The Wicked City (30 page)

“I’m not sure wine is good for chest wounds,” Micha said.

“No, but it’ll be great for my mind wounds.”

Their drama stayed on the front page of the
Tribune
, and every other paper in the city, for over a week. Most of the articles included full-color pictures of Eric Greerson looking humble and munificent, followed by unflattering black-and-white photographs of Aaron and Sam.

None of the articles mentioned Eric’s vampirism. An expensive and well-attended funeral was held, closed-casket of course. The search for the “assassins” was quickly blocked on all sides by furious marauding members of both the Paranormal Alliance and the SNC. Institute researchers were attacked and arson attempts made on the Institute. June waited hopefully for a bomb to go off, so she could head over and piss in the rubble.

Speculation on Jason and June’s involvement, and their whereabouts, came up sporadically. The Institute initially resisted handing over surveillance footage to the police, claiming they wanted to conduct their own investigation once again. None of the footage, once in authority’s hands, revealed the fate of the “disappearing Coffin twins.”

“We sound like a sideshow act,” Jason remarked when this hilarious title appeared. He read diligently every word of every article they printed.

June could only stomach the news in small doses.

“Of course,” June said, “this whole damn thing is a circus.”

“They don’t really care about us, do they?” Jason said. “They’re much more concerned with Eric Greerson’s killers.”

“That could be to our advantage. Gone and forgotten makes it easy to hide.”

Aaron’s doctor stopped by daily to check on June. Jason and Micha fed her vegetable broth and tea—
tea
—and kept her entertained. The doctor made her do breathing exercises, including coughing, which he told her she had to do or fluid would build up in her lungs and she’d get pneumonia. She wanted to stab him in the face with her IV needle, sound medical advice be damned.

The doctor also attended to Micha. At times, Micha seemed distant and lethargic, but when asked, he attributed the melancholy more to his mental than physical state. He cycled through various mild flu-like symptoms, but none of them lasted more than a day. The doctor didn’t know how to treat him and told Aaron that without proper tests, he had no way of knowing what was going on inside Micha’s body. He wanted to take a vial of blood, but Aaron wouldn’t allow it, lest it accidentally fall into the wrong hands. Suddenly, Micha’s blood was a precious commodity.

Then, something bad finally happened.

June was on her second day of being able to sit fully upright in a chair next to her bed. Micha sat in another chair nearby. His hair was rumpled, the white T-shirt he wore tight across his chest showing he’d lost some weight. He hadn’t been eating much lately.

“You all right?” June asked him.

“I guess,” he replied, his voice soft.

“I’m worried about you.” She took a drink from the glass of water she had and put it aside on the table next to her. “I wish the doctor could do tests on you. Are you feeling anything weird?” She presented the question every day.

“What’s weird? I don’t know.”

This was not the answer Micha usually gave. Most of the time, he replied with a simple monotone “no,” or a mere shake of his head.

June frowned. “Are you feeling something?”

He tilted his chin down and looked at the table next to June. Uneasiness welled in her stomach.

The glass lurched, and June flinched. Her eyes went so wide they were on the verge of popping out of her head. Micha continued staring at the glass; it lurched again, water sloshing up the sides and splattering on the tabletop.

“Oh my God, it worked.” June was half horrified, half relieved. If the serum did what it was supposed to, Micha might be all right in the end. Maybe it wouldn’t kill him.

“That’s not all,” Micha said.

June watched, holding her breath.

Something started happening to the water. Little bubbles formed at the bottom of the glass and sped to the surface. Then the water began to churn. A thin wisp of steam rose from it. June dropped her mouth open, but couldn’t form words. The glass vibrated on the surface of the table, making a low thrumming sound.

“You’re one of those—pyro things,” June said. “Like your sister.”

A sensation moved up her left forearm: warmth, initially mild, but the sensation quickly grew hotter, enough to cause pain.

June yelped and grabbed her arm. She winced at the sharp stab in her chest when she moved. Micha gasped, his expression turning horrified. The heat ceased, or at least it didn’t increase. The aftermath felt like a sunburn.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” Micha leapt up, rushed over to her, and grabbed her arm. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” June said, though truthfully, she was shaken. “It’s all right.”

