It's Wednesday morning and I'm not looking forward to bio class. Or anything else. The hospice nurse came by yesterday. She wouldn't reveal how much time Gran has left—they never do—but the careful look on her face gave me a good clue. She did say that when I turn eighteen in a few days, we can start the process of transferring power of health for Gran over to me. It'll make things easier when the end draws near and decisions about artificial feeding and pain treatment need to be made. I called Maria last night, but could only leave a message for her. I hope she gets it. I hope she responds to it.
The annoying sound of my sneakers squeaking against the hallway floor adds to my bad mood. It always smells like cleaning solution and plastic in here, making it impossible to get away from the fact I'm in just another part of a hospice community. As if school isn't shitty enough. Some days, I can't wait to get out of this fucking place.
When I turn the corner to the hallway where the bio lab is, whispers and giggles hit me like a spell. I stop short, surprise filtering through my moping. I'm here early, expecting to talk with Elliot before bio starts. What I'm not expecting is at least half the class already here and waiting to get inside. Sneakers scuff against the floor as everyone crowds close together, maneuvering heads, arms, and shoulders for a glimpse through the small window of the closed door to the lab. I hang back until I realize no one in the group sports pink hair.
Elliot's nowhere around, but I recognize a nearby sports jersey standing out in the pile of bodies. The Dinas Devils, #52. I move closer to bump elbows with Pilar, second basewoman for her old school's softball team and someone I've done a few labs with. "What happened? Someone die in there or something?"
She gives me a friendly smirk, but it's her brother, Jesse, who answers. "Finals are Friday, remember? Nothing to do until then, so they brought in inkers to give a lecture."
My interest grows. I've heard about them—agents of an international magictech organization called INKtech. They're top-notch, dealing in bio-thaumaturgical stuff way more intense and complicated than witch magic. So what are they doing here in Mercywing, twenty-five miles from the nearest town and isolated as hell? They usually work with governments and law enforcement on jobs needing specialized magictech, situations that are one step removed from the capers found in spy fic.
"Are they from Glimmer?" I say, figuring there must be an INKtech branch in that city. And it's only fifty miles away, so maybe the hospice director coaxed a government buddy into luring a few rookie inkers over here to show off.
"The Kingdom," says a voice, drifting out from the pile of leaning bodies.
That's further than fifty miles. That's more like five thousand. A few heads shift from the window, but not enough to let me see in. Rising on my toes doesn't help, either. "Oh. So it's just a couple of old guys that want tea instead of coffee?"
Pilar laughs. "One's old, yeah. The other is pretty damn fine."
Jesse's tall enough that he can peer over her head to look in. "Eh. Not my type."
She scoffs. "You have a type?"
He replies in Spanish, and Pilar laughs. When she catches my uncertain glance, she says, "Sorry, Nina. Forgot you can't understand. He said if he does, it's not uptight white guys."
"Look, there's some of his ink!" a voice hisses, and the entire group surges forward, pulling away from me.
When it becomes obvious I won't see anything else, I move to the other side of the hallway and drop my backpack to lean against the wall. A glance at the nearest clock shows I have ten more minutes to wait and listen to excited whispers. So I do, occasionally checking down the hallway, half-hoping and half-dreading to see Laci slouching toward me. It never happens.
Finally, the door unlocks from the inside. The crowd ripples back as if the noise is an actual push. Ms. Darzi peers out. "Well, well. For once, everyone wants to be here. No safety goggles needed today, but Darren, don't think you can chew that gum inside. There are still chemicals present, even if we're not using them."
Students and whispers drift into the classroom. While waiting for the crush to pass, I glance down the hallway a final time. There's Elliot, all the way at the other end, sneakers squeaking as he rushes toward me.
"Where were you?" I say, more surprised than anything. His normally pale skin looks flushed, and his smile is missing its usual sarcastic bent.
"Got held up," he says, giving me a quick kiss on the neck.
I twitch, startled by the action. Man, he's really happy. "What's up?"
He grins. "Found a dead crow in the street and got to photograph it without any traffic in the way. There wasn't much blood, but the way its neck was twisted made up for it. It was so perfect, Nina. A symbol of death crushed by the force of human invention. It's the ultimate representation of this entire fucking community."
