Good As Dead

Chapter Three

It's Wednesday morning and I'm not looking forward to bio class. Or anything else. The hospice nurse came by yesterday. She wouldn't reveal how much time Gran has left—they never do—but the careful look on her face gave me a good clue. She did say that when I turn eighteen in a few days, we can start the process of transferring power of health for Gran over to me. It'll make things easier when the end draws near and decisions about artificial feeding and pain treatment need to be made. I called Maria last night, but could only leave a message for her. I hope she gets it. I hope she responds to it.

The annoying sound of my sneakers squeaking against the hallway floor adds to my bad mood. It always smells like cleaning solution and plastic in here, making it impossible to get away from the fact I'm in just another part of a hospice community. As if school isn't shitty enough. Some days, I can't wait to get out of this fucking place.

When I turn the corner to the hallway where the bio lab is, whispers and giggles hit me like a spell. I stop short, surprise filtering through my moping. I'm here early, expecting to talk with Elliot before bio starts. What I'm not expecting is at least half the class already here and waiting to get inside. Sneakers scuff against the floor as everyone crowds close together, maneuvering heads, arms, and shoulders for a glimpse through the small window of the closed door to the lab. I hang back until I realize no one in the group sports pink hair.

Elliot's nowhere around, but I recognize a nearby sports jersey standing out in the pile of bodies. The Dinas Devils, #52. I move closer to bump elbows with Pilar, second basewoman for her old school's softball team and someone I've done a few labs with. "What happened? Someone die in there or something?"

She gives me a friendly smirk, but it's her brother, Jesse, who answers. "Finals are Friday, remember? Nothing to do until then, so they brought in inkers to give a lecture."

My interest grows. I've heard about them—agents of an international magictech organization called INKtech. They're top-notch, dealing in bio-thaumaturgical stuff way more intense and complicated than witch magic. So what are they doing here in Mercywing, twenty-five miles from the nearest town and isolated as hell? They usually work with governments and law enforcement on jobs needing specialized magictech, situations that are one step removed from the capers found in spy fic.

"Are they from Glimmer?" I say, figuring there must be an INKtech branch in that city. And it's only fifty miles away, so maybe the hospice director coaxed a government buddy into luring a few rookie inkers over here to show off.

"The Kingdom," says a voice, drifting out from the pile of leaning bodies.

That's further than fifty miles. That's more like five thousand. A few heads shift from the window, but not enough to let me see in. Rising on my toes doesn't help, either. "Oh. So it's just a couple of old guys that want tea instead of coffee?"

Pilar laughs. "One's old, yeah. The other is pretty damn fine."

Jesse's tall enough that he can peer over her head to look in. "Eh. Not my type."

She scoffs. "You have a type?"

He replies in Spanish, and Pilar laughs. When she catches my uncertain glance, she says, "Sorry, Nina. Forgot you can't understand. He said if he does, it's not uptight white guys."

"Look, there's some of his ink!" a voice hisses, and the entire group surges forward, pulling away from me.

When it becomes obvious I won't see anything else, I move to the other side of the hallway and drop my backpack to lean against the wall. A glance at the nearest clock shows I have ten more minutes to wait and listen to excited whispers. So I do, occasionally checking down the hallway, half-hoping and half-dreading to see Laci slouching toward me. It never happens.