“What’d you get?”
He deposited two large bags on the bench beside me and reached into one to whip out a shirt. There were blues and grays; I’d been right about that. There were also white, black, green, all coalescing into a picture . . . a face. It was a long sleeve shirt of a slick, heavy material and it was covered with a psychedelic, watercolor portrait of Albert Einstein. I’d seen the type before, retro funk and usually decorated with a rock star or famous actor. This was definitely a new twist.
“Isn’t it great?” Michael shook it out so I could get a better look. “What do you think?”
“There are no words,” I said honestly.
“I have one with Sigmund Freud too.” He folded Albert carefully and put him back into a bag before rummaging again. “Where? Oh, here. See?”
Unless the eminent and penis-obsessed psychiatrist had had a sex change operation not recorded by history, Michael had grabbed the wrong shirt. There were blond hair, cleavage, and a wide ruby red mouth. Marilyn Monroe. At least he had an appreciation for the classics.
“Well,” I said in contemplation as I sucked the last of my Coke through the straw, “that’ll let the girls know you’re open for business.”
Michael looked down and flushed before hurriedly shoving the famous blond bombshell back out of sight. “Er . . . it was on sale.” It was his first solo shopping trip and he’d already nailed the ultimate excuse.
“Damn, kiddo.” I couldn’t help myself. I had to laugh. It came out a bit strangled through my aching throat, but it was genuine. “You’ve got the worse taste.”
He stiffened, not seeing the humor in the situation. “You told me to buy whatever I wanted.”
“Hey, come on.” Pushing the bags aside, I took a handful of his jacket and pulled him down to sit on the bench. “I think it’s perfect. You landed on your feet and hit the ground running. You’re you, Misha. No matter what those bastards tried to do to you, you’re still your own person.” I tossed the cup into the garbage can a few feet away and gave him a wicked smile. “And that person just happens to have crappy taste.”
Michael relaxed with my words, hopefully recognizing the good intentions behind them. It didn’t stop him from peppering me with vengeful comments about my wardrobe as we walked back to the food court. Monochromatic man was the kindest thing he had to say. I liked black. So sue me.
We were halfway to the food court before Michael finally laid off my clothes. I seized the opportunity to ask, “You did get me a coat, didn’t you? And sweaters?”
The smirk on his face was pure, unadulterated evil. “Trust me. I wouldn’t forget you, Stefan.”
He refused to show me the remaining contents of the bags as we sat down to eat our mediocre Chinese food. Instead, he tortured me with vague hints and sly remarks until finally he went quiet and concentrated on twirling noodles around his fork. It was a strange silence, almost wistful.
“Are you wishing you’d bought more sweaters for yourself now?” I toed the bags at his feet. “Nice, sensible, boring sweaters?”
“No.” He rolled his eyes. The glasses had been discarded in his pocket for the moment, but I had thoughts of contacts for him in the future. His bicolored eyes were simply too distinctive. They would be remembered by anyone who saw him up close.
“Don’t come crying to me when Albert doesn’t keep you warm in the snow.” I speared a mushroom off his plate, popped it in my mouth, and chewed. It hurt to swallow, but not too badly. Sevastian would be hurting far more—if he ever woke up. Appetite waning, I dropped my fork and pushed the plate away. “Brings back memories, doesn’t it? This place?”
Michael took a long look around. The crowd was sparse. The snow had kept most people home and it was a weekday, but it was still a mall. “It does,” he admitted reluctantly. He toyed with his food, knotting the noodles into neat little piles. “They drugged us, you know. On the trips.”
“Drugged you?”
“Not so much we couldn’t function.” The fork kept moving. “They wanted us to interact, wanted to see if we could pass for normal. They gave us just enough to slow us down in case we tried to escape.” The tines of the plastic fork bent under the pressure and broke against the plate. “Not that any of us ever tried. What a waste.”
I knew what he was thinking, that his fearless friend John would have made the attempt . . . that he wouldn’t have let the chance go by. But John hadn’t lived that long. “Actually it wasn’t.” I piled our plates on the tray for disposal. “That last field trip is how I found you. One of the girls who worked there spotted you. She’s one of Saul’s. He’s had your description out to his network for years now.”
“She recognized me?” he asked doubtfully. “How?”
“Your eyes. Your age. Faces change in ten years, but there aren’t many kids out there who fit both of those.” I stood and dumped the contents of the tray into the garbage can beside our table. “Face it, kid, you’re unique.”
The expression that shimmered across his face was partly wary and partly something I couldn’t identify. “Stefan—”
“I know,” I interrupted with a tug of the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re not my brother. You can keep telling yourself that, Misha, but it’s not going to make any difference to me. Now, you want to hit the pet store for ferret food before we go or just toss the rat out the window?”
He sighed but went with the change of subject. “The pet store. I like Zilla. It’s nice having someone around I can have an intelligent conversation with.”
“You certainly bitch like a brother,” I grumbled affectionately under my breath. I might have lost my uncle, but I still had family and it was right here with me, bad taste and stubborn nature included.
“I remember that girl. The one who saw me.” Michael hoisted his bags and followed me. “I was off from the group a little. She tried to sell me a hat.” His voice took on a longing note. “She said I was . . . um . . . hot.”
I slung an arm around his shoulder as we approached the doors. “We have to get you a girlfriend, kiddo. We really do.”
Chapter 26
The trip to St. Louis was uneventful. I could see myself saying it. I could hear the words as if I had. The trip was uneventful. Uneventful.
Yeah, it would’ve been nice.
The bastard hit us from behind. It wasn’t Sevastian, soaked in blood, or Jericho looming dark and menacing against the white background of the blizzard. It was just some random son of a bitch who couldn’t drive. Maybe he’d forgotten to put on his snow tires or maybe he wasn’t paying attention. Six of one, a half dozen of the other—it all equaled a world of hurt for Michael and me.
The roads were covered in a thick slush growing more treacherous by the moment, but they were still passable. The streetlights had flickered on early as a combination of the storm and approaching dusk conspired to make the gloom midnight thick. It was one of those helpful streetlights that we hit head-on. The blow from behind was massive and the SUV leaped forward as if swatted by a huge paw. We slid into what felt like a never-ending spin, swapping the front of the car for the tail God knew how many times. There are things to do in that situation, I know, but given that I was from Florida, they weren’t exactly second nature to me. Tapping the brakes, turning into the curve, it all sounds good. But when you’re caught in a whirlwind of metal and glass, it’s not that easy. To give credit where credit is due, they might not have been meant for collision conditions.
Hitting the pole was almost a relief to the sickening motion. The airbag against my face muffled the crunch of metal and the wind-chime splintering of glass. There was the taste of chalky powder in my mouth and a faint burning of my skin, but that was overshadowed by the searing band—the seat belt—slanting diagonally across my chest. “Michael?”