I try to look interested, though talking about dead birds doesn't appeal to me. But it's important to him; I can tell by the brightness in his eyes.
I must do a bad job of faking it, because his smile fades. "This probably grosses you out, right?"
"It's okay. You look so happy right now," I say, twining my hand with his.
His fingers squeeze mine. "Makes this shitty existence worth living. It and you."
A pit forms in my stomach. Those are sweet words; I should swoon over them. Instead, talking about dead things makes me think about Gran's uncontrollable shaking, and Laci's mom back home in a grave while Laci waits here, and gold eyes gleaming in the dark as they pick out my pulse.
What the hell is wrong with me? I hide muddled feelings behind a smirk. "Not sure I like being on a level with roadkill."
That gets his smile back. "Nina, I want to take pictures of you so badly. It would be amazing. You have a face the camera would love." His thumb strokes my cheek.
I shake my head. No. He doesn't look too upset that I refused again. More sad. He knows if he asks enough, my no will blur into a yes. I think he just wishes I'd say yes sooner so less time is wasted.
But that word sticks deep inside my throat, because I know if I say it, he'll push for photos of me and Gran. And the thought of a camera's greedy gaze on her makes me want to shred something. She never left the house without every strand of hair in place. No way would she ever want to be photographed in the state she's in, now. I won't put her through that.
Just then, Ms. Darzi leans through the doorway and clears her throat. "If you please? Unless you'd rather be marked late."
By the time we walk in, there aren't any pairs of seats left. After giving my fingers a final squeeze, Elliot takes the last available chair in the back row of tables. I end up in what's called the garbage seat, my right arm pinned against the wall while leftover supplies used for the astronomy class taught here on off days poke at my back and head. I'll have a hell of a crick in my neck by the time class is over.
The two INKtech agents wait at the front of the classroom while everyone settles down. White guys, though only the older one has that pasty rabbit look. The younger agent looks like he's seen enough sun to develop a tan. They're both dressed in dark suits, but the younger one's striped tie and pocket square make him look sharp instead of stuffy. When Ms. Darzi steps up beside them, I realize her lab coat is crisp and pristine white, and she's wearing jewelry. Good jewelry, if that's real turquoise in her necklace. This must be something special.
Ms. Darzi claps her hands harder than normal to tear everyone's attention away from the agents. "For those of you who didn't read the class schedule, I'll enlighten you. Today's class will be turned over to two agents from INKtech, who will run a lecture and lab related to their bio-magical technology: Secondary neural systems used to perform complicated spells. No whispering, please. They were nice enough to come out here; be nice enough to give them your full attention."
I've already started doodling in my notebook, but glance up when she adds, "This is Agent Slake."
The older man gives a stiff nod and tries a smile. It looks like he's grimacing in pain. I'm not the only one who blinks at the attempt, or at how his colorless eyes only scan the air over the tops of our heads.
Ms. Darzi gestures at the other agent. "And Agent Glass."
His smile whips up more whispers around the room, but they quickly drop away when he speaks. "Thank you for having us. We'll try not to bore you too badly."
If he wants to say more, he doesn't get the chance, because Agent Slake clears his throat. "Right then. Let's get to it."
Agent Glass pulls back his sleeve to reveal an arm covered in what looks like a tattoo of abstract, swirling designs. But then each intricate line flickers with light, glowing blue bright as a neon sign but without the harshness. There are a few gasps throughout the classroom, and I can see why; the ink is flat-out beautiful, especially now that the light glimmers in smooth, rippling patterns like sunlight on waves of water. I lean forward a little, watching the tattoo itself move along the agent's skin like something alive.
Agent Slake's flat voice breaks through my wonder. "Whoever is near the light-switch, turn it to the off position. Thank you. Now, secondary neural systems..."
With only the glow from the agent's ink lighting the room, people around me shift and lean toward each other. Whispers slip under Agent Slake's droning voice, and I end up listening to them instead.
"Oh my God, that voice."
"His voice?"
"Not him. He sounds like a depressed parrot. I mean the tall, hot one. Why can't Necalians speak like that? Vowels never sounded so good."
