Infected: Lesser Evils (36 page)

What was there to say to that? So he said nothing, and searched his pockets for any pills. He found a couple, and when he was sure Holden wasn’t looking, he dry swallowed them.

By the time Holden dropped him off at the Magnolia place he currently called home, the pain had ebbed to a dull roar. The house was dark and he knew Dylan was upstairs asleep, because he caught his scent still in the air. He must have come home within the hour.

Roan glanced at the only clock in the house with a readable time on it, and wondered how it had got so late. It hadn’t taken that long to beat those guys up and get Katie out of there. Maybe it was the drive.

As for the clock, it was designed as a fishbowl, and the minute hand was a goldfish that made the slowest rotation in history, with the hour hand the type of underwater castle you see in a goldfish bowl. There were no numbers, merely lines, but he could still figure out what time it was. In the living room was a huge clock the size of a hubcap, shaped like a starburst. Did it have any hour markings of any kind? No. It had hour and minute hands that pointed at nothing; you were supposed to guess the time by position. He wasn’t an idiot—he didn’t like to think of himself as an idiot, at any rate—but he found it impossible to read that fucking clock. What was the point of it? It didn’t even look that good as an objet d’art.

Staying in this expensive, archly decorated house seemed to emphasize the differences between him and Dylan. Roan knew his lower middle-class roots were showing in the fact that he found this house almost appalling on several different levels, while Dylan just shrugged and chalked it up to different tastes. But as different as he and Dyl were, he thought this was a good thing. They had separate lives, they weren’t in each other’s business all the time, they had different interests and time apart, all of which was good. Roan didn’t know how couples who were together all the time ever made it. You needed your own space. Just because you were married (or civil partnered, or whatever the fuck you wanted to call it) didn’t instantly turn you into conjoined twins.

Roan took a shower in the absurd downstairs bathroom (this house had three, all overly decorated, and large enough to be spacious living rooms), washing away any lingering traces of blood (okay, only he could smell them and barely, but why take the chance), wondering what was so wrong with him that he wanted to take a sledgehammer to this place—because he was sure you could feed all the homeless of Seattle for a year if you sold the furniture? Actually, you could probably feed Tacoma’s homeless as well. And why even have it? The couches were ugly! And uncomfortable. The ninety-dollar one he’d picked up at a thrift shop was comfortable enough to sleep on, and didn’t look like a drunken leprechaun had thrown up psychedelic mushrooms on it.

Oh shit, was he turning into some bitter old queen? (In his mind, he could hear Dee snort and say, “Turning? Try have been and get back to me.”) Bitter, cynical… vicious. That trafficker who took a shot at Holden was dead. Maybe not this second, but he would be. There was no way you could use a man’s skull to shatter a sink and not kill him. Roan didn’t feel bad about it—he was selling the girl; she had simply been one in a series—but he thought he should. He was hardening, becoming more of a predator by the day. Or was that a convenient excuse?

Roan went upstairs, to the insanely large master bedroom with its round bed (ludicrous—who had a round mattress, and most importantly, why? Even Dylan admitted he had no idea how they ever bought the sheets for the thing), where Dylan was curled up on one side of the spacious bed. He remembered how the bed was all white when they first moved in—white sheets, white blankets, white shams, whatever those were. (Both he and Dylan found that weird. “We’re just not all-white people,” Dylan had said, and Roan ran a hand through his hair and replied, “Speak for yourself. If I was any whiter, I’d be translucent.”) In a spare bedroom closet, Dylan had found a comforter that was a very gay shade of lilac, but at least it was a color, so he moved it to this bedroom and was currently huddled beneath it. Roan crawled into bed carefully, so as not to wake him up.

His eyes were adjusted to the dark, so he could see Dylan’s shoulder, the delicate latticework of bones beneath taut olive skin, and he carefully traced the scapula with his fingertip.

They were a relationship of two different worlds. But it wasn’t the divide people expected. It wasn’t that Dyl was an artist and he wasn’t, or that Dylan was younger than him, or that he was Hispanic and Roan was clearly a whiter shade of pale, or even that Roan was infected and he wasn’t.

It was that Dylan was totally Human, and he wasn’t. He wondered if that would ultimately tear them apart.

