Feversong

He made a choked sound of laughter, terminated it abruptly then said, “Tattoo. Cell…don’t…use it.”

“Why not?” He’d completed the tramp stamp at her spine and told her if she called IISS he could locate her anywhere. But according to what she’d learned from Barrons today, the tattoo he’d inked into her skin enabled him to locate her even without her calling him. So, why was the phone necessary? “Because you’re injured?”

“Take…too many of us…out of…the game. Too…dangerous…now.”

She studied him in the low light, wondering again exactly what calling the contact labeled I’M IN SERIOUS SHIT on her phone would do and how many of the Nine her using it would impair. Wishing irritably he’d tell her. Obviously it did something more than merely locate her. But confidences weren’t his strong suit any more than they were hers. “I have two missions: Mac, and saving the world from the black holes, and I’d like to do them in that order as I suspect saving Mac could help us save the world. I have no intention of doing anything with your cellphone in the meantime. When you die, how quickly can you return?” It had been a while before she’d seen him again the last time.

“Varies.”

“But sooner than you’ll heal this way.”

“Yes.”

“So, die. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Bloodshot silver eyes locked with hers.

“I’ll stay in the vicinity. You have my word. You know it’s solid.” They might not get along, but she respected him and knew he returned the courtesy.

His eyes were a dozen shimmering, inscrutable shades of cool silver.

She shifted position, impatience making her restless. “What are you waiting for?”

“Not…that…simple.”

“Why?”

“Can’t…move. How…die?”

She got a sinking feeling in her gut. “Do you always come back? This isn’t something that doesn’t work sometimes? It’s a sure thing, right?”

He gave another of those nearly imperceptible nods.

She exhaled explosively. As a teen she used to brag about one day taking down the mighty Ryodan. But the day she thought she’d killed him by freeing the Crimson Hag had been one of the more miserable days of her life. “Figures you’d make me do the dirty work,” she said irritably.

His eyes crinkled and his lips pulled into a grimace of a smile.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Thought you’d…get kicks…killing me. Old…insults. Could…get Barrons. Hate…that fuck…doing it. Enjoys it…too much.”

“How do you suggest I do it?” she said tightly.

“Sword. Gut. Like Hag.”

She glanced around the room, as if a more acceptable alternative might pop out of a corner or from behind the desk, or manifest in the mirror; one less brutal, bloody, and personal. “Can’t I just give you an overdose of something?”

“Poisons…don’t…work. Chop…head?”

“Oh, you really suck,” she hissed.

“Techni…calities. You’re…right. Logical…I die.”

She dropped her head in her hands and rubbed her eyes. Killing came naturally to her. She could be ruthless, lethal, and without mercy, and considered it a strength. But Ryodan mattered to her. She’d made peace with that Silverside. She liked knowing he was out there in the world, alive, doing Ryodan-things no matter how much some of those Ryodan-things aggravated her. For the first year, she’d told herself stories while wandering worlds about the many interesting/irritating things he was probably doing in her absence, top on that list—hunting for her, having all kinds of adventures along the way. Those stories had always ended with him finding her; they’d swap tall tales and kick ass together all the way back to Dublin. She found the idea of killing him, even though his death would be temporary, abhorrent.

She raised her head, eyes blazing with emotion.

She didn’t think he could go any more still, but he managed to, eyes narrowed, searching her face.

She hated that anything mattered to her. Yet last night all the grief and loss she’d been repressing had escaped. Once triggered, everything that had ever triggered her had a tendency to explode up from the floor of an ocean of unaddressed injury. Now her emotions were floating on the surface, and everything hurt.

It won’t always, she suddenly heard his voice clearly inside her head. Kill me fast. The dying never gets easier. But, Jada, the living does.

With a grimace of determination, she pushed to her feet. “You’d better come back because if I have to carry your sorry-ass death, too—” She didn’t finish the thought.

I’ll be back. I’ll always be back. He was silent a moment then added with a faintly sour note in his voice, In the future, if you need help with something, ask me.

She aired an old grievance just as sourly. “Why would I? You didn’t help me when Jayne took my sword.”

Kid, I had no fucking clue what to do with you. You were a Negasonic Teenage Warhead.

She’d had no fucking clue what to do with herself. She’d been a Mega-powered explosion of pure defiance to anyone who’d tried to impose limits on her. She’d not once considered whether there might be a good reason for those boundaries. Any and all limits—bad—had been her entire philosophy in a nutshell. Wondering when Ryodan had started actually reading the comic books he’d only pretended to know about, she said loftily, “I was nothing like that twit.” She had no intention of saying one word more but couldn’t resist adding, “I was enormously cooler.”