“I can’t focus it,” Micha blinked rapidly, his eyes shining. “It started last night, in the bathroom. I moved some things across the counter. Then I melted a bottle of soap.”

“It’s all right,” June repeated.

He knelt in front of her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She touched his face. “Welcome to the dark side, I guess.”

“Please don’t tell the others,” he begged. “Not yet. There’s no telling how this might work. I could develop more abilities. They might come and go. I might never learn to control or focus any of them. I want to know exactly what’s happening before I tell anyone.”

“I promise. I won’t tell them.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I’m fine.” She desperately wanted him to be fine too, for his mind to not be further broken. “We’ll both be fine, Micha. We’ll get through this together.” She tried to force a smile.

Micha dropped his head in her lap, and she stroked his hair. He gripped her waist, shaking. Again, like the morning after breaking into the funeral parlor, she didn’t know how to console, so she resorted to humor. She told herself not to bring up Hitler this time.

“Since you’re down there…” she chided.

Micha sniffed wetly. “Doctor told you no physical strain.”

“I promise I’ll sit still.”

He lifted his head. His eyes were glistening. “Thank you for coming back for me at the Institute.”

She swallowed. “I couldn’t leave you there. You didn’t deserve what they did to you.”

He sniffed again. “Maybe it would have been better if I—”

She placed a finger to his lips. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you say that.”

He nodded, her finger still resting on his lips. She took it away.

“We both deserved to be saved,” she said. “Things wouldn’t be any easier without us.”

He dropped his head back in her lap. She touched his hair.

“But seriously,” she said. “While you’re down there.”

He lifted his head again. “I don’t know where everyone else is…”

“I don’t really care where they are.”

June found out orgasms sucked when you had a bullet lodged in your chest.

Still worth it.

And so the situation became more convoluted.

An extraordinary number of people came and went from the penthouse considering they were in hiding: Cindy, repeatedly showering June with physical affection and making her yell; Muse, grim and twitching away like a rattlesnake, bringing Sam news from the front lines; Ethan, cocky as ever despite his unemployment.

“I can’t believe they fired you,” June told him the first time he showed up to see Sam. “That’s bullshit.”

“Any condemnation of the Institute is quick to put you under suspicion right now.” Ethan actually sounded pleased he’d been persecuted by the Man. “I’ll never sit down and keep my mouth shut, though. I’ll find a way. I still have connections. And I can’t let Sam down.”

June narrowed her eyes. “You’re a member of the Paranormal Alliance, aren’t you?”

“No, but I want to be. I’ve been petitioning Sam for two years now. He’s a great man. I want to serve him.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.”

“I’m damn lucky Robbie never targeted me, as often as I like to get the truth out there. Now there’s a story I’d like to follow, his mad campaign. Sensational.” He wandered off to find Sam.

“Right,” June said. “Sensational.”

Each day June got a little better physically. Mentally, she remained a wreck—a twenty car pileup, actually, complete with exploding gas tanks and body parts littered on the side of the road. She wanted to contact people back home. What had become of her shop? Was her friend and co-owner Diego running things? Did her friends think she’d skipped town? Did her mother think they were dead? Neither watching the news nor reading the newspapers—or reading blogs on Aaron’s laptop—eased her mind, as each day the situation spiraled deeper into political and civil chaos. Only the patient, easy kindness of both her brother and Micha kept her from completely losing her mind; and poor Micha had his own problems.

Within a month, June was something like herself again. She had limited mobility in her right arm, and her chest still ached when she took a deep breath, but she got around well enough, as far as she could go, anyway. The penthouse was now their domain. She tried to give Micha some space, to work through the issues concerning his wife—who thankfully, didn’t make any surprise visits—but this finally ended with a heated make-out session and some careful physically awkward sex late one night.

She didn't know if Micha wanted her, or merely comfort, but she didn’t mind either way.