W
HEN
his bladder finally forced him awake, Roan found himself confronted with the punishing, bright accusation of the sun, streaming through the gauzy white curtains like a stream of curses. He squinted and grumbled as he made his way to the bathroom, which was all white marble and gold-colored fixtures, and it took Roan a moment to realize what was wrong: the birds. At home, he could hear the birds chirping sometimes very loudly, as if they were right above his head. Here, the landscaping kept them in the ornamental trees some distance from the house, and perhaps the building materials also kept the outside sounds muted. It was a shame, as he actually had gotten used to the noise of birds and wind and branches scraping and slapping against the side of the house. He was a city boy and he knew it, so he had no idea why those sounds made him feel better.

Since it was such a sunny, pretty day, he decided to just go ahead and stay in bed with the covers pulled up. Roan felt more accustomed to rain, fog, and gloom. Still, he smelled toast, and wasn’t surprised when the door opened and Dylan came in, eating toast and carrying a mug of tea. “So, when were you gonna tell me about the video?”

Roan sighed as he pulled the sheet off his face. “When I found the right moment. I never did.”

Ultimately, he had compromised with Bolt, and while it didn’t involve him compromising on personal principals, Roan still felt dirty. He’d shot a quick video that would be on Divine Transformation’s web page and in general on YouTube. It wasn’t much really, just a statement of intent: he would resist any registry, and encouraged any and all infected to do the same. He doubted they’d arrest them all, but he kind of hoped they’d try, because then the registry would be revealed for what it was. Roan encouraged them to all stand together, and promised them, the infected viewing audience, that he would fight this as long as he could. There was nothing radical on it, nothing saying he loved the Church or even liked them, it was simply a statement of fact. One that might get him investigated by the FBI, but fuck it. Playing it safe didn’t appeal to him.

He sat up as Dylan sat on the edge of the bed and offered his tea and toast to him, possibly because he thought Roan might have a hangover. He didn’t, but he was starving, so he accepted them with a nod and helped himself to a bite and a gulp. The toast was at least sourdough, and the tea some weird green tea-berry combination that was actually pleasant. “So are you leaving me?” Roan asked between bites of toast, mostly just curious.

“No. I must say you sounded very reasonable. I have no idea why some people are losing their shit over it.”

“Because I am encouraging the armed rebellion of infecteds against the normals. It’s the apocalypse, and I’m God or Satan, depending on who you ask.”

“I missed the armed part.”

“I think it’s implied, me being me and all.”

“I see.”

Roan set the tea down on the end table, and put a hand on Dylan’s naked back. He was wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, pale blue with white and red snowflakes on them, and Roan found himself once again entranced by the long, lean line of his spine. “I’m just gonna apologize now for all the shit that’s gonna come ’cause of this, okay?”

It was Dylan’s turn to sigh. “You do realize if you start doing that, you’ll have to keep doin’ it forever.”

“Oh, I know. Thanks for not killing me before now.”

Dylan glanced at him over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “I married the gay
Die Hard
. What did I expect? I have no one to blame but myself.”

“Did you just compare me to Bruce Willis? I’m insulted.”

He patted his thigh comfortingly. “I meant the character, not the actor. We all know you’re better looking. Even with all the ink.”

“Hey, some of this is yours.”

“The best, yes.”

“That’s right, hon, embrace humility. Speaking of which, how’d the show go last night?”

He seemed to perk up at the very mention. “Pretty well. I sold a few paintings, and someone wants me to do something on commission. Normally I don’t do that kind of thing, but I was intrigued, so I took his number. I figure if I don’t like the idea, I can just back out.”

“His number? Are you sure someone wasn’t just trying to pick you up?”

Dylan smirked at him. He liked it when Roan showed a little jealousy. “He wasn’t my type. Oh, and a couple of people wanted to buy the photo montage of you. I turned them down, because how could I part with that? It’ll be nice to have a reminder of when you had a rockin’ bod after you get all old and saggy.” He was now grinning like a smartass at him.

