Sebastian: Now I will believe
That there are unicorns.—Shakespeare, The Tempest
Things got sorted out eventually.
Shaughnessy had got there the morning before. She caught me up, following the confusion of our unexpected arrival. Her story spilled out in a run-on stream. "The Lady Woof drifted out a little," she told me. "I was afraid they'd come after me again, but when they were sure they had you and Ariel—" She broke off. "Where is she, Pete? What's happened to her?" She searched my beat-up face, my eyes, looking for something.
"They still have her." I tried to keep my voice steady. "If I can't get her out of there soon, she'll die."
"Ah . . . ." She bit her lower lip. "They might be able to help you here, Pete. They're—"
"Going to war with New York Yeah, I know. Mac told me already. He's part of a scouting team they sent in. I—I got away and came across them. I guess I ought to count my blessings; I don't know what I'd have done if I hadn't found them."
She nodded. "They told me there was a chance you might, if you escaped, but I don't think any of them believed it. I kept my fingers crossed."
"So get on with what happened."
"Well, I waited an hour on the Lady and then swam ashore. She'd only drifted a couple hundred yards." She frowned. "I tried to bring your backpack with me but it was too heavy. Everything got soaked. I'm afraid I had to let it go."
"That's okay. There wasn't anything in it I can't replace. Thanks for trying."
She brightened. "I did manage to save your blowgun, though. I'll give it to you later; it's in my room. Anyway, I hid in a looted jewelry store all night, all next day I tried to find you. I walked around almost all day, but there was no sign of anyone."
"You were lucky."
"So I've been told. Toward the end of the day, though, I ran into Drew Zenoz. He'd just been sent as a scout from here and had found out their increased activity was because of you and Ariel. And because of Malachi. I told him who I was, and about you and Ariel. I wouldn't have thought he'd believe me, but he knew all about it. He'd been told to be on the lookout for you, and to get you to come back here with him if he saw you."
"He knew about us?" I was confused. I had images of this legend of a Boy and His Unicorn working its way north by word of mouth. Bullshit.
Shaughnessy nodded. "I came back with him and told what I knew about you and Ariel to Tom Pert, but he'd already heard."
"But how did—"
She anticipated the question. "About a week ago—" Her eyes went wide. I turned, automatically reaching for Fred. I barely saw a metallic blur, and before I could think I drew Fred and blocked the slash aimed at my head. The sword lowered and its wielder laughed.
I exploded. "You shithead!" I raised my sword. "You think that was funny, then try—Malachi!"
And, for then at least, it seemed everything would be all right.
* * *
I fidgeted in a lecture room within the Smithsonian. Mac had already made his report to Tom Pert and it was being reiterated before the hastily assembled group. Most of the army/commune/whatever was in the room, listening quietly. Mac had been right; there were about four hundred of them. I hadn't seen such a large assembly since before the Change. A baby's wail was punctuated by its mother's shushings. Most everybody looked as if they had been rudely awakened—as, no doubt, they had.
I looked down at my fingers. The wood of the straight-backed chair I sat in pressed against my aching back. Mac's report went on; I heard but didn't listen. I glanced at Malachi Lee, who sat to my right. He wore a dark blue jumpsuit and carried Kaishaku-nin. He was the only person I saw who was armed, excepting Mac and myself, who'd had neither time nor opportunity to remove our weapons. Not that I'd have wanted to.
Old home week had been short lived. There were things that needed doing; these people were readying what was by present standards a large-scale assault and they needed any and all information as soon as it arrived. Even if it meant being roughly shaken awake at two in the morning. Tom Pert had wanted to talk to me, so Shaughnessy had broken off with a promise to provide a more detailed account at her first opportunity. I twisted my neck and saw her sitting four rows back on the left side. She'd found a T-shirt somewhere with an iron-on transfer of a unicorn on it. When she saw me she smiled, waved, and pointed to it. The gesture turned into a heartening thumbs-up. I smiled tiredly and nodded.
"The rest of the party will probably be here tomorrow afternoon at the latest," Mac was saying. "I don't know what the target date for leaving for New York is—"
"Four days from now," supplied Tom Pert.
Mac nodded and continued. "But I figured it was worth the risk of splitting up with the rest in order to get Pete here as soon as I could. Hell, for all I knew I was going to run into you guys on the road, headed my way." A few chuckles. "Most of you know the rest." He stopped. He looked tired. "Questions?"
