Aftermath - Ann Aguirre [120]
With a faint sigh, I turn to him. He’s rung for entry to my quarters. Mikhail’s does not offer luxury accommodations, but that’s fine. Right now I just want privacy. Not from Vel, of course. We’ve shared too much for me to shut him out. So I summarize what Carvati told me.
“You feel apart,” he guesses. “Something other.”
I nod. “No longer human.”
“I know what that is like.”
I suppose he does. Not Ithtorian, but instead he’s the deadly, terrifying Slider of legend. Maybe he’s the only one who can even approach understanding how I feel. It’s time, before we leave, to close the circle. So I do the one thing I can think of to make sure Vel understands he’s not alone. He hasn’t been himself since our arrival on Gehenna, probably haunted with memories of Adele, and I hate seeing him this way. Though I know nothing can assuage her loss, I’m still going to make a tangible effort.
“During the war, you said that you’d wear my colors if I asked.”
“I remember.”
“And I did ask.” After I saved him from impalement, I asked as a promise and an affirmation that we’d survive. I’m not sorry, either. I haven’t had a chance to reiterate the request, but this seems like the time.
It’s not like a marriage; that much, I know for sure. But it’s a promise, and though Kai might not understand because he was opposed to promises—he was all about personal freedom, and usually, so am I—but I know this is the right thing. Vel needs to know he’s not alone, and he never will be. And honestly, right now, I need that, too. It feels as though all familiar things have fallen away while I glanced over my shoulder for the briefest instant, and I need someone to swear he’ll stand by me.
Maybe I’ve always known it’d be Vel since that day in the Teresengi Basin.
“I wondered if you would mention it, once we returned to civilization. This is permanent,” he adds softly. “I will never have these marks removed.”
“Neither will I.” I touch my throat, tracing with one fingertip the pattern he designed, and his aspect gentles.
To formalize my intentions, I bend with my arms tucked against my body in the most eloquent wa I can offer. Brown bird flies for white wave, always. Take my heart as your colors.
Vel freezes, studying me, as though wondering if I understand, if I mean it. And then slowly, he returns the bow. White wave knows no greater honor, no greater joy. Your colors are my heart.
“Are you certain?” He asks because he must. Vel is nothing if not cautious.
“I’m sure. Is it something we can have done here?” Gehenna is a place of wonders, contraband, vice, and unexpected beauty. But I don’t know if the tattooists on world are conversant with this type of marking. I wouldn’t have his chitin marred by someone inexperienced in the art.
“I know a place,” he says.
“Then let’s go.”
He leads me down from my room to the street, where we hail a hover cab; Vel keys the destination on the pad, and it takes us deep into the heart of the market. A few meters below, the passersby swarm along the walkways. Gehenna has limited air traffic inside the dome, only public vehicles and those who can afford the exorbitant license fees, which leaves most of the populace afoot.
The automated vehicle lets us off outside a one-story building; it’s built of some dark alloy. No windows and not even a sign to tell what kind of business goes on within. I certainly wouldn’t approach on my own, but Vel seems sure as he moves toward the door.
He presses the arrival button on the comm, and momentarily, a face appears on the vid screen. “Tat or piercing?”
“Exotic ink,” he replies.
“You have payment in full?” I can see why that would be a concern in a business like this one. You don’t want to produce a lovely work, then discover the client can’t afford it. Repo is tricky in this particular market.
“Of course.”
“I’ll buzz you in.”
It’s brighter and cleaner inside than I expected, given the general dreariness of the exterior. I follow Vel down a well-lit