Carrie Vaughn - After the Golden Age

“Just answer one question for me. The Destructor. Were you his…” He paused, grappling for words. “Did you sleep with him?”

The assumption lay between the lines of every news report she’d seen today. It was the question that no matter how much she denied it, no one would ever believe her. Her father hadn’t believed her, not even after she let Mentis into her mind, let him see whether or not she was lying. She’d let him broadcast her thoughts to the world if it would do any good.

“No, I didn’t. He wasn’t interested.”

“Wasn’t interested? Does that mean you tried ?”

She’d been seventeen, fond of miniskirts and too much makeup, fascinated by her own burgeoning sexuality and the ways it could be used. How did she explain that to a thirty-year-old police detective who’d already branded her a criminal?

He was angry at himself, she realized. Angry at himself for falling for someone with a past like hers. He hadn’t seen it, and maybe he thought he should have.

“Mark, I’ve been trying for years to redeem myself. I guess I’m not there yet. But give me a chance, please.” She shouldn’t have to beg. Damn him for making her beg.

“It’s just … it’s hard, looking at you now. Knowing what you did.”

She lost it. “I made a mistake! I know I made a mistake! Everybody makes mistakes! What do I have to do to make it up? Adopt a kitten? Crucify myself on my parents’ doorstep? What? Just tell me and I’ll do it. Tell me what you want me to do!”

“This really is all about your parents, isn’t it? You really do hate them.”

“Have you even been listening to me? Why can’t anyone talk to me without talking about them ?” She kept getting louder.

Which might have been why he hung up on her.

She threw the phone. It hit the wall by the kitchen, chirped, and thumped to the floor.

If she could, she would go back in time and warn her seventeen-year-old self:

A mistake like this, you’ll never get away from it. It will mark you, brand you. A petty crime is one thing, but joining the Destructor? You? Don’t you know what this is going to do to your future?

The trouble was, the seventeen-year-old always replied, What makes you think I have a future?

She couldn’t remember what that had been like, wanting to seek out Sito, wanting to join him. Rather, she didn’t want to. She’d been a different person eight years ago. But the memories were still there.

She’d only put one foot inside the entrance of the eastside bar when a man with greasy hair and a scuffed leather coat put his arm in front of her, stopping her.

“Hey, baby, I’ll take you home. I got the cash.”

“I’m not a hooker,” Celia stated, frowning. He could possibly be forgiven for making the mistake. She didn’t even know if it was a mistake. She wasn’t for sale to him, and that was what mattered. She wore a short-short leather miniskirt, black stockings, high-heeled sandals, and a lace camisole. Clothing bought in secret and hidden at the bottom of her dresser drawer. Someday, she’d always told herself, she’d put on the outfit, walk out of the penthouse, turn into someone no one would recognize, and never look back.

She hunched inside her bomber jacket, glaring up with narrowed eyes. Something about her manner made the guy back off, even though she was half his size. If he’d wanted to press the point, there wasn’t much she could do.

It was all about attitude.

The smell overwhelmed her. Sour beer, sweat, the press of bodies. The place was popular. Tough-looking guys crowded around a pair of pool tables. No music played, only the rumble of voices talking low, punctuated by a few barks of laughter and a few calls for the waitress. This was a place to do business. That was why the guy had stopped her. There were other women around, dressed a lot like her. More vinyl, maybe, and more hairspray. Older women, worn around the edges.

She’d had to do research to find this place, looking through newspaper articles and public record arrest and investigation reports. She’d told the guys at the police station she was doing a report for school on law enforcement, and since she was Celia West, they ruffled her hair and said how proud her folks must be that she was following in their footsteps.

It was all worth it, because she found out that one of the Destructor’s informants set up shop at this bar. He was one of the guys who recruited for jobs, served as eyes and ears on the street. He might have been one of the guys who helped lure her to the park and the Destructor’s clutches last year. Whatever. Didn’t matter. He’d know how to get in touch with the Destructor.

Again, attitude got her through the bar to the back room. Gazes followed her, sizing her up, judging her, but no one stopped her. She walked with a purpose, and they could see that. They were supposed to assume she belonged there.

The back room held four booths. In one, a couple of bored-looking women—innocuously dressed in jeans and blouses, compared to some of the other outfits in the bar—sat quietly, tracing their fingers through the moisture on filled tumblers. Small groups of two or three people sat at the others, bodies hunched over tables. The volume of voices was lower here, the talk more urgent.

In the farthest table to the right, a blond man, middle-aged, with a weathered face and slicked-back hair, seemed to be lecturing a couple of younger men who sat across from him. He pointed his finger at them, raised his brow, and the men shrank back. Middle-management of the crime world dressing down hired muscle.

Keeping to the wall, Celia made her way to that side of the room. She stared at him until he looked up, and she caught his gaze. Polite at heart, she stood across from his booth, just out of earshot, and waited for him to finish his business.

He waved the two heavies away. They looked her up and down as they passed by, but she ignored them.

She moved to the booth, but didn’t sit down. She wanted to be taller than him; she would have been lost sitting in the big vinyl seat. Her hip touched the table as she turned to him.

“Are you Ares?”

He smiled a wide, fake, cattish smile. “What can I do for you, honey?”

“I want to see the Destructor,” she said.

His smile froze, like he hadn’t heard her or didn’t believe her. “What makes you think I can help you do that?”

“You hire his goons. I need to talk to him. You can pass on the message.”

Finally, the smile fell. He put his elbows on the table. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing. I don’t know what your story is, but you don’t want to mess with that. You look like a sweet kid, so why don’t you just go home?”

“Tell the Destructor his favorite hostage wants to see him.” Her face felt numb, impassive. No expression.

Ares straightened. Celia felt a little surge of pride, because he obviously didn’t know what to do with her. She’d said the right thing. She could handle herself. Let them underestimate her, and she’d walk all over them.

“I’ll pass on the message,” he said finally. “Have a seat. I’ll send over a soda for you.”

“I’ll have a scotch,” she said.

“I don’t think so.” Grinning, he stood up, smoothed his cream-colored jacket, and went through a door at the side of the room.

Sitting in the booth, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She could do this. She had to do this.

An hour later, Celia was still there, a glass of soda in front of her, untouched, the ice melting. Ares came through the same side door. She spotted him as soon as it opened.

He put a hand on the table in front of her. “There’s a car waiting for you around back. It’ll take you to him.”