“What have you been doing today?” I ask, handing him the mug.
“Overseeing cargo from the other levels, ensuring it’s packed in containers before it’s sent up to Sparkle.”
“How do you do it, Jax?”
His brows arch. “Do what?”
“Work for monsters while doubling as a peripheral?”
“I have my ways.”
“Do the human authorities suspect you’re on the monsters’ side?”
“Nope. They’d have vaporized me by now if they did.”
“Don’t even say that word.” I shudder. When Jax told me about vaporization, I didn’t think it was possible. I couldn’t believe the human authorities would just get rid of someone who disobeys them. Jax told me about it to stop me blurting to the hospital staff he’d been attacked by monsters. And it did the trick—I lied through my teeth.
The word strikes fear into my very soul. Even though Jax has never explained what vaporization actually entails, you only need to use your imagination to guess. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what happened to our mom. But I always dismiss the thought. She was a cleaner. How could she do anything wrong with a bucket and mop?
“Don’t worry.” He sits down, cupping the mug of tea in his hands. “I’m a master of espionage.”
I sink down next to him at the table, take a sip of the tea blend. It’s delicious. “How long have you been a double agent?”
“Three years.”
“Since you got mauled?” A sudden thought occurs to me, and I stare at him, horrified. “Did monsters coerce you into working for them?”
“No fucking way, it was my choice. I hate the human authorities. They threw me in remand school, forced me to work like a slave.”
I glance at his taut face. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you back then, Jax.”
“You were nine years old, how could you? Besides, you had Dad to take care of.”
I think of our gentle, sweet-natured father, how he quietly got on with his job, living in hope that Mom would come home. Then smoked himself into an early grave from grief.
We sip our tea in silence for long moments. I wonder if he’s thinking about how our family blew apart.
Finally I say, “You never talk about your time at remand school. Or working as a peripheral for that matter.”
“Why talk about bad shit? I survived.”
“I know,” I agree, but looking at the drawn expression on his face, I wonder what price he’s paid. “But I can still be sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”
“Clemmy.” I blink. Jax hasn’t called me by my nickname since we were kids. A lump forms in my throat.
“It’s not your fault, okay?” he says, and reaching across the table, he takes my hand in his and squeezes it in his long fingers. I look at his sinewy arm, the ring of fire tattoo hiding the raised scar on his bicep. I glance at his neck just above the collar of his tee, where two welts like bite marks stand out from the surrounding skin.
Like bites fromreallysharp teeth.
“What monster did this to you, Jax?” I gulp hoarsely.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
He lets go of my hand, slouches back in his chair and we glare at each other. It’s our usual battle of wills, whenever I turn the conversation to who or what mauled him.
I push, he retreats.
