Kat Richardson: Underground

“Sometimes I’m not in the position of saying ‘That’s not my responsibility,’ Will. I can’t arbitrarily stop at the legal limit and ignore what’s morally right. Come on… you were at the final hearing—the guy was a whack-job. Should I have let him get away to kill those other people?”

I could tell he was trying to find a way to say yes without sounding like a jerk. I can be selfish, but not that much, and I didn’t want to hear that I should be, so I tried to redirect the conversation. “Would you get me the fivepound hand weights off the rack?”

Will sighed and went to fetch the two small rubber-coated barbells. I admired his bright silver hair and his lanky frame as he loped across the room, but I still found myself heaving an exasperated sigh of my own. Where we once struck sparks, it seemed we could now only strike prickles. It didn’t help that I could see his frustration with me—it radiated around him in spikes of orange and red energy visible to my Grey-sensitive sight.

I couldn’t shut the Grey out anymore; the best I could do was keep it enough at bay to know what was physically present to normal people and what wasn’t—I didn’t want to fall over real objects to avoid unreal ones. As a result, the gym looked to me like a steamroom haunted by layers of history and gleaming with a light show of neon energy and emotional sparks. I paid no attention to a bloated specter that lurked near the pull-up bars, but I also refused to use them.

The ghostly world was always with me and it was yet another chafing veil between me and Will—him so normal and me so… not. I’d tried to tear through some of those layers over the holidays, but it only made me seem crazy, which increased the distance between us. Neither of us were happy with that and unhappiness had soured into an abrasive that chafed Will into wrongheaded prying and me into silent resentment.

Will returned with the hand weights and I started doing slow lateral lifts to rebuild the muscles of my injured shoulder. I did the other arm as well, figuring I might as well get my moneys worth out of the gym time. It wasn’t as convenient as running, but it was more comprehensive—and seeing all those trim and toned gym rats plucked at my competitive side and reminded me of my athletic past.

Maybe Will was more in touch with the Grey than I’d credited and had picked up on my thoughts. As he watched me work out, he said, “If you keep this up, you could go back to dancing professionally.”

“Too old,” I said, panting between lifts.

“You’re thirty-two.”

I puffed and put the weights down for a short rest between sets. “For a pro dancer, thirty’s old. Thirty-five is ancient and forty is the walking dead.

Baryshnikov and Hines might have been able to dance in their fifties, but they danced continuously from the age of nine. I started younger, but I quit when I was twenty-four. I never wanted to make a career of it and I’ve only kept up my moves as an amateur.”

“You could teach…”

I glared at him. “Will. Let it go. I worked hard to be good at my job—the job I chose to do—and I’m not going to give it up over a few injuries and freaks.”

I picked up the weights again and started on my last set. Any exhilaration I felt from working out had burned off under the heat of my growing irritation.

Leaving professional dance was no loss to me: I’d hated it. It had been my mother’s dream forced upon me from the time I was little. Useful but not beloved, and I didn’t miss the pain, the paranoia, or the dieting.

“I’m not asking you to change jobs—”

“No. You’re hinting that I should.” Breathe, Harper, nice and slow, I reminded myself—it kept both my temper and the Grey in check enough that I could keep going. “You get me as I am or you don’t get me at all.” I finished my set and took the weights back to the rack. I didn’t even limp, which was my consolation prize, I guess, since the day itself was starting out so crappy.

Will stayed where he was and watched me. I knew he didn’t like that I’d been hurt and I knew he was confused as to why I’d want to stay in a business that had suddenly turned violent after years of routine. He didn’t understand all the strangeness that collected around me. How was I supposed to explain that I didn’t have a choice about it? That it was better for me to stay in my job, where I had the autonomy and skills to maintain my independence and keep at least some of the Grey things in line, than to end up a pawn—or dead—by some monsters whim? And I liked my job, damn it—most of the time.

I walked back to Will and looked up at him. “I have to shower and get to work.”

I schooled myself and waited. I didn’t want to upset him, no matter how irritated I was. It wasn’t his fault. Was it?

“Mm,” Will grumbled.

“Hey, at least its safe and boring—just a bunch of witness backgrounds for Nanette Grover and some financials.” I put my arm around his waist and turned toward the locker rooms. I hoped he’d take the gesture as a sign of truce, even though I wasn’t feeling very peaceable. At least I was trying.

“Yeah… I have to do some work, too.” Will laid his arm over my shoulders, careful not to put any weight on the dicey one, and walked with me.

At the doors he stopped and turned, putting both arms around me in a loose hug, looking down from his six-foot-plus height and making me feel delicate. The overhead lights glared off his eyeglass lenses. “Maybe we could get together for a late lunch?” he asked.

I pasted on a smile. “OK.”

He leaned down and kissed me. “I’ll come by your office about… two?”

“Two’s good. I’ll see you then.”

“I’ll call you when I’m close.” He kissed me again, squeezed a little, and stepped back. I turned away, feeling odd, and went to shower.

I washed and dressed and headed out to my old Land Rover to drive to my office in Pioneer Square, thinking about the strangeness. The rhythm of our relationship hadn’t ever been truly on beat—we’d always had some personal concern between us or some distance keeping us apart. The togetherness that I’d hoped would put us in sync didn’t seem to be doing anything of the kind. It was like trying to dance samba while the band was playing “Dixie”—you can almost do it, but it’s uncomfortable as hell and you look like an idiot.

On the drive, there was ice on every horizontal surface. The roads were mostly dry enough to negotiate during the day, but inside my parking garage, the floors were slick. I had to place my feet with care as I walked from the Rover to the sidewalk.

It didn’t help that Pioneer Square is the most haunted area of Seattle, and the ice hid under a silver fog of ghosts and memory. I walked flat-footed and slowly and made it to the doors of my office building.

I considered using the elevator and giving my knee a break, but I still don’t feel quite comfortable around the old-fashioned lifts since I was killed with one. Double gates and polished brass give me the creeps now. I walked up and was grateful to sit down in my desk chair once I reached it. Some days the climb is nothing to my bum knee, but with the cold, it seemed much worse. Even my shoulder was twinging a bit. Between the physical discomforts and the emotional ones, I was glad to have work to distract me and I plunged into it.

I didn’t notice the time so, when someone tapped on my door, I assumed it was Will and called out, “Come in!” without looking up. My cell phone buzzed on my hip as the alarm went off, telling me the door was open. I turned it off and looked up, smiling, faking a bit more enthusiasm than I felt, and then frowning with surprise.

Quinton put his backpack on the floor and shot me a crippled grin. Like Will, I’d met Quinton when my world changed. Since he’d discreetly and quietly installed the office alarm, he’d become my regular go-to guy for anything electronic, especially if it was odd or hush-hush. A little secretive, quirky, distinctly geeky, he fit well with my own taciturn nature and we’d been instant friends—and unlike with Will, I didn’t have to hide the creepy stuff from him. Now he stood just inside the doorway and looked as if he wasn’t sure of his welcome.