“Old and saggy? You bastard,” Roan said, and pounced on him, pinning him down to the bed as Dyl laughed. There was something curious about that joke, though—old and saggy. Infecteds didn’t live long enough to get old and saggy, unless they were infected at an advanced age. But since his infection was weird and his body seemed to be adapting to things he never should have been able to adapt to, maybe he did have a shot at becoming old. What would that be like?

It suddenly occurred to him that he never really contemplated the future. He simply lived for the now, because he assumed that was all he had left. Maybe that wasn’t true anymore. How weird would that be? Should it cause him to feel a brief spasm of pure dread? “I will never be old and saggy,” Roan proclaimed, with sarcastic vanity. “I will be beautiful forever.”

“Wouldn’t that require you being beautiful now?” Dylan retorted, smiling.

“Asshole.” He then tickled his ribs, knowing he was ticklish and hated that. Dylan bucked under him, laughing even as he grabbed his wrists and rolled over, pinning Roan beneath his body.

He liked the weight of him, the feeling of his skin against his skin, and Dylan seemed to be aware of that. His smile became playful and sensuous, and Roan returned it to him before they kissed, with the odd sensation of stubble scraping against stubble (neither of them had shaved yet, apparently). Roan’s cell phone, still tucked in the pocket of his jacket on a chair across the room, started to buzz, and since it was right up against the chair’s metal frame, it was hard not to notice. “Ignore it,” Roan said between kisses, wrapping a leg around Dylan’s leg to hold him down. That made Dyl laugh, suggesting he was never even tempted to answer it.

Well, why would he? They had something better to do.

D
YLAN
eventually reminded him that he’d said he’d be into work today, and that Fiona would be waiting, so after a quick shower (he didn’t bother shaving) he headed out.

Roan arrived at the office ten minutes later than usual, but he had a good excuse for being late, although he didn’t need it. After all, he was the boss—who did he answer to?

Fiona was there when he arrived, but so was a stranger. As Roan came in, she stood up, but so did the stranger. “There you are,” she said, giving him a look suggesting she didn’t find his lateness amusing.

“Sorry. Traffic.” He could have told her he was having sex with his husband, but that was too much information. Besides, he knew that when she watched porn—rarely—she preferred gay porn for some reason, and he didn’t want to give her any kind of mind fuel.

She gestured to the stranger, and said, “We had a walk-in.”

“I see.” The walk-in was a boy who looked barely old enough to shave. He was of average height and weight, although tending toward pudgy, a situation not helped by the fact he was wearing two shirts (a long-sleeved black shirt beneath a sleeveless white one) and a coat on top of all that, one of those Army surplus ones in olive drab. He had a floppy haircut, one where his heavy bangs threatened to obscure his eyes, dyed a bottle blond and highlighted with blue and purple streaks. A buckshot of acne highlighted his weak chin, but his pale blue eyes were open and friendly. It looked like he was trying to grow out some stubble, but could only manage a few wispy hairs that were hard to see until you were up close. His mouth was thin and uncertain, like an anxious cartoon character, and as Roan extended a hand toward him, his lips seem to recede further into his face. He looked about fifteen, but the smell of a cologne that wasn’t Axe body spray made Roan push his age up further. “Hello, I’m Roan McKichan.”

He shook his hand limply; his grip was almost nonexistent, and his hand was cold. “I know, I recognize you from your picture. I’m, um, Oliver Jephson.”

“Nice to meet you. Shall we go into my office?” He didn’t ask where he recognized him from, mainly because he was afraid of the answer.

Not waiting for the kid’s response, Roan headed into his office, aware of his phone continuing to hum in his pocket. He’d checked it before he left the house, and discovered it was Seb asking him if he just wanted to make his life harder and cursing him out, showing an uncharacteristic burst of emotion. Maybe because if the registry did become law, it would be Seb who would have to arrest him. He was expecting to get a similar, if more profane, call from Dropkick. It was probably her, so he didn’t answer.

Only when he’d come in and shut the door did Roan see Oliver was carrying a man purse beneath his coat, adding to his bulky appearance. Since he didn’t smell gun oil on him—just cologne, acne cream, detergent, deodorant, and a smidge of body odor—he wasn’t concerned about its contents. “Can I ask how old you are?” Roan asked, taking a seat behind his desk.