One afternoon not long after, they were sprawled on the big white leather couch in Aaron’s living room. Micha was stretched out beside her and resting against her good side, so he was on the outer part of the couch, June wedged against the back of it. Dipity was curled on June’s stomach, asleep.

Micha was reading from the little blue tour book he’d gotten at the hotel, about Jay Pritzker Pavilion in Millennium Park and the architect, Frank Ghery. Jason, sitting in a chair nearby, listened raptly. Cindy was paying them a visit and had planted herself on a stool in front of Jason, his bare foot in her lap. Of all things, she insisted on giving him a pedicure. She claimed her sister went to beauty school and taught her a bunch of things about grooming other people. June could use that line sometime, though she didn’t want to play with anyone’s feet. She liked seeing Jason focus on something besides the news.

“Read some more,” June murmured, when Micha stopped reading. She played with his hair.

Micha turned a page. “The Millennium Monument.” His voice vibrated against June’s shoulder.

When he was through with that subject, he read about how the entirety of Millennium Park was funded by private donations.

“Just like the Institute,” Cindy piped up, breaking the mood.

June scowled at her back.

“But a lot less sinister,” Jason said. “I wish I could go see all of it.” His voice had gotten stronger, though he was still hoarse at times, especially if he spoke too loudly. “Even though I get chills thinking about that place, I loved the sculpture in the courtyard outside the Institute. It’s Harold Brenning’s third public work.”

“That’s it.” Cindy snapped her fingers. “I can never remember the sculptor’s name. I think I deliberately blanked it out or something.”

“You like sculpture?” Jason asked.

Cindy worked away with a nail file. “I went to college to be an art major. Dropped out, though. Couldn’t afford the tuition. Became a bartender instead. But someday, I plan on going back.”

“You want to hear some more?” Micha asked. “Crown Fountain was designed by Jaume Plensa…”

“Nah.” June shook her head. “That’s enough Chicago for now.”

“I went to the University of Southern California for a liberal arts degree,” Jason said. “Utterly useless. So I went to acting school. I wanted to make my mother happy by going to college since June had no interest in it.” He had given June crap about this before. “But I eventually had to follow what was in my heart. Even in college, I was into theatre. I knew acting was my calling.”

“You were in the right place for it,” Cindy said. “Los Angeles is full of stars, so I hear.”

“A whole sea of them,” Jason said. “Hard to get noticed.”

Cindy sat back. “I could give you a haircut, too, if you want. Slick you up a bit. You’ll feel better.”

“Can I have a makeover, too?” June asked sardonically. She hoped Cindy wasn’t using her sex magic on Jason.

“Jason has a classic handsome face, good for the movie screen,” Cindy said. “Shame to hide it behind scruff, even at a time like this. Your face is too unique, June. I couldn’t do much with it.”

“Are you calling me ugly?” June asked.

“I’m calling you unique. It’s not a bad thing.”

“Some of us weren’t born with luscious lips and huge boobs.”

“I didn’t say a word about your boobs!”

Micha stretched up and kissed June’s jaw. “You’re not ugly,” he whispered, “and I love your boobs.” He then rolled away a little and dropped the book behind him on the floor.

A pile of newspapers were scattered on the coffee table parallel to the couch. Micha snatched up the ad section from one and settled against her again. Dipity gave a rumble of protest.

“Shut up, Dip.” June patted her head.

“Let’s look at fun stuff,” Micha said. “I don’t want to read the news today. Look. One hundred personalized pencils for five ninety-nine. I bet they don’t have my name, at least not spelled right. I’ve suffered at the hands of the personalized crap industry all my life.”

“You tell them your name, and they put it on.” June snatched the ad and tossed it away. The paper fluttered to the floor behind him. She tugged at his shirt. “I got a better idea for fun stuff,” she said. “Come here.”

“Your chest.”

“Just be careful.”

Dipity angrily scooted off and cleared out. Micha got on top of her, delicately, not exerting pressure on her chest or side. June kissed him slowly. She didn’t know exactly where they were going, but it had to be better than where they’d been.

“Please,” Jason said, “don’t mind us.”

June waved a hand behind Micha’s head. “Go court her with your feet somewhere else.”