look of terror on Grace’s face told me she had no more idea what to say than I. “That’s right. Grace Roberts. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“No need to be so formal,” said Aunt Emelia. “I’ll take a look at your foot once you’re settled in. I’m looking forward to a family dinner. I’ve been waiting to embarrass him with some of these pictures for years.” She looked over to me, a smug smile on her face.
I hadn’t panicked like that since the time six meat-skins ambushed me on the way home from the dentist.
To my absolute relief, Aunt Emelia took Grace’s bag and turned back toward the house. “Come on in, young lady. I want to check Brynn’s stitching and what kind of mess he’s made of himself this time.”
“Ma’am,” Grace called, “if you don’t mind, I’m excited about translating this. I really can’t wait to get working.”
Emelia stopped short. She turned and crossed her arms until Grace looked away. “I haven’t been ‘ma’am’ in nearly thirty years, and if you call me anything but ‘Aunt Emelia’ you and I will have cross words. There will be enough time for work later, now get inside and get you some tea.”
And more than anything, I wished Grace had been right. That we were going to a survival camp where the worst things were broken glass, rabid dogs, and rattlesnakes. Inside that house, I wasn’t Brynner Carson, celebrated BSI hero. Or even Brynner Carson, son of Heinrich Carson. I was just Brynner, or boy.
I’d rather have taken on snakes, dogs, and glass.
We passed through the front door, into Emelia’s formal living room. As a child, I never dared set foot in it. The cushions on the couch were always placed just so, the curtains drawn and tied. Even as an adult, I shuddered when Grace stepped onto the carpet in her shoes.
“Shoes by the door,” I whispered. I kicked off my boots and set them together, then tiptoed through the living room into the kitchen.
Emelia emerged from it, shoving a tall glass of sun tea at me. “Sit.”
Grace stepped on the heels of her shoes to take them off, but otherwise didn’t move.
“Sit,” said my aunt.
Grace looked at her clothes, covered in bloodstains, and back to the immaculate couches. “I’m sorry, I was called up from Portland and all my—”
Emelia cut her off. “You didn’t get time to pack? You poor thing.” She waved Grace along after her, and turned down the hall. “Shower is this way. I’ll wash your clothes and find you something to wear. Those BSI folks would work you to death. Let’s see that foot of yours as well.”
I couldn’t relax until I left the living room.
In the kitchen, chilled air from the vents made goose bumps ripple across my skin. I opened the fridge and took out a bowl of grapes. Ten years on, and Emelia still kept them in the same place.
“I didn’t know if you’d actually come. Maggie said you were on your way.” Aunt Emelia’s voice startled me, making my adrenaline race.
“I didn’t get much choice.”
She nodded. “I hoped you’d come home to see us.”
“I always meant to. I’ve just been busy. Meat-skins everywhere. Too many of them, not enough of me.”
Aunt Emelia leaned over, looking at my chest. “Grace’s foot is bruised, not broken. Now, I hear you got yourself busted up bad in Greece. You want to tell me about it or just show me the wounds?”
I’d seen this routine more times than I could count, growing up. I knew better than to argue.
She pulled out a kitchen chair and turned on the lights. “Come on, boy. Off.” Aunt Emelia disappeared, replaced by Dr. Emelia Homer.
I knew, from years of trying, better than to fight with Dr. Homer. I peeled off my shirt, struggling to slide the sleeves down.
With practiced ease, she ripped off the tape, taking half my chest hair with it. “Boy, what did you tangle with?”
“Re-Animus.”
She looked at me like I’d tried and failed to lie. “I know that. What was it riding in at the time?”
“An investment banker, I think. At least, as best we could tell. As soon as it knew I was there, it tried to butcher me like a chicken. It was collecting victims, using a brothel as a front.”
“And the bullets didn’t work?”
Her tone said it was a trap. One I’d heard her try to spring on Dad throughout my youth. “You know me. Bullets aren’t really my style.”