Part 7 (1/2)

I wish he wouldn't, Jackson replied, looking momentarily unhappy. But that's his call to make, not mine. You do the crime, you do the time, Brandon.

So what was Caine's crime? Brandon asked.

Jackson paused. He called me a n.i.g.g.e.r, he said, finger-spelling the word. Because this meant nothing to Brandon, he added, It's a very bad word. A hateful word. People use it sometimes about black people like me, and it's wrong.

What does it mean? Brandon asked.

Jackson squatted, folding his long legs so he could look Brandon in the eye. It means you're ignorant and afraid, he signed.

You don't understand people who are different than you because their skin is darker than yours, for example, and it's easier to be frightened of them, hateful to them, than to try and learn to like them.

He stood again, ruffling Brandon's hair affectionately. Come on, he said. You have a spelling test this morning.

Brandon had groaned silently, trudging along in step with his teacher.

Does your brother pick on you like that often? Jackson signed to him. I saw him push you down.

Brandon didn't answer at first; he simply shrugged. Jackson had seen him with enough skinned knees, busted lips, bruises, and sc.r.a.pes to figure out the answer for himself anyway.

That had been the first day that Jackson had showed him aikido, introducing him to the ancient martial art with a few simple moves, some basic stances. It had been something new to fascinate Brandon, and he'd dived into studying and practicing with the same relentless enthusiasm he'd shown Jackson's other tutelage.

Of course, the lessons had helped because Caine had not stopped picking on Brandon at all. Nor had he bothered to clean up his mouth.

You and your d.a.m.n dirty n.i.g.g.e.r boyfriend, Caine had sneered once at Brandon, only months before Jackson had left the farm for good. Brandon had snapped at this; it had been one taunt too many for one morning, and as Caine had reached out to shove Brandon's shoulder, Brandon had caught his hand and wrenched it in a wrist lock. He craned Caine's arm behind him, pinning his hand against the small of his back, and then he'd shoved Caine face-first against the nearest wall, holding him here.

If you call him that again, I'll break your G.o.dd.a.m.n arm, he'd told Caine in his mind, summoning the pathetic little telepathic ability he called his own to make himself heard. I will rip your f.u.c.king shoulder out of the socket and shove your hand up your a.s.s, Caine, I swear to G.o.d.

Brandon moved to set Lina's picture of Jackson back on the entertainment center, but the cardboard arm on the back of the frame buckled. s.h.i.+t! he thought, s.n.a.t.c.hing at the photo as it tumbled from the shelf, but it fell past his fingers and hit the floor.

The frame broke apart, the gla.s.s pane popping loose, the cardboard backing falling away. Nothing looked shattered or irreparably broken, and Brandon squatted, collecting the pieces, hoping he could somehow prop it all back up without Lina noticing.

Five years ago, Caine had laughed at Brandon's threat, but he'd still rubbed his wrist gingerly when Brandon had turned him loose. He also hadn't summoned the b.a.l.l.s to say anything else about Jackson, at least for that day. It had been a fleeting, minor victory, one Brandon still savored.

Brandon blinked in surprise to discover a second picture had been tucked into Lina's frame; the one of Jackson had been placed atop it, covering it from view. Brandon lifted it, curious, and was surprised anew to see Lina standing with a man in the photo- the young black man they had met on the street the day before outside the Chinese restaurant.

This is a... a friend of mine, Jude Hannam, Lina had said.

In the picture, Lina and Jude were obviously more than just friends. Jude stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her as he grinned broadly and nuzzled her neck. Lina's hands draped against his forearms, and she was laughing.

Brandon had no accounting for the sudden, strange ache the picture caused in his gut, the tight, somewhat suffocating feeling of dismay that seized him. He's her boyfriend. Or he was, anyway. And not too long ago either. A small date had been digitally imprinted on the bottom corner of the photograph; it had been taken less than a year ago.

He felt disappointed somehow, unhappy, and frowned as he gathered up the broken picture frame. What the h.e.l.l's the matter with me? he thought. It's none of my business. Besides, he was with someone else yesterday, a blond woman.

And, he reminded himself firmly, Una was a human, and intermingling with humans outside of the Kinsfolk was severely restricted among the Brethren. Only the Elders and more trusted older members of the group, like Brandon's father, had been allowed to interact with humans beyond the boundaries of the farm, and only then, in extremely limited-and fiercely controlled-capacity.

Humans were considered little more than meat, with their short lives and imperfections, their diseases and infirmities, what Caine or the Grandfather would have called their ”wretched and inherent failings.” s.e.x with a human was never allowed, and was considered an abomination. If Brandon hadn't thus far earned himself a lifelong banishment to the depths of the Beneath, he would sure as h.e.l.l do so by acknowledging any tender emotions for a human woman. Not to mention what the Brethren would do to him if he happened to make love to Lina, and it was discovered.

Like she'd let me make love to her anyway, he thought, as he returned the frame ever-so carefully to the shelf, placing Jackson's picture again atop the one of Lina and Jude. I'm just a stupid d.a.m.n kid to Lina, one of Jackson's students. He thought of their basketball match together years earlier, and of how she'd tousled his hair in playful dismissal in the aftermath. I wouldn't have a hope in h.e.l.l.

Chapter Nine.

Lina burst through the apartment, running late and nearly frantic. She clutched a plastic shopping bag in her hand, and her tumble of freshly rolled curls bounced out from beneath the edges of a triangular silk scarf Keyah had wrapped around her head to protect from the light drizzle that had started falling. She found Brandon sitting on her couch, a book in his hand, one of her police textbooks, some yawnfest about civil law.