"Maybe he'll teach us how."
"I wouldn't mind learning about his tongue."
"I wouldn't mind learning with his tongue."
Muffled snickers. Already losing interest, I rest my head on my arms and watch Agent Glass give his ink commands while Agent Slake narrates what's happening. It all looks like swipes of fingers against his tattoo to me, but as the lecture goes on, Agent Glass throws up lines of shining code the same color as his ink in the air above his arm, and then a 3D graphic of a German Shepherd dog sitting by his side, appearing real enough to touch. It moves, too, leaning into him when he scratches behind one of its ears. The students sitting in front get to pet it, nervous at first but growing confident when the dog's tongue lolls out in a grin. I start wondering how badly I'm going to fail this lab.
Agent Glass doesn't take a turn lecturing, and speaks to Agent Slake only once, while taking a sheet of printed code from him to demonstrate how hard code is uploaded to ink. Other than that, he just stands there and performs things he could probably do in his sleep. If he's bored, he doesn't show it, instead looking alert and interested in the other agent's words. Occasionally, though, I see him glance out over the classroom when a round of whispers reaches near the front. Pilar and a friend sit one row from where he stands, and I hear them throw quick lines of Spanish back and forth, their voices as giddy as the two who talked about his tongue.
It drags on, but Agent Slake finally finishes by explaining the lab assignment, which sounds simple. I'm immediately suspicious. We're given sheets of codes for each letter of the alphabet, and another sheet with a fill-in-the-blank code template, with the instructions to insert a word of our choice into the right lines. Agent Slake then tells us that he and Agent Glass will split the class between them to check the results.
Chairs creak and moan as people straighten up, desperately trying to figure out the pattern for who will get which agent. The whispers return, growing to a frantic buzz, but I'm back to paying attention to my notebook.
I mean, I get it. I know Agent Glass looks good. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and wears that suit like a dream. His sleek-framed glasses only emphasize killer cheekbones and clear blue eyes, and his dark hair is casually combed back instead of slicked down in the severe style of most authority figures. That and his ability to smile at people automatically makes him less of a douchebag than Agent Slake.
But I'm still more interested in figuring out a word that isn't so easy I'd look stupid using it, or so hard I'd probably fail. As I scribble out words in my notebook, I hear Elliot mutter something behind me for the first time. I glance back, wondering if we could collaborate. When he gives me a wink and a wicked grin, I think better of it. Out of desperation, I decide on one word that's always there, and search through the template for the code for each letter. As the two agents move from student to student, numbers swim past my eyes. I get lost trying to find the right line, and then trying to find the right piece in the right line. Yeah, I definitely don't want to be an inker.
I stumble to a finish just as Agent Slake's voice drifts near; glancing back again, I see that he stopped beside Elliot, ink gleaming while the code is uploaded. His pale eyes remain steady as several sentences flare to life, hovering in the air as glowing white letters. I read a handful of words and then settle my chin in one hand to hide my smile. A few people snicker, and Ms. Darzi sighs. The sentences come from a hot fic involving an inker who thinks in really bad euphemisms for his lover's body parts. And his own.
Agent Slake's face is unreadable, so I glance at Agent Glass, instead. He's over by Pilar, testing her work and hiding his own smile by looking down at his shoes.
"You've failed," says Agent Slake, coolly. "The assignment was one word. It is imperative to follow instructions in this field."
Elliot shrugs as the letters fade from sight. He starts to say something, probably a comeback, but the agent doesn't give him a chance, moving to the next student instead.
We share a grin, but then my eyes slip past him, finding Laci's empty seat. My smile fades. So she's too angry to share a room with me. Or did something happen? No, she left before Valentine arrived. Didn't she? She had to have.
"Hello. Are you ready?"
I spent the last hour listening to Agent Slake. I don't need to look to know Agent Glass waits by me. Quickly, I turn around. "Sure. Sorry."
He shrugs off the apology and moves closer to my desk, having to squeeze in between a wall chart of magic leylines in the Necali Territory and a corkboard covered with warnings about addiction to pain medication. "It's a bit cramped here. I may have to move in quite close to you to fit."
