Gensomaden Saiyuki Fan Fiction ❯ Suite on Rte. 86 ❯ Dust ( Chapter 3 )

Dust

Kiran means dust or thread or sunlight. I knew = it was his name even before I set eyes on him, pulled him squirming and balling fr= om the vat in that sterile room. I knew it back when he was just another annoy= ing voice whispering at the back of my skull. I know his brother's name, too, though that doesn't matter. The monkey probably won't get it right anyway.<= br>
They are wrapped around each other in their bunk like they are every morning and half the time besides. Kiran feigns sleep. = His twin's dull eyes track my movements mindlessly. They never really sleep, or eat, and at first it was a trial getting him to understand that I needed to sometimes. By now he's gotten very good at pretending. He thinks he has me fooled but I can always tell when his attention is on me.

They need a haircut, especially Kiran. Last tim= e I tried, I only got the front of his head before he ran off. I should make Br= an do it this time.

Speaking of Bran, where the hell is he? I wanted to be on the road hours ag= o. I pace the cab for the umpteenth time. Sometimes I really wish I smoked. Fina= lly, I open the door, squinting against the morning sun and the chill, dry breez= e. There is a tall, longhaired man lounging against the Oldsmobile, feet ringed with cigarette butts. Bran's dark head is lolling against the passenger's s= ide window, eyes shut, glasses askew. I swear under = my breath. I expected this kind of irresponsibility from the succubus but not = from Bran. Who knows how long it will be until he wakes up.

A slow grin spreads across its face as it watches me. I realize I've been standing in the doorway fuming silently for some minutes.

"Good morning, Miss Jordan!" chirps Kiran, waving from around my legs.

The dumbfounded look on its face is almost satisfying, until I remember who= se fault it is that we haven't left yet. If I believed in God I'd be thanking = him- or her- that neither of them project. It's bad enough with the kid mutterin= g in the back of my skull every time he gets excited.

"Can you drive?" I growl at it.

"Sure." Its male voice is deep, cocksure. Gra= ting.

"Good. We're leaving."

I slam back into the camper, the twins scrambling out of my way. The old box groans into life, and I pull it back onto the road. Ki= ran is waving to someone out the back window, making faces against the glass. It must be following us. I indulge in a long-suffering sigh.


The roads out here are so straight I practically don't have to steer, the l= and a hypnotic cadence of identical dun hills stair-stepping up out of the plai= ns. It's a silent place, baked hard and unwelcoming under the pitiless sun. The= re are few people, more dead than living, and not many others. Not much to hav= e to listen to other than what I'm hauling around in the back. It's featureless = in a way that makes everything want to move on.

The color of the dirt reminds me of the fossilized 70's curtains that had b= een left in my shop when I took it over. I think back on pleasant hours of read= ing my paper in the dusty, varnish-scented interior, chasing teenagers out with= a venomous glare or my broom. Dibrova's thugs pro= bably trashed it when they came looking for them. Not that I'd been enjoying it m= uch by the end, what with Bran off who-knows-where and some stupid monkey blubbering to himself in the back of my mind. Fi= nding Feng Long on his desk, cold face half-bruised with the blood settled there, entrails spread across his paperwork.

Regret is a useless emotion.

Kiran has been too quiet for the past few hours= . He hasn't been projecting anything but that doesn't mean he's being good. I ju= st know when I go back there it will be a god-awful mess. I'm putting it off. = My stomach growls a little, reminding me I haven't eaten since the can of soup= I split with Bran last night. I pick at the ancient bagel sitting on the other seat, but it's rock hard, inedible.

The Oldmobile pulls up along side the camper, t= hat demon smirking up at me from the passenger's side window. All I can see of = Bran is his hand on its leather-clad thigh. How can it stand wearing leather pan= ts in this heat? This miserable crate has no A/C. The hot air coming in the windows prickles in my sweaty, close-cropped hair. Bran pulls around me and takes the next exit, following the signs to a concrete-bound row of chain restaurants and gas stations. I follow him into a plaza and gather my wits = to scold the monkey for whatever he's done to the back.

But Kiran is simply lying tangled with his brot= her, whispering to him, as if they haven't moved since this morning. Brother's enormous yellow eyes are fixed on him. Focused. I frown at them, then at the dingy seats, tiny counter and cracked paneling. = I go outside.


