Skin Deep (Legion 2)

“I learn quickly,” I said. “Physics, math, languages . . . I just need to spend a short time studying, and I can become an expert—via an aspect. Maybe gunplay isn’t different. I studied it, fired a few times at the range, and became an expert. But this skill is different—you can’t help me by talking—so I couldn’t use you properly until I imagined you guiding me. It’s not so different from what Kalyani does in guiding me through a conversation in another language.”

“You’re stretching,” J.C. said. “Why hasn’t this worked for any other skill you’ve tried?”

I didn’t know.

“I’m a Time Ranger,” J.C. said stubbornly.

“If that were true—which it’s not—wouldn’t you be angry at me for grabbing you from your other life and trapping your quantum ghost here?”

“Nah,” J.C. said. “It’s what I signed up for. The creed of the Time Ranger. We have to protect the universe, and for now that means protecting you as best I can.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“Hey,” J.C. interrupted. “Aren’t we tight for time? You should be moving.”

“We can’t do much until morning arrives,” I said, but allowed myself to be moved on from the topic. I waved Tobias over. “Keep everyone working. I’m going to go take a shower and do some reading. After that, we’re hitting the field.”

“Will do,” Tobias said. “And the field team is?”

“Standard,” I said. “You, Ivy, J.C., and . . .” I looked through the room. “And we’ll see who else.”

Tobias gave me a curious look.

“Have the team meet me in the garage, ready to go, at seven thirty.”

9

I turned the cryptography book to text-to-voice, cranked the volume, and set it to 5x speed. The following shower was long and refreshing. I didn’t think about the problem—I just learned.

When I stepped into my bedroom in my bathrobe, I found that Wilson had set out breakfast for me, along with a tall glass of lemonade. I sent him a text, asking him to have the driver prep the SUV—much less conspicuous than taking the limo—for a seven-thirty departure.

I finished the book while eating, then made a call to Elsie, my contact in Homeland Security. I woke her up, unfortunately, but she was still willing to check on the matter for me. I put in a call to the coroner’s office—got the voicemail, but left a message for Liza—and as I was finishing, got a text back from Elsie. I3 was indeed under lockdown, with the CDC investigating and the FBI involved.

I strode into the garage a short time later, dressed and somewhat refreshed, right on time for our departure. There I found Wilson himself—square faced, bifocaled, and graying on top—flicking a speck of something off a chauffeur’s cap, which he proceeded to put on his head.

“Wait,” I said. “Isn’t Thomas supposed to be in this morning?”

“Unfortunately,” Wilson said, “he is not coming to work today. Or ever, apparently, as per his message this morning.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “What happened?”

“You do not recall explaining to him that you were a Satanist, Master Leeds?”

“Two percent Satanist,” I said. “And Xavier is very progressive for a devil-worshiper. He’s never made me sacrifice anything other than imaginary chickens.”

“Yes, well . . .”

I sighed. Another servant lost. “We can call in a driver for the day. We had a long night last night. You don’t need to do work this early.”

“I don’t mind,” Wilson said. “Somebody needs to look out for you, Master Leeds. Did you sleep at all?”

“Uh . . .”

“I see. And did you happen to eat anything at dinner last night before you ended up in the tabloids?”

“The story is out already, is it?”

“Written up in the Mag and posted on Squawker this morning—along with an exposé by Miss Bianca herself. You skipped dinner, and you skipped lunch yesterday as well, insisting that you didn’t want to spoil your appetite for the date.”

More like didn’t want to throw up from nervousness. “No wonder that breakfast tasted so good.” I reached for the door handle to the SUV.

Wilson rested his hand on my arm. “Do not become so preoccupied with saving the world, Master Leeds, that you forget to take care of yourself.” He patted my arm, then climbed into the driver’s seat.

My team waited inside, all but Audrey, who burst into the garage wearing a sweater and a scarf. No other aspect had appeared upon my reading the book; Audrey had gained the knowledge, as she’d expected. I was glad—each new aspect put a strain on me, and I’d rather have old ones learn new things. Though, having Audrey along on the mission could be its own special brand of difficult.

