CHAPTER 44
JET
If you don’t override your pain, you’re dead.
Lancer to his first-year students in Basic Defense Techniques
Jet knelt in the Academy confessional, trying not to play with her sling as she waited for the priest to slide open the screen and signal that she should begin confessing her sins.
Top of the list: pride.
Her left shoulder throbbed, and she grimaced. Lancer hadn’t been kidding when he’d said Jet would be cursing him. She’d done that, quite loudly, when he’d gotten the best of her and had dislocated her shoulder just a few hours ago.
She shuddered, remembering the impact as she’d hit the ground hard—and the acute pain that had accompanied it. Lancer had stared down at her, his gaze implacable, as she’d writhed on the floor.
“You’re dead,” he’d said coldly. “Next time, don’t bother with the pretty follow-through. Bad guys don’t give a shit if your form is correct. Guard your left. Now get your whining Shadow ass down to Infirmary.”
The staff nurse had given her a local, even though Jet had adamantly said no. At fifteen, Jet was still a minor, and so the Academy had the final say on her medical treatment—and that meant all patients were anesthetized when treating severe injuries. Jet had wanted to feel it when her shoulder had been popped back into its socket. Maybe that agony would help remind her of Lancer’s lesson today.
Instead, she’d gotten a sympathetic smile, a brightly colored sling, and a mandatory pass from physical activity for seventy-two hours, then moderated physical activity over the next four weeks. Lancer had scoffed and called her a pansy … but he agreed to keep working with her once Medical approved.
Small favors. Dejected, Jet sighed. She was a lousy excuse of a hero.
You’re a filthy Shadow, Lancer told her.
Jet closed her eyes, told herself to let it go. That it didn’t hurt.
Jehovah, she prayed, why am I a Shadow?
But instead of some invisible god, it was Night who whispered: You understand the power of the Dark.
Yes. But she hated it. Despised it.
Feared it.
You’ll learn to use that fear, Night crooned. Let it do your work for you.
Her heart danced; sweat beaded on her brow. Her throat constricted as she grappled with an idea that kept trying to slip out of reach.
How could the Dark work for her? It utterly terrified her.
Sam’s voice, now, filling her with warmth, with love: We’ve got these powers for a reason.
Sam.
Tears slipped down her cheeks as she waited for a priest to come and absolve her of all her sins. To tell her that it was okay that Sam was dead.
“Those dead, who believed in him, shall be raised and live, and those living who believe, shall never perish. Death will only be a change to a better existence.”
Maybe it’s better, she thought bitterly, but I still want him back.
… those living who believe …
Her lip curled into a snarl. Tell me, how will chanting Our Fathers and performing penance make Sam come back?
How could Jehovah be so cruel?
Night again, his voice cold and yet soothing: If you want Samson’s death to have any meaning at all, you’ll let his dedication to helping others be your beacon. Your guiding light in the dark.
My guiding light.
Light.
Her heart leapt, and her mouth opened wide—in surprise, in delight. Her shoulder still ached, but it was a minor pain, easily overlooked in the face of an epiphany.
Light she could understand. Light was her personal savior, the thing that banished the darkness.
Forget Jehovah and his heart of stone. Forget Christo the Son. Forget Heaven and Hell, and all those things that demanded people believe in unconditionally, even with no proof that they existed at all.
Light was real.
Darkness was real.
It was all the religion that she needed.
Letting out a laugh, Jet climbed to her feet just as the screen slid open.
“I’m sorry for the wait, my child,” the hidden priest said.
“It’s okay,” Jet replied, feeling lighter than air. “I’ve already found what I was looking for.”
And in a weird way, she had Lancer to thank for it.