Tom Pert stood. "It can wait, Mac. We'll shove bamboo shoots under your nails tomorrow. And thanks."
"You'll get my bill."
Tom smiled and began talking to the assembly. I barely heard. My mind was on "record," taking it all down for later.
I became aware of an expectant silence in the lecture room. I looked up sharply. Tom Pert smiled gently at me. "You're on, Pete," he whispered.
I nodded, not understanding. Numbly stood. Stepped forward. Turned around. Panorama of waiting strangers. Mute glance. Malachi Lee, straight-backed, one hand on his sword, face blank. Mac leaning forward, elbows on knees, eyes expectant. I opened my mouth to speak. Something blocked it. I cleared my throat, swallowed, and tried again "I—" There was Shaughnessy, hands gripping the back of the chair in front of her. "I met Ariel . . . a long time ago." Puzzled looks on the faces of strangers. "She . . . her luh, leg was broken."
"Pete." Tom Pert, sotto voce. "You can just tell us what you saw in New York. Malachi's told us the rest."
I shut my eyes. "Her leg was broken! I went to a house and found some wood to make a spuh, splint!" Curious stares. Shaughnessy biting her lower lip, tears blearing her eyes. "I taught her how to speak English. We used to just walk on the roads together, and, and—" The last word heaved out in a great convulsion of my lungs. My eyes burned as everything misted over. Strong hands gripped me as I sobbed, led me down the aisle. My nose dripped on somebody and I wanted to stop, to apologize for getting snot all over them, but I couldn't stop, I could only blubber. I pushed my tongue at the back of my mouth to clear my nose but it was too clogged. My bottom lip quivered. Oh, this is great, this is wonderful, right in front of everybody, Shaughnessy, Malachi Lee . . . . I stumbled and the hands gripped harder, steadying, guiding. "It's all right," said a voice. "He's exhausted, is all. He's been through a lot."
"The fuck you know," I tried to say, but more snot dripped on my forearm. They led me out of the room, through hallways, and finally left me alone in a quiet room. The glow of a single candle refracted through a film of salt tears. Left to myself, I sobbed into the pillow for another minute, and then it cut off. It figured; nobody was around now.
I didn't hear the door open but felt the small breath of air it made when it moved, disturbing the candle.
"Pete?" And Shaughnessy was kneeling beside me, trying to hold me, to stroke my hair, wet at the temples where tears had streaked as I lay on my back. I twisted away from her, cheek muscles tightening, mouth drawing in.
"Pete, it's okay. It's—"
"It is not okay!" I sat up and looked at her through leaden eyes. "That's easy for you to say because I'm here with you, but that doesn't mean a fucking thing to me. You followed me up here. I don't give a damn about you. What I want is in New York, and I'd die to get her back. Don't take it on yourself to replace her, because you don't hold a candle." I drew a deep, shuddering breath. "Now why don't you just leave me the fuck alone?"
She looked at the steady burning of the white candle in its pewter holder. I wanted her to react, to become enraged, or cry, or anything. But there was only a sad, wistful look on her face, in the brown eyes catching the candle glow in twin points of light, cat-like. "All right," she said softly. "If that's what you want."
"That's what I want."
She blinked. Stood. Turned. Reached. Pulled open the door. All measured, precise.
"Bitch," I added before the door closed softly, punctuated by an understated click as the spring-loaded catch slipped into place.
I turned back to my pillow and cried again.
* * *
A knock on the door awakened me next morning. I automatically reached for Fred and was mildly surprised when my fingers clasped the twined handle—somebody had thoughtfully placed my sword by the head of the folding cot. A Malachi Lee touch. The thought elicited a small smile.
A second, softer knock.
"Come in." My tone made it a question.
I'd expected Shaughnessy. Instead, the door opened and a large, red-faced woman came in, pushing a silver tea service. "Room service," she said brightly. Her bright floral summer dress was two shades short of gaudy, but would nevertheless mark her as a tourist almost anywhere she went. Or would have, I should say, before the Change. She stopped the tea service beside the folding cot, where I had propped myself up on one arm. "I'm sorry if I woke you," she said, "but we let you sleep as late as we could."
"What time is it?"
"Just after one." Her face worked itself into a distasteful look. "You can put that thing away. I'm not here to assassinate you."
