We take a corner too fast as I’m scrambling into the front seat. My forehead smacks into the passenger-side window just as a car screeches to a stop inches in front of my face. I don’t even have time for the rush of adrenaline to hit before we’re taking off toward Back Bay.
It’s not until we’re safely in Mass Ave traffic that the driver finally speaks.
“Seat belt” is all they say.
I fumble for the belt. “Well, hello to you too. And what are you doing in Boston?”
They keep their eyes on the road and tighten their jaw, responding with a single grunt. This is
CJ
Empath, designated muscle-slash-wheelman, and eleven-times-great-grandchild of the Titan Melinoë. And yes, this should mean they’re part of the Phantoms. But they’re not the biggest fan of their family, so they ran away at thirteen, found their way into my parents’ crew by fifteen, and immediately became best friends with my brother.
“New haircut?” I ask.
CJ doesn’t say anything, just grips the wheel tighter.
They look much better than the last time I saw them a few months ago. There are streaks of blond through their auburn hair, swirled into a single curl at the top of their head, the sides freshly shaved. They’re wearing a leather jacket with a rainbowTheysbianpin fastened to the lapel. That’s a good sign. Dante gave it to them, and I haven’t seen them wear it since he died.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “I know I said I wouldn’t do another job by myself, but I’m a compulsive liar. So, really, it’s on you for believing me.”
They only grunt in response.
CJ knows I’ve been running jobs, but they don’t know what for. Or what kind of jobs. If they knew I was staking out syndicates, they would lose it. If they knew I was going into the Afterlife without an alchemist? There’s a chance they would send me there for real.
“Uh…how did you find me?” I ask delicately.
They don’t respond.
I’ve long suspected they’ve got some kind of tracking spell on me, and I’d be angry, except it’s saved my ass a couple of times.
Or maybe they just used Find My Friends.
At any rate, they’re the only member of the crew I’m still in contact with, and I have a hunch it’s because they promised my brother to keep an eye on me.
That and my sparkling personality.
We head down Mass Ave, the Boston skyscrapers growing smaller in the rearview mirror. The passing streetlights strobe CJ’s tight expression. Downturned mouth, squinted eyes. That’s normal. There’s a tic in their jaw, though, that only shows up when they’re trying not to feel other people’s emotions.
As a descendant of Melinoë, CJ has magic in their bones. Even if they’d never been to the Afterlife, they’d still have their abilities, because like every Titan, Melinoë has passed on her magic to her progeny. The magic in this case being telepathy, or—like with CJ—telepathic-adjacent abilities, including telempathy. By rights, they should be able to influence emotion as well as read it, but they never try. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t irritated. I’d kill for even the tiniest bit of magic, while here’s CJ, ignoring and resenting their power.
I mentally catalog my current emotions. Excitement. Relief. Nostalgia. That little bit of ever-present guilt I try to ignore.
It’s probably the nostalgia that’s irritating CJ right now. Not thatthey’re a fan of really any emotion, but they don’t like thinking about the past. They rarely bring up their childhood. Or their time with the crew. Or even Dante.
I sigh and look out the window. “Can’t make much of a getaway in Boston traffic,” I mutter.
They throw me a quick glance. “Hmm.”
I have to admit, they’re right: I’m the reason we’re stuck in traffic in the first place. If I’d been smarter, I would have chosen a moritory in the suburbs.
Dante would have chosen a moritory in the suburbs.
Dante wouldn’t have needed to do this job to begin with.
“Look, it was a quick job. I had it under control—”
CJ doesn’t interrupt me per se, but a skeptical aura ofoh, really?is rolling off them in waves.
