Shades of Gray (32 page)

“I know,” Valerie soothed. “And I know Joan is going to give it back. Right, Joan?”

Joan clutched the doll to her chest. “I want the dolly!”

Valerie heaved a sigh, slinging her sobbing daughter onto her hip. “A little help, Holly?”

“George and I will buy you a new one.” Holly drained her wineglass. “Just let Joan have it. She’ll throw a fit otherwise.”

Valerie massaged her temple with her free hand to quell the throb of what she’d named Mother’s Little Migraine. “Callie, sweetie, you need to
stop crying
for mommy, okay?”

She sat back down and let Callie play with Holly’s silver-plated tableware. “Holly. Les and I don’t let Callie have a lot of toys. You know that.”

“So when Joan’s down for a nap, I’ll weasel it out of her grasp and send Jamie or Jamie your way with it. You’ll get the damn doll back.”

Valerie frowned at the curse. Holly was working on a drunk. Again. “You have to set limits. Kids act out because they want limits.”

“I know how to raise my child,” Holly snapped.

“Of course you do. But you and George—”

“George is busy,” Holly said crisply. “I make the calls with Joan. It’s my job to oversee things here at home.”

“You’re also a person who has a job!” Valerie said. “Get a nanny to help you.”

Holly sighed, pushing a hand through her hair. She looked much older than she had when Valerie met her. Or maybe that was because her Glamique contract had been canceled.

“I can’t,” Holly said. “George won’t hear of it.”

“Then maybe George needs to get his hearing checked.”

Holly smiled nervously. “He has a lot of pressure. You know that. Les must be the same way.”

“Sure, there’s pressure. But Les is home at night,” Valerie said gently. “When’s the last time George was here when you went to bed?”

Her friend flinched. “I don’t know what you’re driving at, Valerie Bradford, but you stop it right now. George is just busy.”

Valerie fussed with Callie’s braid, which refused to stay neat. “So are you, Hols.”

“It’s not the same,” Holly insisted. “He’s constantly fighting, fighting all the time. He’s so
stressed.
So I have to be here for him when he needs me, where he expects me.”

“Holly, you’re a superhero. No one
expects
you to sit home and bake cookies and do laundry all day.”

“George does.”

Something in her friend’s tone made Valerie sit up and really look at her. Holly fiddled with her hair, her wedding ring, looking anywhere but Valerie’s face.

“Hols,” she said, frowning. “Are you okay?”

“He just gets … so angry sometimes,” Holly whispered. “I know it’s not him during those times. I know he’s not the George I married. That George doesn’t care if I accidentally burn supper.”

“Holly,” Valerie said, letting Callie squirm off her lap so she could reach across the table and take her friend’s hand. “Has he done something?”

“Of course not. We just have our disagreements sometimes, that’s all. Every marriage has some disagreements. Even you and Lester have some, don’t you? That doesn’t mean anything’s rocky or—” Her breath hitched.

Valerie turned Holly’s face toward her. “Is he
hitting
you?”

“No!” Holly’s eyes flamed with panic. “He’s a good man!”

The lie was all too clear. “Holly …”

“And if he did, anything that happened would be an accident,” she said too fast.

“Hols,” Valerie said softly, “George has a problem.”

Holly’s eyes took on a sinister cast. “At least he’s not a loose cannon like Lester!”

“Oh, so
my
husband is the problem now?” Valerie stood up, her chair scraping back. “I have news for you, Holly, news that’s been a long time coming. Your precious George is a whack job.”

“How
dare
you …”

“For Christo’s sake, girl, he’s hitting you! If you can’t think of yourself, think of Joan! What is she going to remember when she’s grown?”

Holly stood as well, and there was a moment when Valerie saw the old Holly, the firecracker, the one who could smile and laugh as she took down a villain as easily as when posing for the camera.

“You have no right,” she quavered. “No right at all.”

“You’re my friend, Hols,” Valerie said softly. “And I’m saying this as your friend. George might be going the way of Hypnotic.”

Holly shuddered, twin tears working down her face. “Get. Out,” she gritted. “Get out
now
!”

