Hwa shrugged. “If you say so.”
“He didn’t tell me about the death threats. So I don’t have to tell him everything, either.”
Oh. That explained some things.
“Have you talked to him about that?”
Joel shook his head. “He’s been sick. More sick than usual.” He stretched. Hwa heard something pop in his spine. “I guess that’s the other reason I don’t want him to know. I don’t think it would help.”
Hwa settled back in her seat. She reclined it. Closed her eyes. “Okay. Fine.”
It wasn’t okay, and it wasn’t fine. Eventually—probably very soon—Joel’s dad or one of his brothers would find out, and freak out. On the other hand, she had told Síofra where they were going, and he hadn’t objected. They had some cover, at least.
And, she figured, the whole story would go over a lot better if she had more details on the invisible man who had attacked them today.
“Why don’t you come over for dinner?” Joel asked, when the ride stopped.
“Thanks, but maybe Sunday,” Hwa said. “Right now I’m craving something from the chip truck.”
*
It was very difficult, not eating the chips from the chip truck. She’d ordered the largest size they had, with extra vinegar and extra salt. The smell was so good, so heady, that the other people in the elevator that stood at the nine o’clock position in Tower Four had no choice but to stare. That, or they knew exactly whom she was summoning.
It wasn’t until she hit the seventeenth floor that she suspected Lázló might have joined her. The lift doors hung open for just a hair longer than they should have. She felt nothing, no bounce in the lift, just that little pause in which the machine seemed to decide something on its own.
“Is that you?” Hwa asked. “’Cause the chip oil’s burning me fingers.”
After a moment, she felt the paper packet of potatoes lift out of her hands. They hovered for a moment, and then seemed to vanish in a wrinkle of something or someone whose outlines became just visible if she stared hard enough.
“I want to ask about your suit,” Hwa said. “How you use it. Who can use it. If anyone else has ever asked to use it. Where it can be bought.”
A muffled voice told her that she was not the first to ask this.
“I don’t want to buy it myself, understand,” Hwa said. “It’s your suit. You can have it. I just want to know more about how they work.”
The voice said they worked just fine.
Hwa let her accent thicken. Let him know she was for real. That she was town, through and through. “I’m not trying to hire you for a job, or anything. I’s not asking you to steal something, or hurt somebody. That’s not why I’s here.”
The tension in the elevator lessened, fractionally but measurably.
“All I wants to know is where you were on a certain day.”
And just like that, it was back. Hwa’s hand strayed to the pocket of her jacket. As quietly as she could, she flipped back the cap on a canister of spray paint.
“I want to ask—”
The first blow caught her completely by surprise. It was a solid right cross to her jaw, and it was strong enough to knock her into the other side of the elevator. Only the dropped packet of chips alerted her to where he would be. Hwa lashed out and up with her feet. The first kick landed glancingly on what felt like an inner thigh. It was more luck than anything else. The second went nowhere.
Not wanting to waste time, she dug out the bottle of spray paint and started hosing the room. The paint came out a ridiculous electric purple. He knocked it out of her hands. It clattered against one wall of the elevator and rolled across the floor, out of her reach.
She launched herself forward at the moving streak of purple and hit legs. He hammered her shoulders, then her back, then her kidneys. The suit was slippery, silken, tough to grip. No balls to be found. He grabbed her by the hair and threw her up against one wall. Brought her head back. Smashed it into the wall. And again. She saw stars. She curled her fingers around the handrail for balance. Her foot shot out behind her. It connected soundly. She heard the air leave him. He gagged. She threw herself at him, tumbling into the illusion of ugly patterned carpet, and started hitting. Blood from her mouth and forehead dripped onto the suit; she targeted her fists there. He reached for her throat but she didn’t stop, just swung harder, her fist arcing through the air like she was pounding a crooked nail into stubborn wood.
Slowly, the hood of the suit began to slip away. She grabbed with both hands and yanked. It peeled away from him. He screamed. And screamed. And screamed.