In the Wind: Out of the Box, Book 2 (27 page)

“He could probably drown you if he had to, yeah,” I say. “But he won’t.” I glance back at Father Emmanuel, who gives me a nod of deference. “He’s not that kind of guy.”

“No,” Anselmo agrees, still staggered. “Because you cannot stop me. Because you are weak. You are not even a man.” He waves at my genitalia this time, then grabs his own. “You have nothing. I said it before, and I will say it again: I am invincible. I am a god—urk!”

It’s at this moment that what I’ve been stalling for arrives, a streak out of the sky that smashes into him, seizing him by the back of the neck and slamming him into the concrete. I’m just a non-god, non-invincible guy, but it looks like it hurts to me.

“Hi, invincible,” says the lady who’s on his back like a bullrider, clenching an iron grip on his neck. “I’m Sienna, and I’m about to change your name to vincible.” She squeezes him tighter, and I see him blanch with the pain. “Also, if you piss me off, I’ll change your voice for you,
capische
?” She looks at me a little self-consciously. “They say that in Italy, right?”

I almost faint from exhaustion and the relief of seeing her arrive and take matters in hand. One hand, actually. “Took you long enough to get here.”

“Hey,” she says, a little crossly, “I fly plane-free all the way across the Atlantic for this level of gratitude? I’m cold, you know.” She slams Anselmo’s head into the concrete decking, and it makes an impression. I can see his eyes rolling as her power works on him. “Also, Yellowknife, Canada, to Minneapolis? Not a warm flight, either. Next time you have an emergency, do it in Aruba or something, will you?” She slams him down again, and I can tell by her demeanor she knows he’s unconscious.

She stands up and stretches, dropping the annoyed act. “How you holding up, brother?”

I stare at Anselmo’s unconscious body, then back to Diana, who looks jaded, and Emmanuel, who just looks relieved. “Fine now,” I say, and I mean it. “Just fine.”

The plane meets us in Florence for the prisoner transfer a few hours later. All our orders come through Ariadne via the U.S. State Department. The Italian authorities are being extremely cagey, apparently not wanting anything to do with me or, by extension, us. Which is fine by me, since answering questions from police officers is not exactly something I’m excited about, in Italian or any other language.

Sienna and I take alternating turns guarding the prisoners at Anselmo’s house, with the help of Diana and Emmanuel. By the time our plane arrives, we’re all pretty exhausted and ready to bind the bastards up with every meta-restraining countermeasure available. We ride in enervated silence in the back of a van, with Carabinieri cars following en masse at a respectful distance. Dr. Perugini drives.

The whole time we’re waiting, Isabella plays it ultra-cool with me. It takes me a bit to realize that she’s still not happy with my sister. Right. Sometimes I forget that one. I don’t know why; she’s so damned endearing. They’re probably just a little too similar for each other’s tastes.

We’re straight through the perimeter fence onto a runway where our plane awaits. Apparently they don’t even want us passing through security. The plane’s a big beast with military coloring that apparently came from one of our airbases over here. I drag Lorenzo out first, his hands completely shattered by someone (Diana) and a good dozen gunshot wounds that have yet to heal still oozing blood. He’s chained nice and tight with meta-resistant cuffs, but I’m looking forward to seeing what the prisoner transfer unit has in mind for restraining him. J.J. has assured me that the U.S. Government is well-prepared to deal with meta prisoner transfers of this sort. I have my doubts.

They’re proven unfounded. Which, if you think about it, is kind of worrisome.

I secure Lorenzo in an airtight container with atmospheric sensors that are designed to flood the chamber with anesthetizing gas at the slightest change in pressure. As I chain him into the chair, I wonder exactly why the government would have this stuff readily available—and modular—enough to stick on a military aircraft in Italy with minimal notice.

How many units like this must they have around the world?

It looks pretty new, I reflect as I watch a specially trained tech activate the machine. Little computers beep and boop as it powers up, and I stare in at Lorenzo. “Guess it doesn’t really matter who she favored now,” I say, and he looks up at me with a pissy attitude, “since it had pretty much zero bearing on who won our little struggle for dominance.”

“Taunting the prisoners?” Sienna says from behind me. I turn to see her dragging Fintan along with one hand and carrying a still-insensate Anselmo with the other.

“Like you haven’t done worse,” I say.