“Okay,” Valerie said. “I’m gone.” She gathered up Callie and went into the kitchen to grab her purse. There she saw the cheerful red Panic Button, next to the combox on the wall.

Seeing it calmed her. If there were a problem, a true problem, Holly would hit the button and the cavalry would come running.

Tomorrow she’d talk some sense into Holly. She just needed to calm down and sober up, and then they could talk reasonably.

Tomorrow.

CHAPTER 42

ANGELICA

In retrospect, we were fortunate that Angelica lasted as long as she did.

—From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #185

S
he had the dream again.

Holly sat up in bed, shivering, wishing that George were there to comfort her. But he wasn’t in the bedroom.

She wrapped her arms around herself, told herself that it was just a dream, that Hal was still in Blackbird. That he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again.

That what he’d told her during the Siege of Manhattan had been a desperate lie.

Shaking, she pulled herself out of bed and dragged on her robe. She tied the belt and tucked her feet into slippers. Padding out of the dark bedroom, she first checked on Joannie—safe in bed, sleeping the sleep of an exhausted five-year-old after a long day of play. Joan had had fun with Callie, even if Holly and Valerie had nearly come to blows.

No. She wasn’t going to think about that now. And Valerie Bradford could go to hell.

Closing her daughter’s bedroom door, Holly walked quietly down the hallway, noting the closed office door. George was up, doing … well, whatever it was he did in there. Holly had long ago learned that when the office door was closed, she mustn’t interrupt.

Her shoulder still had the small, circular scar from when George had first taught her that lesson.

Holly entered the small kitchen and put on the kettle for tea. She stood there, motionless, as the water heated. When the kettle whistled, she shook herself out of her stupor and killed the sound before George could hear it.

She fixed herself a cup of chamomile and took it to the kitchen table. She carefully pulled out the chair so that it wouldn’t scrape, then sat.

Holly sipped her tea and didn’t taste it.

When Blackout came into the kitchen for something to eat, she didn’t notice him—her back was to the hallway, and she was thinking about her dream—the same dream she’d had, on and off, for six years.

If she felt her husband’s cold gaze on her back, she dismissed it as a chill and took another small sip of tea.

They stayed like that for twenty minutes: Holly thinking about another man as she took miniscule sips of tea, and her husband standing in the archway, gazing at his wife with his Shadow-filled eyes.

In Holly’s dream, it’s the end of the Siege of Manhattan, just as Hal has told her that she’d been used, that she’d been forced to leave him and love Blackout. Angelica has just played her last, desperate card: She kissed Doctor Hypnotic.

But in her dream, she never stops kissing Hal. There is no betrayal, no look of defeat and sorrow in Hal’s eyes. There is only her and Hal.

Holly didn’t know she was crying. She still felt the tingle on her lips from six years gone, and she knew it was false, that it had been just a dream. But it didn’t matter. The feelings were still there—the passion, then the terror.

In her dream, Hal seduces her, or she seduces him, and the two of them ride the world in a wave of blood. When she gives birth to her daughter, she sacrifices the baby to the Shadow, deep at the base of the world at the boundary of hell. But it’s not enough—the Shadow rises up, hungry.

And it comes for her.

“Sweetheart. What’re you doing up?”

Holly jumped in her chair. Tea slopped over the side of her cup, splashing her fingers. Holly turned to see George—no, Blackout; he was still garbed in his work clothes—standing over her.

The darkness swimming in his eyes had to be a trick of the light.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, smiling at her own foolishness. When he said nothing, she talked, to fill the space between them. Surely, she wasn’t babbling out of nerves. “Didn’t like lying in bed in the dark.”

He smiled at her—that had to be a smile and not a leer. “Why, sweetheart, you should know by now there’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s nothing in the dark that isn’t already there in the light.”

She smiled at him in turn, pretending she didn’t hear the lie in his words.

Pretending she wasn’t afraid of the man she loved.

CHAPTER 43

NIGHT

It’s fascinating to watch the difference in Night and Blackout. The one thrives while the other deteriorates. Why does the Shadow spare one and condemn the other? Genetics? Statistics? Luck?

