Irregulars - lanyon Josh - Страница 50
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August immediately began unpacking his belongings, so Deven followed suit. It’s what he always did when unsure of himself—imitate others. The technique had managed to convince most of the other humans living in his new home, Friday Harbor, that he was normal, if a little shy.
August had nearly a dozen tailored and pressed dress shirts as well as three complete suits. “You hanging anything up?” he asked, eyeing the paltry collection of hangers in the closet.
“No.”
“Good.” August grabbed all the hangers and began to organize the closet.
Deven unzipped his duffel and stared down at his two T-shirts, three changes of underwear, a pair of trousers, a razor, and his toothbrush. He hadn’t even brought toothpaste. He moved these into a bedside drawer, which opened with a loud protest.
The rest of Deven’s bag contained his weapons. He noted that August had placed a mage pistol on the bedside table, and so he figured it socially acceptable to place one’s weapons near the bed. He carefully unloaded his extra knives, some burning papers for sending messages to the underworld, as well as a sacred bundle of feathers, pieces of jade, a jawbone, and a segment of jaguar skin. For some reason, that had required a lot of documentation and negotiation with the Irregulars administrative staff to bring along.
Now that he considered it, he could have left it behind. It was really useful only for detecting the presence of his lord, but it had served like a talisman for so many years that he was loathe to be parted from it.
Apparently finished stowing his wardrobe, August unzipped another of his bags and took out a laptop with an external metal box. He set this up on the round table in the center of the room. He jammed the pronged tool from his utility knife into the box, shook out the small plug of skin he’d collected at the morgue, then pocketed the tool. Graphs started moving on the laptop, but August didn’t look at them. Instead he flopped dramatically back onto his bed, propped his head against the faux headboard, and started texting someone on his phone.
“You hungry?” August asked, in the midst of his text message.
“Starving,” Deven admitted.
“The taqueria a few blocks down the road makes great al pastor. I’ve never tried the hotel restaurant. It doesn’t look promising.”
“I’ll eat anything,” Deven said. It was true. He had spent most of his life without the luxury of gastronomic choices. Food had served the simple utilitarian role of keeping him energized enough to move.
Not that he wasn’t tempted by the smells he’d already encountered that day. Roasting meat, while conjuring some unpleasant memories, also made his mouth water. And he was still thinking of a fruit stand they had passed that sold watermelons. Deven had recently discovered a great love of fruit and wondered what something as large and green as a watermelon would taste like.
“Why do you wear that pen in your hair?” August asked suddenly.
Deven instantly reached up for the pen behind his ear, touched it, and let go. He knew it was absurd, and his therapist had been trying for the last two months to get him to forego it, but he couldn’t.
August’s eyes hadn’t left his phone screen.
“It means I deserve respect in Aztaw.”
“I thought Aztaws just saw humans as sources of blood.”
“They do.” Deven frowned. “They did. But I was different. I had a job.”
August glanced at him with a smirk. “You worked in Aztaw?”
“What do you think, I just laid around, feeling sorry for myself?”
August smiled and looked back at his screen. “With your looks you could have made a great gigolo.”
Deven flushed. “Fuck you.”
“So my first guess was correct,” August continued. “You worked doing something violent.”
“I was Lord Jaguar’s bodyguard.”
“Did you leave Lord Jaguar’s side to kill others?”
“...Of course.”
“That’s not bodyguard. That’s assassin. There’s a difference, kiddo.” August made a face. “Assassins are the worst.”
“You have no idea what life was like down there.”
“No, and it sounds miserable, so I’m glad for it.” August finished his text and eyed Deven. “If it was so awful, why do you miss it?”
“I don’t—”
“The report I got from headquarters cautioned there was a likelihood you wouldn’t leave Mexico City once you got here. They suspect you’re going to try and go back to Aztaw.”
Deven felt sick thinking about the possibility. Returning to Aztaw wasn’t as easy as August made it out to be. Still, if he was going to go back, this was the place to leave from. Calendars turned quickly here and allowed more options of reentry.
Just the idea of returning set his heart racing. But Lord Jaguar was dead and Deven had made a promise to him. He longed to return with suicidal hunger, but nothing remained for him in Aztaw anymore.
August looked at him, clearly waiting for an answer. But Deven didn’t want the agent to know that much about him. Deven was never one to hide his feelings, but he had too much emotion wrapped up in Aztaw to explain to someone who clearly didn’t give a shit.
“I asked you a question,” August said.
“I don’t work for you,” Deven replied. “I’m paid to give you advice on Aztaw culture and magic. That doesn’t mean I have to answer personal questions.”
August’s expression darkened. “Look here, pretty boy. As long as you’re working on an investigation I’m in charge of, you’ll answer any question I ask. It’s what you’re getting paid for. So—”
A knock at the door startled both of them into silence. August stood quickly and warily opened the door. “What?”
A nervous-looking boy in an oversized football jersey placed something on the ground. “A present for you,” he said, his words strongly accented, before fleeing down the corridor.
August glanced down at the object. “What the fuck? Maybe it’s a bomb.” This idea seemed to amuse him and he snorted.
“Don’t touch it,” Deven cautioned.
August rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t going to.”
Deven moved closer. At first glimpse it resembled a cheap knockoff souvenir of a Maya clay statue—the kind he’d seen in the airport gift shop. The figure wore a traditional grass skirt and was draped in jaguar skin.
Deven picked it up to examine it more closely.
The figure held a bundle of knives in one hand and a broken mirror in another. There was a pen in his hair. The eyes were closed on the face, but Deven recognized his own nose and the slit across the statue’s throat.
Adrenaline and fear rushed through him.
“What is it?” August asked. “You’ve gone white as a ghost.”
Deven thrust the figurine into August’s hands and charged after the delivery boy at a run.
Chapter Four
“Deven! Wait, God damn it!”
Deven heard Agent August’s footsteps behind him, but he didn’t stop. He figured the boy had used the staircase because the elevator flashed that it was still on the tenth floor. Deven jumped the last set of stairs and raced out the door into the lobby, catching a glimpse of the boy as he barreled out the front door of the hotel.
Deven charged after him, knife in his right hand. It was dark, but the city lights were bright enough to still cause discomfort. He charged after the figure, not stopping for anyone or paying attention to what was going on around him. He heard shouts and the charging load of a mage pistol behind him, which he assumed to be Agent August arming himself.
The delivery boy darted down a side alley and Deven followed. It felt good to run this hard, even though the mixture of adrenaline and nausea was familiar in terrible ways. The boy glanced behind him with a look of fear before charging forward at a faster pace.
He heard August curse somewhere behind and turned briefly to look back. August was right on his tail, keeping up, although sweat glistened on his face and his shirt was pulled from his trousers.
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