Perfect Gravity (Wanted and Wired #2)(61)
He held that sentence close for a minute, drawing the warmth of it all around himself. Had she just made plans for summertime, plans that included him? Or was that offhand banter? He didn’t want to commit to hope at this point, but she painted their relationship in such bright colors.
A part of him wasn’t convinced. He wanted to ask for promises, but even if she offered that boon, how could he possibly believe her?
If it is just for today, tonight, tomorrow, I’d best make these hours count.
The car slowed and exited the highway.
“Did the dragon just go sentient, or do you know where we’re headed?” he asked.
“Yeah, I adjusted the itinerary some kilometers back. Flea market downtown with a stand of refrescandos attached. We can tidy up, make sure we have everything we need for the next few days. Stores will be hard to come by once we cross the border.” She looked pointedly at his jacket, wadded in a pile in the back seat. “We might need more ammo.”
He had no plans to use that gun Mari’d given him. Only reason he hadn’t left it back at the Pentarc was the kindness of her gesture, and he didn’t want to offend. But if things went sideways with Vallejo, they were both going to need a lot more than one dinky pistol and a few boxes of ammo.
Things went sideways with Vallejo, they were more likely to require a goddamn army.
Though come to think on it, he might know some folks could muster up a fighting force. Might even be core-deep in love with one of those folks right now.
Chapter 11
The flea market was called Big Daddy’s, and it was smack in the middle of town. They shouldn’t have been able to park so close. When horrible things happened, though, most folk holed up in their homes and plugged into the news feeds, ingesting disaster porn like it was corn chips. Who could blame them? Kellen had been like that once, for a long time in fact, hoping that just sitting still and not fussing would make the angel of death pass by faster.
They got out of the car and safety-set it so that it cycled air for Yoink but wouldn’t respond to a thief trying to boost it. Taking kitty along would be a bad bet in a place like this. Too many ways for that gal to get into trouble, and, being her, she would find every last one.
Angela pointed past the open-air stalls and toward an ugly metal building that promised air-conditioning, full-service cloud ports, and bargains-bargains-bargains. A gaggle of mamas swamped with young’uns watched them walk by but didn’t say anything. They were the only people Kellen could see, at least on the outside.
There was something creepy about a sparsely attended flea market, and this one sure wasn’t helped by the giant armless statue out front, presumably of Big Daddy himself. The pallid-flesh attempt at paint was peeling, but the color had been tending toward zombie even in its prime.
Inside, a few more shoppers milled aimlessly, but most of the people were vendors who, having arranged their wares on booth shelves and folding tables, now lounged in picnic chairs, gazes glued to whatever was being fed into their wearable coms. News, maybe. More likely porn.
Kellen wandered near a booth hawking preserved meat and injectable magnetic tattoos, but Angela grabbed his hand, and he decided to keep on holding rather than wander. If she’d had some kind of mental block against touching others before, she appeared to have blown through that sucker. She was downright grabby lately. Kellen had no problem with that.
He followed her to a booth in the back corner, poorly lit and offering woo-woo on the cheap: oils, crystals, a vaguely Tesla-looking device that promised to enable cross-dimensional communication with loved ones who had passed on. The thick smell of chem-laced patchouli near knocked him out.
A kid with an electronic money belt watched him, suspicious. Couldn’t have been more than ten and had an unsettling way of not blinking. “Red stamps are ten percent off today only.”
“What if I want to barter?” Angela said.
“I ain’t authorized. You’ll need to talk to Dead Fester.”
Angela rolled her sleeve back and showed the kid something on her com. Kid blinked rapidly then pushed back her picnic chair and scrambled behind a grungy purple-brown curtain Kellen hadn’t even noticed before. It resembled one of those changing-area privacy screens, only this booth didn’t sell clothes. After a few seconds, the kid returned.
“Dead said come on back.”
Angela still had his hand clamped in hers, so Kellen didn’t have a choice but to follow.
The tiny office/changing room had a lot in common with nighttime in the desert. That is to say, it was dark. Also lots more cramped and, um, smellier. Back here, the patchouli stench deferred to what Kellen would swear was Somah solution and ammonia. He did a quick scan for organics transport containers or portable surgical rigs. Didn’t see either. Which proved exactly nothing. Unlicensed carvers could still do backroom bioalteration without a proper surgery-in-a-box. He himself had improvised more than a few times.
But the lone occupant of the tiny room didn’t seem ready to come at them with scalpels, at least not right away. He was a portly gent wearing overalls and sitting on a giant balloon, his close-shorn pate hooked into at least three wire bunches, all connected to what resembled a noodle strainer. He did not disconnect when his guests entered.
“Thanks for agreeing to a meat-meet,” Angela said. “I know it was short notice.”
“No worries, Angel. Messaging from your car in the middle of the desert and sounding all breathless and urgent—how could I possibly ignore all the story potential there?” He finally looked up. He had this amazing expression, kinda disapproving and awed at the same time. “Now that’s a new look for you.” He motioned toward the dark scruff that just barely covered Angela’s implanted psych-emitter rig.