“Audrey,” I said as I opened the door for her, “it’s almost June. A scarf?”

“Well,” she said with a grin, “what good is being imaginary if you can’t ignore the weather?” She threw her scarf dramatically over one shoulder, then piled into the car, elbowing J.C. on her way past.

“If I shoot you, woman,” he growled at her, “it will hurt. My bullets can affect interdimensional matter.”

“Mine can go around corners,” she said. “And make flowers grow.” She settled in between Ivy and Tobias, and didn’t put on her seat belt.

This was going to be an interesting mission.

We pulled out onto the roadway. Morning was upon us, the day bright, and rush hour well under way. I watched out the window, lost in thought for a time, until I noticed J.C. fishing in Ivy’s purse.

“Uh . . .” I said.

“Don’t turn,” J.C. said, batting away Ivy’s hand as she tried to snatch the purse back. He came out with her compact makeup mirror and held it up to glance over his shoulder out the back window, not wanting to present his profile.

“Yeah,” he said, “someone’s probably following us.”

“Probably?” Ivy asked.

“Hard to say for certain,” J.C. said, shifting the mirror. “The car doesn’t have a front license plate.”

“You think it’s her?” I asked. “The assassin?”

“Again,” J.C. said, “no way to tell for certain.”

“Maybe there is a way,” Audrey said, tapping her head and the new knowledge inside of it. “Wanna try some hacking, Steve-O?”

“Hacking?” Ivy said. “As in computer hacking?”

“No, as in coughing,” Audrey said, rolling her eyes. “Here, I’m going to write some instructions for you.”

I watched with curiosity as she scribbled down a list of instructions, then handed them to me. It was imaginary paper—not that I could tell. I took it and read the instructions, then glanced at Audrey.

“Trust me,” Audrey said.

“I only read you one book.”

“It was enough.”

I studied her, then shrugged and got out my phone. Worth a try. Following her instructions, I called up F.I.G, the restaurant where I’d eaten—or, well, ordered food—last night. It rang, and fortunately the breakfast staff was already in. An unfamiliar voice answered, asking, “Hello?”

I followed Audrey’s instructions. “Yeah, hey,” I said. “My wife ate there last night—but we had a family emergency, and she had to run before finishing her food. In fact, she was in such a hurry, she used the business credit card to pay instead of our home one. I was wondering if I could swap the cards.”

“Okay,” the woman on the phone said. “What’s the name?”

“Carol Westminster,” I said, using the alias Zen had used for her reservation.

A few minutes passed. Hopefully the receipts from last night were still handy. Indeed, after shuffling about a moment, the woman came back on the phone. “Okay, what’s the new card name?”

“Which one did she use?”

“It’s a KeyTrust card,” the woman said, starting to sound suspicious. “Ends in 3409.”

“Oh!” I replied. “Well, that’s the right one after all. Thanks anyway.”

/> “Great, thanks.” The woman sounded annoyed as she hung up the phone. I wrote the number down in my pocket notebook.

“You call that hacking?” J.C. said. “What was the point?”

“Wait and see,” Audrey said.

I was already dialing the bank’s credit card fraud prevention number. We continued in the car, taking an exit onto the southbound highway as I listened to holding music. Beside me, J.C. kept an eye on our supposed tail with Ivy’s mirror. He nodded at me. They’d followed us onto the highway.

When I finally got through the menus, holding patterns, and warnings my call might be recorded, I ended up with a nice-sounding man with a Southern accent on the other side of the line. “How can I help you?” he asked.

“I need to report a stolen credit card,” I said. “My wife’s purse got taken from our house last night.”

“All right. Name on the card?”

“Carol Westminster.”

“And the card number?”

“I don’t have it,” I said, trying to sound exasperated. “Did you miss the part about the card being lost?”

“Sir, you just need to look online—”

“I tried! All I can see are the last four digits.”

“You need to—”

“Someone could be spending my money right now,” I cut in. “Do we have time for this?”

“Sir, you have fraud protection.”