Ann Aguirre: Mortal Danger

Heat pinked my cheeks, and I ducked my head. My glasses slipped down my nose. “When you put it that way … wait, this doesn’t count as my second favor, does it?”

“No. You’re not asking to get into the SSP, so it’s an adjunct service as the most expeditious way to grant your request with minimal disruption to your life.”

“And that’s important to your bosses, I guess?”

He nodded. “If parents become suspicious, it complicates the situation. They prefer not to make deals with minors, but extremis happens when it happens.”

My head spun with the wild revelations that just kept piling up. By this point, numbness took over. I’d process this stuff later.

Kian went on, “I’ll take care of the registration and travel arrangements. It’s up to you to convince your parents.” He had his cell phone in his hand and tapped away, checking something. “The session I have in mind starts in three days.”

So soon. I didn’t know if I was ready, but excitement thrummed through me, supplanting the shock. It was three parts terror and one part anticipation, all better than the dread and dejection that had dogged my steps since winter break.

“I’ll handle them,” I promised. “Text me the flight time?”

Gold flecks sparked in his green eyes when he smiled at me. Reluctantly I shared his amusement because it was infectious. A laughing Kian was … beyond lovely. But he didn’t explain what was so funny.

I sighed. “What’d I say now?”

“It’s cute that you think I’m booking you on a plane.”

Belatedly I remembered the insta-trip to the mountaintop. “Because this is favor-related, you can port me?”

“You’re such a smart girl,” he mocked gently.

“Whatever.”

“I’ll be back for you in two days, Edie. Pack light. You’ll need a new wardrobe before we’re done anyway.”

“And that’s part of the deal?” I asked, fascinated.

“Sure. Clothes impact the perception of beauty.”

“Sweet.” I’d always hated shopping, but it might be different if I liked looking in the mirror. “You’re like a regular fairy godfather.”

Pure, ferocious rage flared to life before Kian shut it down. “ Don’t call me a fairy. It’s risky. Dangerous, even.”

Whoa. What the hell.

“I didn’t—”

“Wings, sparkle-dust, mischief. Puck, Oberon, Titania, Tir na Nog, land beneath the hill. That about cover it?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“If you call some things, they will come. And then they don’t leave.”

That sounded scary as hell, and like a certain noseless supervillain. A shiver went through me. “Noted.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”

“No prob. I got it. Don’t call the you-know-whats.” I wondered about the rage-flare, whether he’d had a bad experience with things that didn’t go away, but like his almost suicide, I didn’t know him well enough to ask.

Maybe someday.

“I should get going.” Kian seemed subdued, troubled by his outburst.

I studied him. “Do you … live somewhere?”

He looked around my age—eighteen or so—but he must be older. How much depended on what his second and third favors had been. What if he’d asked for eternal youth? He could be like a hundred. Gross . He didn’t talk like a geriatric, but if he hung around kids a lot, that would keep him current. No matter how hot he was, I couldn’t get past that age gap. Not that he wanted me to.

“Yes. I live … somewhere.” Faint sarcasm flavored his tone. Regardless of how exotic it was to me, this must seem like a dead-end customer service job to him, explaining the rules to new clients and feeling annoyed when they didn’t catch on right away.

That didn’t mean I was putting up with attitude, even from the guy who pulled me off the bridge. “Later, Kian. See you in two days.”

After he left, I went to my room and removed my jacket. Years ago, I’d papered my walls with posters of famous scientists like Madame Curie and Albert Einstein. I had the one with Einstein sticking his tongue out, a reminder that genius should always maintain a sense of humor. I was aware this didn’t look like a teenager’s room. My desk was too clean, organized by type of supplies, and dominated by the high-end printer/scanner plugged into my laptop.

If I had any friends to invite over, they’d make fun of everything, including the books on floor beside my bed. I was always reading four different volumes, and only one of them was a novel. At the moment, I had a biography of Lise Meitner, a copy of A Brief History of Time , half burying a collection of plays by Samuel Beckett. At the bottom of the pile lay a science fiction novel, too dry to hold my interest.

On my desk, I still had the DNA model I’d built for biology. A+ work. Other signs of my nerdery dotted the room: laptop, a bag of dice, replica of the Starship Enterprise , a Tardis that lit up when you put coins in the slot on top, and some half-painted miniatures. There might be tons of people like me all over the world, but from what I could tell, they didn’t go to Blackbriar. If they did, they hid the signs better than I ever had.

I took the rocks out of my pockets and put them in a crate in my closet. On autopilot, I put on pajamas and brushed my teeth. Though I didn’t expect to sleep, the nap claimed me quickly and I didn’t dream. Well, nothing I remembered anyway, but when I woke, I was oddly stiff and sore, as if the experience had changed me from the inside out. I raised my arms over my head and the marks were still on my wrists. Yet I felt oddly superstitious, like I might be hallucinating.

Coma dream? Dead girl walking? If so, this was the freakiest afterlife ever.

Coming up on my knees, I fought a burst of hysteria and peered at the marks in the mirror on the back of my door: Left wrist, ownership character that looked like a kanji; right wrist, infinity sign with a hash mark across the top. The reflection showed them backward, like they should be. Apart from these symbols and a number in my contacts, I had no proof Kian existed. I rolled out of bed and ran to where my phone was plugged into my laptop, charging. My hands shook as I scrolled through my contacts to the Ks.

You have to be there. I’m not crazy. I’m not.

Then I found it, pushing out a relieved sigh. Kian. And his number. Closing my eyes, I pushed out an unsteady breath. Though I had no idea how it was possible, he’d transported me to a mountaintop in Tibet, then brought me back like it was nothing. I might not understand his mojo, but …

It’s real. It happened. He’s coming back.

Or maybe you’re dreaming, doped up in a psych ward, while doctors write stuff in your chart like, “Unresponsive to reality,” “Becomes agitated when the sedatives wear off.” Oddly, that possibility made it easier to move forward, like doing a high-wire act without a net, certain only that you wouldn’t get hurt if you fell.

Reassured, I showered and dressed, then put together an impressive package of false documentation using my laptop, the Internet, Photoshop, and my excellent printer. I felt slightly guilty because my parents wouldn’t look too hard at these documents. Why? They trusted me. But this part of the plan hinged on a strong sales pitch, and I had to prove I’d earned a scholarship to the university summer science program.

Just before I left my room, I shrugged into a hoodie to hide my wrists, though the day was warm enough for air-conditioning, if we’d had it. Since it was past noon, my parents were home. Soon, the conference circuit would begin, where they presented research to their colleagues. Once I turned twelve, I’d traveled with them because they didn’t mind leaving me in a hotel room while they did their thing, but when I was younger, I stayed with Great-Aunt Edith, who called me her namesake and made me walk her Pomeranian.