That kid would read the back of a cereal box for pleasure if he didn't have anything else around, Jackson had told her once, fondly.

”I'm really, really late,” she said when he looked up at her. She pointed to the wall clock for emphasis. ”I have to be at the church in an hour. Can you get dressed here? Do you mind?”

He shook his head, closing the book between his hands, tucking the edge of the page down in a slight dog ear to mark his place.

He studied her as he rose to his feet, his gaze curious, lingering at her hairline, and she remembered the scarf, to her mortification. ”It's... it's raining,” she said, reaching up to pull it off. ”I didn't want my hair to frizz.” She stopped herself; the embarra.s.sment of all of those curls flopping out, unruly and untame, framing her head like Medusa's snakes, would be worse than simply keeping the slip of fabric in place.

She hated being late almost as much as she hated primping and fussing with her appearance, which is what she had left to do.

She'd stopped by the drugstore on her way home from the beauty shop, and picked up some new lipstick, eyeshadow, and liner, all in complementing shades of plum and purple that she hoped would match her bridesmaid's dress. And not make me look like a hooker, she added mentally. She seldom wore makeup; maybe an occasional dabbing of lip gloss or cover-up, and Melanie had drawn her aside a week or so ago with a pleading expression on her face.

”Please tell me you'll put some makeup on for the wedding,” she'd said. ”And don't give me that look either. I'm asking you to wear mascara, maybe some eye shadow, not carve out your kidney or anything. It doesn't have to be a lot. You could bring it with you, and we could all help you with it.”

Melanie and Lina had always made unlikely friends. They were polar opposites; Melanie, with her pale blond hair, blue eyes, and voluptuous build was soft spoken and dainty, the perfect portrait of feminity, while Lina-athletic and long legged, with no bust to speak of and a sharp tongue to match her att.i.tude-had always been a tomboy. Yet friends they had remained for nearly twenty years now, and Lina didn't have the heart to refuse Melanie on her wedding day.

However, she also didn't have the heart to sit in an antechamber at the church while her friends fussed and flitted around her, cosmetic brushes and tubes in hand, like she was some kind of life-sized Barbie doll. She knew how to apply makeup. There's a big d.a.m.n difference between not knowing how to do something and simply not wanting to do it.

”I'll be in the bathroom,” she told Brandon, darting down the hallway, eager to escape his attention, as he hadn't cut his eyes from her once since she'd come through the door.

Twenty minutes later, Lina decided she looked like a hooker. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n it,” she muttered to her reflection in the mirror. She looked down at the eyeliner pencil in her hand. Dusky amethyst, my a.s.s, she thought, because that was what the label had said.

This is Barney-the-Dinosaur purple if I ever saw it.

And it was too late now to just dunk a tissue into some Vaseline and scrub the entire mess from her face. She had forty minutes to finish dressing, grab Brandon, hail a cab and make it to the church. The wedding wasn't until six o'clock that evening, but there were photographs to be taken in the meantime. As a dutiful bridesmaid, Lina was expected to flutter about Melanie while the photographer took shots of them readying for the ceremony.

”G.o.dd.a.m.n it,” she muttered again, wriggling out of her T-s.h.i.+rt, trying to be mindful of her hair. She grabbed a package of pantyhose off the back of the toilet and bit the corner with her teeth to rip them open. She shook them out, a wrinkled and pathetic mess of sheer nylon, and danced clumsily from one foot to the other as she yanked them on. Just as she wriggled the hose up toward her waist, she felt her finger punch through, tearing them. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n it.”

She pulled the hose up and looked in dismay at the wide runner that had shot from the hole and careened down the outer contour of her thigh. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n it,” she muttered, reaching for her dress, jerking it off the hanger against the back of the bathroom door. She shrugged her way into it and gritted her teeth as she craned her arm backward, groping for the zipper. The dress had been altered supposedly to Lina's measurements, but she still thought there was enough free s.p.a.ce through the bustline to park a small minivan. She frowned, tugging at her bra straps, hoping vainly to summon some inkling of cleavage to help fill the top of the gown. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n it.”

She looked in the mirror when she was finished. I look like a hooker, she thought unhappily, surveying the messy splay of her hair, the garish eye makeup and plum-colored lipstick, the glossy purple satin ruffle that seemed to explode off the right shoulder of her dress. Or a drag queen. And not a very good one either way.

She reached for her shoes, a pair of sandals dyed to match the dress, tucked in a box atop the toilet seat. She stepped into them one at a time, and felt herself wobble for uncertain balance. She hated high-heel shoes. Already, she could feel the straps of the sandals digging into the sides of her feet, and she began to take a mental account of all of the spots in which she could expect to find blisters by the time the ceremony was finished.

”G.o.dd.a.m.n it,” she muttered, opening the bathroom door and tromping outside.

The Dolce and Gabbana suit was gone from her bed. Brandon had dressed quietly and without her notice. She hoped to G.o.d the suit fit him OK, and Jude's shoes, as well. If they don't, we'll both just go barefooted-screw it, she thought, shaking her head as she teetered down the hallway. We'll make a h.e.l.l of a couple.

Brandon sat reading again, but looked up when he caught sight of her approach out of the corner of his eye. He rose to his feet, his brows raising, and Lina drew to a sudden halt.