
ing you’ve been told not to.”
“Let me guess,” Jake said with that grin, “Apollonia?”
“Good guess,” I said, gracelessly stealing a peanut from the dish in front of Sarah, drawing a somewhat annoyed look from her. “Though I suppose you don’t exactly have a wide selection of suspects to choose from in this case.”
“You’d be right about that,” Brant said, setting a martini down in front of Sarah as he re-entered the conversation. “But Apollonia, she’s a special sort. Ingrained in this place. Been here as long as I have.”
“Anyway,” I said, “between the grim warning and the weather, I haven’t had much inclination to look around. Figured I’d just hang out within easy run of car or roof until things cleared.”
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to play the creepy, crackly weather report on the radio?” Brant asked me with a gleam in his eyes.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Why? Has my life become a horror movie?”
“I hope not,” Brant said, “because I’m very much the comic relief that’s bound to get offed first.” He ran a hand from his waist up to his face, brushing at his facial hair. “I mean, look at me. I’m too pretty to live in any nightmare scenario.”
I saw Sarah lean back on her stool to my left so that she could talk to Jake. “Are they speaking in some sort of code? Am I too old to understand what they’re saying?”
“I’m a bit lost myself,” Jake said good naturedly. “But I did hear the weather report, and it sounds like a horror all its own.” I looked over at him, and his lips pursed in a thin line. “Storm’s moving in hard. Expecting more rain before tomorrow—torrential downpours.” He brightened. “Fun vacation, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said, turning to pick up my drink, “it’s a real rain barrel of laughs.” I brought my glass up to take a sip and my eyes alighted on the mirror above the bar as a fierce pain shot through my entire body.
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