Bran is annoyingly nonchalant. Only he would have the balls to disappear for weeks 'misleading' our pursuers, come back with a succubus in tow, sleep= with it, and then pretend like nothing was amiss. Bastard's always been like this.

The camper throws off barely enough shade to contain the three of us. We ne= ed groceries, and gas, and I'm running low on money. I tell Bran we need to st= art selling some of the things we brought with us, but the demon swears it can triple whatever we give it.

"How?" I ask it.

"A professional never reveals his secrets."

Bran adds, "Poker."

I resist the urge to bury my face in my palms.

"Come on," I snap at Bran, "Have your pet watch the kids.&qu= ot;

I duck the demon's swing, but it manages to get a hold of my shirt. The whi= sper lingers in my ear even after Bran pulls us apart.

"Jealous?"


The grocery store feels odd until I realize the ceilings are too low. It mu= st have been something else at one time. Bran pushes the cart around, searching for the canned goods.

"They've gotten big," he starts.

"They still don't eat or sleep." I tell him.

"You're not feeling unusually tired or picking up anything odd around them?"

I shake my head. "No. Nothing."

His eyes narrow as he thinks of something that amuses him.

"You know, they'll be hitting puberty in a couple of weeks."

When I'm done swearing, I ask, "Shouldn't their growth rate start slow= ing down? They'll be dead in a year or two if they keep aging like this."<= br>
"A true homunculus shouldn't grow at all."

Paper towels are on sale. I grab two roles.

"You'll have to look at the research. I can't even tell what language = it's in. Something European."

"Curiouser and curiouser," he murmurs.


If that demon doesn't stop hitting on me I swear I'll kill it. Bran's busy = with the notes, forgetting even the cigarette left smoldering between his finger= s. It's gotten bored with trying to get his attention. My thoughts go to the revolver secreted under the driver's seat. Maybe a few well-placed bullets = will improve my evening. My trigger finger twitches.

Bran says, abruptly, "Jordan, you can take the car."

Maybe I'll spare him.

The incubus smiles and dips his hand into Bran's pocket. He turns his face = into its kiss. I flick my paper higher, focus on an article.

"What are they doing?" Kiran asks.
I cover his eyes and don't let him go until the screen door slams.

"It's Romanian, unless I miss my guess."

I lower the paper slightly and raise my eyebrows to show I'm listening. Pag= e B3 is too heavily crayoned to be legible.

"I can't read much of it, but the figures are interesting in and of themselves," he continues, "Our guesses were close. But-"

"But?" I prompt.

"There's still nothing that would explain Kiran</= span>."


It's very late when the Olds returns. Bran rises at its familiar rattle and goes outside. Through my open window I can hear them talking quietly. The s= oft cadence of their conversation and the familiar scent of tobacco lull me unt= il-

"When I was 8, I killed my little sister."

I roll my eyes. This again.

"What?"

"She was always tagging along, annoying me. We were on top of the jung= le gym. I pushed her. She fell."

There is a silence in which I imagine them balanced against the car, hands touching lightly.

"It was an accident," Jordan says.

"No. Because I- For one second I really wanted her to die. And she did." His voice drops lower. "My parents put me up for adoption."

"And that's when you met him?"

He doesn't reply.

"Are all prophecies self-fulfilling?" she asks him, a challenge i= n a whisper. And then she says something that might be "Once, I killed a m= an with my bare hands."

If they say more it is too quiet for me to hear. A car door opens and shuts= .


The next morning, she hands me a wad of cash.

"More than tripled it," she smirks.

"I didn't give you any money."

"I took it from your wallet."

"Do you know how much your balls would be worth on the black market?&q= uot; I growl.

I have to suppress my smirk as her eyes widen. She whirls on Bran. "That's the kind of business you bastards were in?"

"Actually," he says, benign smile sharpening to an edge when he l= ooks at me, "we mostly dealt in books and antiques. And information."<= br>
"Just like you to keep your lovers in the dark," I murmur.

"Just like you to keep your friends at arm's length," he shoots b= ack.

Jordan</= st1:country-region> looks back and forth between us, caught between amusement and indignation. Finally, she plucks her cigarettes from the table and stomps outside.

The kids stir in their bunk.

Bran hands me a plate of scrambled eggs.

"We know each other far too well," he says.