“That’s right. I’m ready for you,” he says, as Win Matthews slips out from Gunn’s office. But Gunn doesn’t watch him go, or move from the doorway. He just keeps staring at the orchid tucked behind my ear.
So like a reflex, I reach into my hair, find the flower, and pinch it out like it’s made of air, before following Gunn into his office.
Alex’s flower was just a trick. An easy manipulation, one I could do over a thousand times without a blink. But still, it pains me a little that it’s gone.
BIG FISH
ALEX
“I’m hankering for the shine,” Howie says beside me. “Like bad. Look at my hands.”
I glance at Howie’s shaky, chapped fingers as he runs them around each other. “It’s just the withdrawal,” I say, and turn back to the water. The moon hangs over it low and bright, casts a long thread of spun silver across the dark ocean as we cut through it on our bare-hull boat, forty knots speed, engine as large as an airplane. It’s a beautiful night, an otherworldly night, the kind of night you want to be gazing at the vast, star-studded sky with a dame like Joan. Not with Howie. “If you power through it, you’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
“But maybe I don’t want to be fine. Maybe I want to be electric.”
“Take a break, okay, How? You’ve been hitting the shine hard all week. Relax.”
Howie pulls his thin coat tighter around him. “What are you, my mother?”
It’s dark, but I can still see the gray tint around Howie’s cheekbones, the dullness to his eyes. Back in training, the Unit taught us the long-term effects of a steady shine diet: how the stuff eventually steals the color out of life, dulls it until you can’t stand living without the polish of magic. But I don’t think I ever fully understood what that meant until I became attached to Howie’s side. Since we left Lorton, he’s only happy anymore when he’s high. Time in between he spends angry, restless—and clamoring for the next time he can steal a glimpse of a world that doesn’t last.
I’ve tried to tell him he survived shine withdrawal before, and that he’ll end up hollowing himself into a shell if he keeps going at this pace, but you can’t reason with him. And after so many times of trying, I started worrying that too much anti-shine talk might compromise my cover. So tonight I stay silent and watch the indigo water race by the rudders.
We’re several miles off the coast, on our way through the waters of the Atlantic. Win’s in the front as captain, and Howie and I are shivering on the bench in the back. Late November’s winds are brutal, breath-stealing, and while neither one of us is thrilled about snuggling, we’re huddled next to each other for warmth.
“Even a cigarette would help,” Howie mutters.
“Christ, How, why didn’t you buy another pack before we left?”
Howie shrugs. “’Cause you usually bring enough for both of us.”
And usually, I do take care of these little details, but I’ve been working overtime, exhausted. Howie’s clearly exhausted too. But that’s not the only reason we’ve been picking at each other, sparring like siblings vying for their parents’ affection. There’s a tension I haven’t been able to shake, a thick, persistent one lodged right between us.
“Seriously, can’t you do something about this?” Howie waves his hand above us to indicate the cold wind.
“It’s tougher when we’re moving, but I’ll try.” I focus, close my eyes. I picture a bubble of warm, soft air wrapping around us like a towel, command, “Envelop.”
After a minute, Howie stops shaking beside me.
Needless to say, we are definitely not, as Howie predicted when we first got out of Lorton, “partying until dawn.” If I’m figuring right, this is our twelfth straight night of running with Win—no nights off, no breaks. Since that first night, when things went south with Baltimore out at the warehouse, we’ve been on the road by the start of every evening for a trade, or a redistillery run, or some other clandestine errand for the Shaws. Sometimes I don’t come home until the sun’s up, and other than the few times Howie and I have lingered at the Red Den waiting for Win, we’re either on the road, or crashing. In fact, the couple of times I’ve managed to sneak out and call Agent Frain have been at noon, when I know the rest of my smuggling world will be sleeping.
We’re putting our heads down, as Howie says, not asking questions, showing we’re willing to pay our dues, get broken and rebuilt as slick, lethal Shaw boys. And in turn, edging closer to Boss McEvoy. But so far, the biggest Shaw fish has evaded me.
“We’re here,” Win calls back, interrupting my thoughts. He cuts the engine, and our boat gives a little jump, then sighs and floats a few feet more into the dark water.
Ahead of us, a long line of ships, boats, cruisers, and cutters blink and flash like stars peppering the black ocean.