He does have a nice voice, low and fast, like the words flash out of his mouth as soon as he thinks them. One of those Kingdom accents that makes me think of polo ponies and tea in fine porcelain cups. Usually, I have a joke ready for any situation, but feeling a multitude of eyes on me kills most of the words in my head. "Fine."
Agent Glass seems completely unaware of the scrutiny as he pulls back his sleeve. His ink flickers as swirls of light rise between us, settling into a line of code. When it blinks, he looks at me and smiles. "What'd you come up with?"
I push the template toward him, letting go before our fingers can brush. My hands always turn cold and sweaty when I'm nervous, and this time is no exception. But I do manage a twitch of a smile as he uploads the code to his ink. "Hopefully, something that'll score a passing grade."
He grins at that. "Well, as long as it doesn't compare human appendages to fruit."
He's got a nice smile, too; it makes mine relax into something genuine. Still, after failing spells so many times, I expect disaster to strike with this type of magic. As more lines join the original code, glowing while he pulls and pinches them into different positions, my what-if scenarios grow worse with each passing second. Watch me be the only student in class to bomb. Or maybe my word is misspelled. Everyone will think I'm an idiot. By the time the upload is complete, I envision scenarios where my little graphic somehow fries his ink completely. What's the punishment for killing an INKtech agent, anyway?
Letters ripple in the air between us, the font flowing yet easy to read. PHOENIX. My shoulders relax.
"Very nice. A favorite myth?" murmurs Agent Glass, fingers running along his tattoo until the letters burn like stars.
"My name. I don't have any imagination." And my parents had too much.
"Phoenix," he says, as if testing it out. Okay, I would use my real name more often if it always sounded like that. "Do you like having it?"
The shortest answer I have is, "It feels too big for me." That, and I grew to hate it after finding out through the secret stash of a friend's brother that a popular porn star named Phoenix Bang exists. The discovery happened during a group sleepover. None of those girls called me anything else for weeks afterward.
Agent Glass nods. "Some names don't fit right until you can call yourself an adult. As a child, I was mortified I wasn't a Tom or a Jack."
"What's your name?" The question leaves my mouth before I can decide whether it's a rude one.
"Gideon. Apparently, it means 'Destroyer.'" He looks embarrassed, which is the last expression I'd expect to see on an agent for an organization that has governments groveling at its doorstep for its magictech.
"Are you?"
"My Aunt Bettina would agree. When I was two, I broke her porcelain chocolate cup, which happened to spill on her very white, very pristine carpet. Twenty-two years later, she still only serves me clear liquids in plastic glasses. Though I did get white wine for the first time this last Christmas. I suppose I'll have graduated to rosé by the time I reach fifty." He shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the corkboard. My name ripples but remains in the air. "Do you ever light things on fire?"
I realize I'm smiling, and try to look very serious. "Just once. The first time I tried smoking a cigarette, I accidentally sent my friend's bed up in flames. Only the quilt was ruined, but her mom still wasn't too happy."
That gets him to laugh a little. Somewhere behind me, I hear a chair creak, and suddenly remember Elliot's back there. Damn. He must be watching like a hawk. Time to move back. If I ask whether I passed the lab, that should lock things down. "So... "
But when he looks at me attentively, still smiling, I find myself asking something else I'm curious about. "Why are you guys here, anyway? Shouldn't you be part of a top secret job in some glamorous city like Glimmer? Or at least somewhere that makes Necali look like a place worth living in."
He shrugs and lets the letters between us fade before answering. "I see a lot to like in this area. Clear skies, a natural environment that isn't blemished by drug running, lots of room to breathe in. I'd wager one can even see pixie lights during winter nights here."
I glance over his sleek suit doubtfully. He doesn't look like the type to appreciate the outdoors. Or more, like his type of outdoors means sitting in the patio of a fancy restaurant and oohing over the view with a glass of wine in one hand. "I guess it's interesting if you never saw it before."
"Well, actually—"
Agent Slake's voice interrupts whatever he was going to say. "Right, if everyone's finished?"
Gideon—Agent Glass—straightens up immediately and gives me an apologetic smile. "You did good work. Excuse me."
