“Small mercies,” she said, and shifted back to normal.
They continued through the gallery. Fatima’s art was so different when she wasn’t under the influence of Tony’s poison. It was still weird and surreal, but much more imaginative, much more alive.
Fatima, herself, was standing on the other side of the room surrounded by a swarm of admirers who hung on her every word. She was wearing a shiny black dress, sleeveless to show off her guns, and looked perfectly at home among the rich and trendy.
“She hasn’t lost a step,” Tony Solomon said. He was leaning against the wall between two paintings (Angela was pretty sure that was against the rules). “It’s almost like the past twelve years never even happened.”
“What happened to her can’t be swept away so easily,” Angela said. “She may be better now, but she lost a huge chunk of her life and she’ll never get it back.”
“Well, not unless you’ve got time travel in your little bag of tricks,” he said.
“That would be too easy,” Angela replied.
“Good answer,” he said. “Maybe there is hope for you.”
Angela rolled her eyes and glanced over at Fatima.
“So what are you going to do?” Angela asked. “Tell her the truth, or play dumb?”
“Whichever one doesn’t get me thrown out a window, probably,” Tony replied. “Though on second thought, that might be fun.”
“Just try not to get blood on the paintings,” Angela said.
“I make no promises,” he said, and strolled over to Fatima.
“What was that all about?” Genesis asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Angela replied.
Leigh bounded over to Angela from across the room, decked out in her usual black hoodie and bubblegum pink hair. Carey followed behind her, looking rather dapper in a three-piece suit. Leigh tucked a wad of bills into her pocket and smiled.