Page 15 of Snag
The rain has increased enough to leave small pools of water on the weathered back steps. Ignoring my continued confusion over the general neglectful upkeep of the property, I hike up my silk skirt so I don’t trip over it for the dash through the rain from the back of the house toward the barn.
The rig that Gigi parked behind the barn is now in the driveway, leaving Coda’s sleek trailer all but hidden from view between the barn and the orchard. Though the still-winter-bare apple and pear trees don’t offer much protection.
I assume the truck is a rental and needs to be returned. Which means Coda and Gigi are planning on staying. For a while, at least. And oddly, that pleases me. Comforts me?
I usually don’t like people in my space.
But how much of that individualistic behavior might have been tied to what’s been stolen from me?
I skirt the shiny black-metal cargo container, looking for the entrance. A single satellite dish is affixed to the top, and two more have been set up on the peak of the barn. I have no doubt there are more, or will soon be more, that I can’t see from this low angle.
Coda has put Rought to work rather efficiently.
I find a door about a third of the way along. But it’s high enough off the ground, the container still set on the wheeled trailer, that I have to strain to reach the handle. The door swings open outwardly easily enough when unlatched, but with nothing to step on, my skirt is going to be —
Rought appears in the doorway. Reaching down for me, he effortlessly swings me up into his arms. His energy instantly wraps around me, and I shamelessly cling to that, to his warmth, even though I haven’t been outside long enough to get truly chilled.
I also haven’t been away from him long enough to miss his presence quite as much as I obviously am.
“Close the door,” Coda snaps from somewhere deeper inside.
When we first met in Belize— or rather, when we rescued each other from the mercenaries hunting the awry tech— Coda’s accent hinted at Latin American origins. But after all these years, it’s a more neutral North American now. Even as the political landscape on this continent tends to keep Coda elsewhere as much as possible. With the essence they wield over tech and the digital realm, Coda can work from anywhere and still reach every part of the world they wish to reach.
Between the Authority and the Federation, North America isn’t that friendly to awry. It isn’t that friendly to other unaffiliated essence-wielders in general, thoughthere are pockets where the awry and those with essence are protected and nurtured. At least as much as that’s possible when those without the ability to wield essence, aka the nulls, vastly outnumber us, and power-hungry individuals or organizations hunt us.
The Phrontistery Academies are one such pocket. Fortified by generations of protection — both financially and literally — the academies’ primary objective is to nurture talent.
Which is exactly why that’s where I should send Precious. With DeVille.
Rought, still holding me tucked firmly against him, reaches out with his free arm and yanks the door closed behind me, shutting out most of the light.
For a moment, before my eyes adjust to the low ambient light emanating from all the tech lining the walls and the low lighting around Coda’s workstation situated at the far end of the container, we’re sheltered within that sudden darkness.
I shove back my unsettling thoughts about sending Presh away. I will if that’s what’s best for her. But it’s … too soon. Too soon to make any other significant changes. For either of us.
Rought runs his hand down my back, fingertips lightly caressing my spine through my hand-knit sweater. I burrow closer to him, then press a kiss just under his jaw as if it’s a tiny secret I’m sharing with him.
He palms the back of my head, angling to press his own kiss to my lips. I breathe him in, reminding myself — a little shakily — that it’s okay, even if just for a moment, to be this dependent on another person. It’s okay that his presence steadies me. After all, that is his purpose according to theuniverse. Or it was before those threads of fate were stripped from us.
Who am I to argue with or deny what the universe wove for our souls?
“Fuck off,” Coda grouses, startling me even though the awry tech’s essence permeates the darkened space.
A quick glance in their direction confirms they aren’t talking to me or about us.
“Fuck the fuck right off!” Coda snarls, fingers tapping harshly on their keyboards.
Only three of the dozen screens surrounding Coda’s main workspace appear to be working properly. The others glitch occasionally as Coda’s fingers continue to fly over the three keyboards set on a narrow desk— if ‘keyboard’ is still the correct terminology for the custom-built tech the awry hacker has rigged to their extensive systems. One of the boards appears to be cobbled together from old mechanical keyboards — the central one, which glows a soft lilac and clacks with each touch of Coda’s fingers. But the other two are sleek, with nary a letter or symbol on any of their buttons. Keys? Pads? Trackpads?
I really have no idea what I’m looking at.
“Might need to get a dish on top of the main house,” Rought says helpfully. His voice rumbles through his chest, warming me in places that really have no reason to be warm. Certainly not while in the heart of Coda’s command center.
“Is it the intersection point?” I ask.
Coda flinches, then spins around in their chair to glare at me as if they didn’t sense my presence when I entered. Possibly owing to the set of black headphones they wear, though one cup is skewed behind the tech’s ear. With their purple eyes darkened by black-rimmed, blue-tinted glasses, the tech appears paler than usual. Tall but slim, verging onskinny, and with chestnut-brown hair long enough to brush their jawline. And badly in need of a shampoo. “What the fuck, Zaya!?”
“Hey!” Rought reprimands the tech.