When he's at the front of the room, standing next to Agent Slake, the older man says, "Earlier in the lecture, I briefly mentioned the debate among thaumaturgists as to whether an agent's secondary neural system, or his ink, if you'd rather, can be classified as its own separate living entity. Many have come to compare ink as something closer to a virus, incapable of living without its host. Agent Glass, if you please?"
Agent Glass, serious again, swipes along his tattoo, and suddenly every word his ink created flares into life, slipping over to the respective student. PHOENIX glows above me as Agent Slake continues. "An agent's ink may spread out and affect other living entities—people—in the form of specific codes, but it is still ultimately dependent upon a primary nervous system to run the body incubating it, in this case Agent Glass."
"So, you're saying he's got syphilis?"
I close my eyes and cringe, recognizing Elliot's voice. When I open them, Agent Glass appears unruffled. Agent Slake looks like he discovered a cockroach crawling across his path, but he only says, "Derisive humor is the lowest form of art. Think about how closely you wish to depend upon it."
When Elliot starts to reply, Ms. Darzi's voice cracks across the room. "Mr. Hopkins. Not another word."
This time, Agent Glass speaks. "When a mech witch dies, their spells live on. When an electrician dies, all the wiring they handled doesn't disintegrate with them. When an INKtech agent dies, so does their ink. Information can be saved to databases, yet little else. It's lovely to form a dog to help you or act as a companion, but even if you program it to respond to a stranger's commands, no one else can use it once you're gone. It'll disappear with you."
Every word floating in the room flashes out, as sudden as a hand clap. Agent Glass pulls down his sleeve and adjusts his glasses. "Ink is a very mortal magic."
Agent Slake clears his throat then, and talks a little more, but that's pretty much how class ends. Kind of a downer, but fitting for students of a hospice community. About half of the class stays behind to crush around the agents. Mostly Agent Glass, though I see a few of the tech nerds migrate to Agent Slake. Ms. Darzi yells something about the next class, but I'm already out the door, hurrying after Elliot.
"I bet it's all code," he says, as we both duck a low-hanging tree branch on our way to the parking lot. He pulls off a few leaves and picks at them. "His looks, you know? No one's born like that."
"Hmm." I'm not really paying attention. Agent Glass' mention of mortality made me think about Laci's no-show again. I'm really sick of wondering; maybe I should just find out.
"Don't tell me you're thinking about him."
The tone to his voice makes me look over. When I blink at him, confused, he adds, "Just because he talked to you for a while doesn't mean he'll show up at your door as a surprise."
"Elliot, come on." I have to close my eyes to avoid his sullen face. The worst thing about moving from his friend to his girlfriend has been the jealousy. "What'd you want me to do, ignore him?"
"I didn't say that. But you smiled at him like those stupid airheads."
Anger knots itself in my chest. "He was nice to me, what's wrong with being nice back?"
"That went beyond nice." By this point, the leaf is shredded in his hands. "I thought you were too smart to fall for someone's looks."
When my mouth opens, an apology is hovering there. I want to apologize so he'll stop complaining, not because I feel like I did anything wrong. Stunned, I snap it shut again. I didn't do anything wrong. Talking with Agent Glass had been entirely innocent. "I didn't fall at all. We just talked."
He shakes his head, lips in a tight line, and veers off for his car. "If that's what you want, forget it."
The anger in my chest constricts into panic. I just lost Laci again, and Gran is slipping more every day. I can't lose him, too. I can't be alone during this. "Hey. Come on, wait. Look, I'm sorry. I really didn't mean anything by it. Elliot?"
He's still pissed, still not looking at me even with my hand on his arm, but at least he stopped walking. God, I have to give him something so he knows I'm serious. "What if you come over later with your camera? We can talk about it while you take photos. You always say a camera shows the truth, right?"
At first, I'm sure he's too mad to agree. But then he lets out a breath and nods. "I'll think about it."
"Okay." I slip my hand down to his and squeeze it. After some hesitation, he squeezes back.
I watch his car drive off before heading for my own. Fuck school. Skipping it will give me an hour to find Laci's house and talk to her. And this time, I'm not running off.