Mortals really were nauseating.
Ridley didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry, but it didn’t matter. By the time she got home on the very Mortal L train, she’d done both.
CHAPTER 13
Bleeding Me
I never thought you had it in you, Rid.” Link sounded impressed. Shocked, even. There was that. But Ridley wasn’t sure it was worth it.
Because regular people suck.
At breakfast, her feet hurt, her arms ached, and two of her nails were broken. I can’t believe I have to go back to that place, like a regular person.
I’m a worker. I work. Six whole hours a day.
Even the thought was exhausting. It was all Rid could do to find the energy to finish her meal, a disappointing piece of Marilyn’s Coconut Dream Pie with an even more disappointing piece of Marilyn’s Apple of My Pye. Still, they were just sweet enough to do the trick. It was a Siren’s version of morning coffee.
Rid pushed away the plate. “The only good thing about Gat-dung was the pie.”
“I don’t know. Pecan fried chicken.”
Ridley’s eyes almost glassed over at the thought. “And Amma’s Tunnel of Fudge cake. The one she only made Ethan. Warm.”
“How about hot corn and a zombie flick at the Summerville Cineplex?” Link grinned.
“You mean making out in the back row,” Ridley said with a smile.
“I mean, makin’ out by the lake with a picnic basket full a biscuits.” His eyes met hers.
She leaned toward him. “You and your biscuits.”
He leaned toward her. “I used to wait outside Ethan’s kitchen window on the days Amma was makin’ hers.”
Link’s lips locked onto hers, and he slid his hand up around her neck. Ridley kissed away the memories, just like the old days and sweet as strawberry jam, until she felt an elbow in her side.
She opened her eyes as Necro slid into the booth.
“Adorable.” Necro grinned. “Or should I say Adorkable?”
“Great timing,” said Link, grouchy.
Ridley dotted at her lipstick with a paper napkin. Timing aside, she was relieved to see Necro, even if the faux-hawker looked like a hot mess of red leather (jacket), black vinyl (pants), and blue (hair) today. It was nice to see an almost friendly face. They had practically gotten along yesterday, the two of them.
“Pie?” Ridley slid the plate in Necro’s direction. “Or is that not an approved Goth dessert?”
Necro flipped open her switchblade and slid it vertically through the quivering piece of deep-dish apple pie, as if that was some kind of answer. “We gotta get moving.”
“Classy,” Rid said.
“I take it that’s a no?” Link ran his hand through his spiky hair with a sigh.
Sampson, the Darkborn, dropped into the seat beside Ridley. Every time she saw him, he seemed even better-looking than she remembered from the game at Suffer. He was hot, if you were into abnormally tall, leather-clad rock gods, with hands the size of dinner plates. Link had thought Sampson was full of himself, “and a whole lotta other things,” he said after their first few encounters. “Besides, there’s only room for one rock god in this apartment.” Ridley had just rolled her eyes.
“You guys ready?” Sampson asked. Link didn’t look too happy to see him, but then, Ridley didn’t know why anyone would be happy to see a Darkborn.
She took the opportunity to inch away from Sampson on the pleather booth seat. His disturbing gray eyes matched the gray T-shirt he was wearing over his tight leather jeans. With tattooed arms and a bike chain around his neck, he looked like the kind of guy you didn’t want to mess with. From what little Ridley had learned about him during the epic failure of a game at Suffer, it was true.
If he’s immune to my powers, Ridley thought, what else is he immune to?
Rid had searched Uncle Macon’s archives, and the Lunae Libri, trying to find out anything she could about Darkborns this summer after Liar’s Trade went south. But these new Supernaturals were a result of the New Order, so there weren’t any ancient scrolls detailing their history.
All she had learned since her game with Sampson was that a new race of Supernatural had evolved, radically and permanently, as a consequence of Lena more or less breaking the universe. They were born from the Dark Fire, from which all magic derived—complete and whole, as if they’d stepped out of cryogenically engineered pods. Magic had created them, and yet somehow they defied its laws.
Casters had no effect on a Darkborn. Beyond that, no one knew much of anything about them, except that they made Incubuses look like kittens.
Ridley had learned that firsthand. Sampson had caused her more than his share of trouble, that night at Suffer. He smiled at her now, and she resisted the impulse to claw his eyes out the old-fashioned way. I’d like to see if he’s immune to that.
“You got enough eyeliner on, Maybelline?” Link said, looking at Sampson. “Because we can wait, if you have to, you know”—he gestured to his face—“freshen up.” You put an Incubus and a Darkborn in the room together and they started to go at it within the first five minutes. That much everyone had learned this week.
“Jealous?” Sampson stretched his arms along the top of the booth. “Not everyone can pull it off.”
“Or not anyone,” said Link. “Just sayin’.”
“I wouldn’t say that if I were you.” Necro shook her head at Link. “You know that whole Incubus superstrength thing?” She motioned to Sampson. “Yeah. You can’t hurt him. He’s immune.”