—From the journal of Martin Moore, entry #22

A
fter the reporters turned away and the ambulance and police finally left, Night grabbed Blackout by his shoulder and spun him around. Though his brother in Shadow was smaller and slighter than he was, Night found it difficult to make Blackout move, as if the Shadow had given the smaller man additional strength.

“What was that?” Night hissed.

Blackout stared at him, his eyes hooded. “A press conference detailing how we defeated Calendar Man.” He laughed suddenly, the sound high-pitched and girlish. “I loathe, I loathe, I loathe my little Calendar Man,” he sang off-key, “every day, every day, of the year!”

Night darted a look behind them—no, none of the others had heard. Growling, he shoved Blackout into the alley between buildings. “Shut it! You want them to think you’re on junk?”

Blackout brayed laughter, spittle flying.

“For Christo’s sake, man, quit it!”

That made Blackout bend over, helpless with mirth, slapping his thighs as he guffawed.

Night gnashed his teeth, wondering how long to let this go. Blackout’s mental stability had declined steadily over the past few years. Small things at first—memory loss, mood swings. But lately, Blackout had increased bouts of rage and was prone to wild bursts of laughter at inopportune times. And whispering, as if talking to himself.

Night, of course, knew better. If Blackout had merely been talking to himself, Night wouldn’t be concerned. Schizophrenia could be managed.

But this wasn’t schizophrenia.

Night had said nothing about Blackout’s increasing instability. As long as his power brother could still handle the Shadow, there was nothing to discuss. Anything that he needed to do to keep his ability under control was acceptable … to a point.

Standing there, listening to Blackout’s hiccuping giggles, Night wondered if that point had finally come.

He’d glimpsed Angelica this morning, when he’d come by to pick up Blackout for patrol. The woman was clever with her makeup, but she’d missed a spot beneath her eye. Night had stared at that purplish-green smudge, and he saw then just how red the eye itself was, how swollen the lid appeared, even with its cosmetic camouflage. She’d noticed his reaction and tittered stupidly, covering the eye lightly with shaking fingers. Allergic reaction, she’d said, her lips trembling as they held a smile.

Yes, her eye would be allergic to Blackout’s fist, no doubt.

Night had seen the naked desperation in her gaze—how she was silently begging him to hold his tongue. Whether that was out of love or fear of Blackout, Night couldn’t guess.

He might have said something to her then, or even to Blackout—Night frowned on domestic violence, as did Corp-Co—but that was when the little girl ran into the living room and attacked Night with a bear hug.

“Nigh!” she cried happily, squeezing. “Hi, Nigh!” The rhyme sent her on a fit of giggles, as it always did. It had been her pet name for him ever since she was two.

He’d smiled—he had no patience for babies, who tended to be loud, and smelly, and overall quite unpleasant, but he had to admit a certain fondness for the little Shadow—and he’d allowed himself to be distracted by the child’s glee and her attempts to make Shadow puppets. By the time he remembered Angelica’s black eye, he and his partner were already out the door, Blackout raving in his excitement to try a new Shadow technique. The two had talked shop during most of their patrol. And over the course of the day, Night had forgotten about Angelica.

But now he remembered the raw pain he’d seen etched on Angelica’s face. Snarling, he punched Blackout in the jaw.

The other man’s head rocked back, and even after Night followed through on the punch and drew back his fist, Blackout remained with his head twisted to the side, his jaw already swelling. He slowly rubbed the side of his mouth, laughing softly.

“You broke Calendar Man’s back,” Night said, his voice a dangerous growl. “Last week, you used Shadow to almost crush Succuba to death.”

“Grenades and horseshoes,” Blackout said, lips pulled into a parody of a grin.

“You’re just as bad as the criminals are.”

“And I suppose you just gave me a love tap?”

“I’m trying to knock some sense into you!” Night realized he was shouting. Lowering his voice, he said, “Get it together,
George
. You can’t go around crippling the bad guys.”

“Less likely to face a repeat performance if you hobble them.”

“And more likely to get yourself hauled off to Therapy for evaluation.” He looked deep into Blackout’s eyes and saw the Shadow staring back at him. “Bursts of violence are one thing, but you’ve taken it to an unacceptable level. It stops
now,
George.”