“Lies,” she says. “I have no prisoners.” She wavers a little, but it’s all a dramatic act. “Okay, well, lately I do. But in my heyday? No prisoners.” She eyes Anselmo. “And if it were up to me, this little gem wouldn’t be walking away.”

“It’s not up to you,” I say calmly, and she shuffles toward the little chambers in the back dedicated to Fintan and Anselmo. She raises an eyebrow at me. “We take ’em alive. Government orders, remember?”

“I’ll let you make the call because it’s your collar,
technically
,” she says, and I feel that itch that comes from my little sister oh-so-subtly rubbing it in that I needed her help to bag Anselmo. Apparently, she can be a little passive-aggressive after all.

Fintan and Anselmo are placed in gelatinous—I’m not even freaking kidding—liquid. I watch Fintan go in up to his neck, his face mashed all to hell (I guess Father Emmanuel gave him a serious what for in St. Peter’s Square). The gel apparently cancels or suppresses metahuman motion to the point where our strength can’t be applied. I watch them both drift for a few minutes, their cuffs still on, and it’s interesting to watch. Anselmo goes in his own container, still not quite awake, which is just as well. I think he and I have said all we need to say to each other at this point.

The liquid runs along their jawline, and their toes barely touch the bottom of the container. I see Fintan try and squat down to see what it gets him. It gets him an eyeful of jelly, which, judging by his reaction, burns. He caterwauls for a while, yelling shit in Irish I don’t really understand. Just another language I don’t get the nuance of. Wait: is Irish a language?

“Prisoners secure,” Sienna says, sighing relief. “We’re ready for takeoff. You might want to say goodbye to your friends, unless they’re coming along.” She makes a kind of shooing gesture, another reflection of how excited she is to be in the company of people, and I take the hint to say my goodbyes.

“Diana,” I say, as she looks around the plane like a caged animal trying to figure out how to break free. There are some other modules besides the ones we brought for the idiots three, and I get the sense she’s going to be a lot happier once she’s out of here. “Thanks for all the help.”

She’s stiff, but she manages a nod. “It was … good to be back in the righteous cause again. It was a good fight.” She looks me up and down. “I will sleep well tonight, I think—and Giuseppe will rest in peace.” Then she grabs me by the front of my shirt and kisses me full on, with savagery. I think two things: number one, I hope Isabella doesn’t see this. Two: I don’t dare return it, I just play dead and hope she leaves eventually.

She does stop after a moment, and she pulls clear of me. “I’m not sure what that has to do with Giuseppe,” I say.

The green eyes flash. “Next time, maybe,” she says, and I feel like territory that someone just marked, like I’ve just been doused by the female version of Anselmo.

Bonus thought: Muscle control. Mine is totally dedicated to keeping from peeing myself at the idea of what that woman would do to me in a bedroom. Yikes.

I make my way back to where Father Emmanuel is lingering just next to the rear cargo door. I watch Diana go past him with barely a nod, and he catches my eye.

“Father,” I say, and shake his hand when it’s proffered. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he says.

I don’t need a detailed explanation of what he’s thanking me for; I’m kind of afraid to know, actually. “You’re welcome,” I say instead. “I’m just glad you decided to join us.”

“I am just glad that you reminded me that a good man and holy man are not necessarily the same thing,” he says. With a last nod, he heads down to the tarmac.

I glance back as I climb down the ramp. Sienna is milling around up near the front of the plane, staring at the crosshatched decking like it looks familiar or something. She’s got the prisoners safely under watch, so I don’t even feel bad for ducking outside for a minute. I’m even happier she can’t watch me at the moment.

I make my way over to Isabella, who’s waiting by the van, watching me coolly, her arms crossed in front of her, dark hair blowing lightly in the wind. Her sunglasses are impenetrable, and the fact that she’s wearing a skirt in this weather suggests she’s at least a little acclimated to Minneapolis at this point. And she looks very good in said skirt, I might add.

“Thanks for waiting,” I say as I lean against the van next to her. She doesn’t look over at me, still playing it cool.

“I’m going to stay with family over here for a few days,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Would you tell Ariadne I’ll be back to work next week?”

“I can do that,” I say, wondering if she’s just going to give me a message and say not a thing more. She hasn’t really spoken to me since our conversation on the train, after all. “Have you … thought about what I said at all?”

