The Demon’s Surrender

It was therefore a complete mystery to her why she took a detour through the side gate, went over, and tapped on the car window.

Alan used one hand to subtly go for his gun and the other to keep his page, then actually looked at her and sent the window whirring down.

“What are you doing here?” Sin demanded, and was horrified by the words coming out of her mouth.

“Picking my baby brother up from school,” Alan told her, sounding faintly puzzled that she would ask something so obvious.

“Well, he’s in detention,” Sin said in what she hoped was a more reasonable voice. “Word is he tried to kill someone with a paintbrush.”

“Little scamp,” Alan said. “Well, boys will be boys. Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

Offended dignity said not in a million years, but Sin had a lot more practicality than pride.

“If you could drive me to my sister’s school, that’d be great,” she said, going around the car and climbing into the passenger seat.

“Happy to,” said Alan, and started the car engine.

She gave him directions, and he turned a corner through the estate by her school and toward Acton town without comment, obviously already familiar enough with the geography of this part of London. Market people always had to know where they were going, and be able to get there fast when they had to.

Sin was not planning on reaching out and being turned down again, so she turned her face away from Alan and watched the buildings go by, gray towers changing to tan-colored Victorian buildings and back again.

“I wanted to talk to you about last night,” said Alan.

Horror and embarrassment sent a burning-hot flash flood through Sin’s veins. But it would be absolutely unacceptable for Alan to know he had inspired those feelings, and since she was a performer, goddamn it, Sin laughed and said lightly, “Really? You have to know it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yes, I know that,” Alan said, his voice very mild. “But we’re going to be working together for some time. I’d like for us to get on better than we have done in the past. God knows that wouldn’t be hard.”

He doesn’t think much of you.

“Sounds good!” Sin responded, forcing herself to sound a bit incredulous about all the fuss Alan was making instead of desperate for the conversation to be over.

“I had fun at the Market last night,” Alan continued. “A lot more fun than I usually have.”

Until Sin had thrown herself at him. Yes, she understood perfectly. What she didn’t understand was why Alan had to talk so much.

“I just wanted to let you know that I understand,” Alan told her. “And I don’t want you to be embarrassed, or to think I took anything in a different way than it was meant.”

“I wasn’t embarrassed,” Sin said. “I don’t care enough about your opinion of me to be embarrassed.”

“All right.”

There was silence for a moment, during which Sin tried to work out if Alan’s response had sounded faintly incredulous or simply indifferent. It was too hot in the car, the air-conditioning obviously not working right, autumnal sunlight flooding through the windows and filling the car with trapped heat. Sin sent a swift glance toward Alan, not under her eyelashes, because guys noticed that and she always meant them to, but sidelong and carefully casual.

He was wearing two shirts, which was ridiculous considering the sun but which he always did, and looking at the road ahead, lashes bright fringes over his dark blue eyes. She looked away almost immediately.

“Just so we’re clear,” Alan said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Okay, Alan, I get it,” Sin snapped.

“As long as you’re still planning to teach me how to shoot a bow and arrow,” he continued calmly. “I mean, I do feel you kind of owe me that.”

“What?” Sin asked, and was so startled she found herself laughing.

“Well, I sang at the Market and everything,” Alan reminded her. “I’m a diffident guy. I had terrible stage fright.”

“I’m not familiar with the concept of ‘stage fright.’”

“It’s pretty awful,” Alan said solemnly. “You end up having to picture the entire audience in their underwear. Phyllis was in that audience, you know.”

“Why, Alan, I had no idea your tastes ran that way.”

“Phyllis is a very nice lady,” he said. “And I do not consider her so much aged as matured, like a fine wine. But I still think you owe me an archery lesson.”

These brothers were her allies, were the Market’s allies, and Alan was right: It would be better for them all to get along. She’d had more fun with Alan than she would’ve expected last night, before being turned down flat.

She wasn’t about to ruin any chance of them reaching an understanding because of being rejected. Lots of people weren’t attracted to her. Merris, obviously. Phyllis, with any luck. If she ever went insane and assaulted Matthias in a frenzy of lust, he would probably run away, shrieking, Your singing voice is nasal! Unclean, unclean!

Alan had saved her brother. She’d judged him wrongly on more occasions than she cared to count at this point, but she felt pretty confident she was right about this judgment: He was worth knowing.

And he was right. It wasn’t like getting along better than they had before would be much of a challenge.