I never gointo town if I can help it. And mostly, I can help it. But it turns out, you can't order nicotine patches on Amazon in this state. Wouldn't care too hard if I did die of lung disease—we've all got to go some way—but I guess I could probably, I don't know, smell less like an ashtray.
If it really bothers people.
After my drugstore run, I swing by Luther's condo. The only other reason I've been into town recently, and maybe my least favorite place on planet Earth, save a certain island off the coast of Finland. But it's where his mail gets delivered and so it's where I need to keep an eye out for any correspondence, as promised.
The place is down a side street, a series of tall new builds with gray siding and gray, flat roofs. I hate it. The place is tomb-like and dark and was even when he was alive, but it's not like I'm gonna host a tea party here.
Inside the alcove of the front door, I shove my usual nail file into the brass face of the mailbox and jimmy it open without toomuch trouble. There's probably a key inside somewhere, but this is faster and more melodramatic, so.
There's not much. Somehow, Luther Pendragon managed to be the only human being in America with a mailing address not to get scads of junk mail. A few things that look like bank statements that I stuff in my jacket pocket to look at later, or possibly never, and then one heavy, cream-colored envelope. No return address.
Doesn't need one.
Postmarked France. Addressed in real ink calligraphy.
I swallow, because it's too heavy, heavier than just a letter would be, and wider than what I'm used to getting from the Consistory. A blast of wind carries down the street and spirals into the alcove. I turn up my collar and flip the envelope over to rip it open then and there.
There's no letter inside. No paper at all, actually. Just some thin leather cords and two, flat tokens.
A scapular.
Oh, fuck.
TWENTY-FIVE
KINGSTON
Ten more minuteson the rowing machine, and I'll take a break, I decide. It's been almost an hour and that seems more than sufficient. It's the only kind of cardio I can really stand. If I'm being completely honest: repetitive, stationary, practically mindless, no electricity needed, full body. I pull with my arms, push with my legs, the whirring of the flywheel and the hissing glide of the seat track the only sounds in the salle.
I don't need to bully the others into conditioning, but I need it for myself. I need to be doing...something.
I glance back over my shoulder at the clock. Eight minutes to go. I tense my jaw, suck in a breath, and--
Slam.
A boot catches the front of the seat, right between my legs. The handle is yanked out of my hands and snaps back towards the flywheel, which spins wildly in place.
"What the?—"
I look up, rattled and a little dismayed to see Kai. I grit my teeth, will myself not to roll my eyes. "Can you please not?" I say, panting. "I was almost done, and?—"
"Is this yours?" He shoves something in my face, so fast and sharp I almost think he's going to hit me. I push his hand back so I can see what he's actually holding on to. A necklace? No, not quite. A scapular. I tilt my head at it.
"It is yours, isn't it?" Kai flicks the thing out of view and pulls his leg off the seat. "Ha ha ha. Very funny. Great prank, but honestly, immature for you, Kingston. I'm surprised that you would even?—"
"Wait. Stop," I say, swiping a hand through the air. I drag my wrist over my damp forehead, catching my breath. "What are you talking about?" I swing my legs over the machine and stand up, holding out my hand. "Give me that."
Kai shuts up. He extends his own hand and uncurls his fist, letting the thing dangle once again. I take the two pendants, run my fingers over the corners, shake my head. "It's not mine." I look up into Kai's eyes. "Why do you have this? Why are you even?—"
"Fuck," Kai mutters and rips it away from me. He spins on his heel, walking in a small circle around the gym area. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"Kai," I say, voice raised, "what are you talking about?"
Kai throws his hands in the air, then puts them on his head, shaking it back and forth with disbelief. "I went to town," he says, "pick up some stuff, check the mail. At Luther's. And this was—" He lowers his hand again. "It was in the mail," he says. "Nothing else. Just this."
The sweat on my back goes ice cold. "Give that to me," I say, and for once Kai doesn't argue or make some smart remark. Just hands it over. Now I look at it, really look at it, the design, the inscription. My fingers clench around it like a reflex.
"This is his," I say.