She looks sidelong at me, the glasses maybe defraying 20% of what looks like aggravation. “Have you thought about thanking me for coming over here and helping you with your very obvious problems?”

“I’ve thought about it,” I say slyly, “but I’m afraid it’ll lose something in the translation.” Using my meta speed, I quickly kiss her before she can get her argument out.

It sort of works. She frowns at me. “Did you kiss someone else?”

“No,” I say a little darkly, “but Diana tried to cram her tongue down my throat. Unsuccessfully, I might add.”

She still frowns. “And then you try and kiss me?”

That gives me pause. “More successfully, I might hope?” Lots of uncertainty.

She narrows her eyes. “You are young.” She shakes her head. “This was my concern when we started. I am … over fifteen years older than you.” I sense she’s maybe being a little cagey on the actual number; she’d have seen my file and know the specifics in my case.

“Well,” I say, “I did just have a woman a little older than you—by several thousand years—try and kiss me with a little more enthusiasm than you exhibited just now, so I would take the lesson of experience there if I were you.”

She glares at me, and the glasses, they do nothing to hide it. “You are so very terrible at this. So very terrible.”

“I’m … young,” I say, and it sounds like a flimsy excuse to me. “I’m … lacking experience.”

She looks at me skeptically. “Not that I could tell. Or are you a gifted amateur?”

“Not there,” I say hurriedly, “I mean … in relationships. I’ve been moving around most of my life, since my dad died. Lived with mom for a while, with grandparents, with found family, sort of … but I didn’t …” I sort of wave my hands like I can’t get it out. “I’m not … experienced like that.”

“You are young,” she says with a nod, and leans back against the van with me. “And blown on the wind, eh? In this way … maybe we are alike.” She looks slightly uncomfortable. “And in relationships, perhaps I am a bit young in experience as well.”

I look over at her. “Really?”

She wavers a bit. “Perhaps it is not obvious, but I have an occasionally off-putting personality.” I can see her looking at me through the glasses, waiting to see my response.

I don’t give her a hint. “Huh. You and I always seem to get along well enough.” That much is true.

She seems to be thinking about it for a minute. “It is possible we could try.” She looks over at me. “When I get back. Perhaps we could … get to know each other. Slowly.”

“I like the sound of that,” I say, giving her a smile.

“Do you?” she asks. “Are you ready for a grown-up relationship?” I sense she’s testing me, poking at me a little, like the thought of being immature would be enough to sting me. But over the last few days, I’ve been called “boy” more times than I can count by a pig who thought it was the epitome of insults. Well, other than calling someone a woman.

I just smile at her, my little insecurity all gone. “I’m willing to change,” I say, and I mean it.

“So that was Janus’s sister?” Sienna asks, letting out a low whistle. She looks exhausted, the bags under her eyes full enough to keep her clothed for a week’s vacation. “Why does she look so good when he looks so damned old?”

“I thought older guys looked sexy?” I ask. We’re in seats in the front of the cargo plane, rattling along. It’s the single roughest damned flight that I’ve ever been on, and the bathroom is—seriously—a curtained off area at the rear of the plane. It smells worse than the can in Giuseppe’s shop. I’m determined to hold it in for the entire trip.

“Ewww,” she says, shaking her head. “Janus is just old, not silver-foxy. He’s like a dad-type.” She hesitates. “Uh … not that I think he looks like Dad.” I can tell by the look on her face she’s uncomfortable; she never even saw our father, after all; she only has old photos to go by. She leans a little closer, and drops her voice so low that it becomes a conspiratorial whisper. “So … you slept with her?”

I blink. “Uhm …”

She nudges me with her shoulder. “Come on. I know you did.”

“Who?” I ask, blinking. “Diana?”

“So,” Sienna says, smiling, “how did it feel, sleeping with one of the wonders of the ancient world?”

I’m pretty flabbergasted, and a little relieved she thinks I slept with Diana, because I doubt Isabella would be happy to hear me discussing what happened between the two of us with her worst enemy. I know my reaction is giving something away, but I’m not sure what. “I, uh …”

The overhead speakers fill the cargo hold with a sudden burst of static. “Say again, Florence tower?” I realize a second later it’s our captain speaking, but he’s not exactly making an in-flight status update. It’s a radio transmission in real-time, and the other party clicks on a second later.