I felt sheepish. "Oh, look, I—" I returned Fred to its original position against the wall. "Force of habit," I offered in explanation.
"Mmph." She turned and poured steaming water from the sterling silver pitcher into a cup. "Coffee or tea?"
"Excuse me?"
"I said, do you want coffee or tea?"
"Umm—" I wiped my mouth with one hand. "Coffee. Please. Black." She obliged by stirring in a spoonful of instant. I accepted the cup gratefully, blowing on the dark brown liquid at the edge and slurping in loud sips. Its warmth spread through my insides. I paused just long enough to notice her waiting patiently and politely for me to finish. Feeling rude, I raised my cup. "Have some?" I asked, and thought, damn, that sounds awkward! Social nuances were a thing of the past for me; I'd forgotten most of them. But she shook her head. "No, I had more than my share last night. We were all up pretty late talking about you. Mac thinks you can help us."
"What do you think?"
"Like the silver? Thomas Jefferson used it."
I set the cup back onto the stand, three-quarters finished. "You don't trust me," I said, "because Mac found me in New York."
"We've learned not to get our hopes up, that's all." She held one arm at her side, clasped the biceps with her other hand, and walked around the room. I remained quiet, noticing the room for the first time. It had a business desk that had been shoved against the wall by the head of the cot. Sunlight from the window behind it illuminated orange carpeting and mostly empty space. Beside the cot was a small stand, Early American, on which rested the remains of the candle that had melted down to a small puddle of wax during the night. It was an administrative office they'd cleared out. I wondered if they all slept in emptied offices, and decided they didn't. There probably weren't enough to accommodate four hundred-plus people. But the Smithsonian had lots of space, and plenty of rooms full of now-useless memorabilia that could stand being removed—or at least pushed into corners.
The woman turned to face me. "We've spent a lot of time and planning to move against New York. Some of our people have been killed trying to get information to help us, and now you pop up at the last minute, poof! A whiz kid with all the answers—"
"I don't have all the answers."
"But you can still see why a lot of us think it's too good to be true."
I said nothing.
"Do you feel good enough to walk?"
"Sure—" I stopped. "Do I look that bad?"
I saw her looking for a mild way to put it and said, "Never mind. I don't think I want to know. Yeah, I can walk fine. I hurt, but I probably look worse than I feel."
She smiled. "I sure hope so . . . because you look terrible."
I stood suddenly. It hurt a lot. "Okay, where to, coach?"
"Rubber hoses and bright lights, I'm afraid." She saw my blank look. "Our council of war, so to speak. They want to turn you inside out."
"Figured they would, after I blew it last night."
Her look softened. "I guess that was understandable." She opened the door and gestured to the hallway outside.
"Well. 'Lay on, Macduff.'" I followed her through hallways and huge rooms packed with fragments of American history. The few people we met nodded politely—and curiously—toward me, but shot her wide grins and, without exception, a cheerful, "Hi, Mom!"
"What's with the 'Mom' bit?" I asked after the third person had greeted her this way.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, still hurrying her bulk through the maze of hallways. "My name's Maureen Redbone, but everyone here just calls me Mom. Come on, they're waiting."
"Right, Mom." It sounded funny. I hadn't called anybody that since . . . . I suppressed the memory. That's gone now, I thought. A different life. I tagged along behind Momma Redbone.
* * *
A huge pendulum swung before me. It was a top-shaped weight attached to a long cord that disappeared up into the high ceiling. It swung leisurely like God's Own planchette between bright orange highway safety cones arrayed in a twenty-foot circle. Some of the cones had been knocked onto their sides.
"They tell me the earth's rotation keeps it swinging back and forth," Mom told me as we passed it. "It's supposedly been swinging like this for years and years. I always liked to think the nightwatchmen at this place used to stop it at closing time and then give it a push to get it going again before they left."
I laughed, shaking my head slowly. I didn't get it—this thing was proof that some of the laws of physics still applied. In fact, so was the fact that objects fell down when I let them go. How could the Change have been so selective?
Beyond the pendulum, looking as absurdly out of place as the spaceship in the living room toward the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey, was a locomotive. It looked too huge, larger than life in its dark contours. I wondered if it really was oversized or if being indoors just made it appear so. In front of it stood Malachi, Tom Pert, and Mac. Malachi had his sword with him—of course. I felt somewhat reassured; I'd brought Fred.
Mom cleared her throat. "Here you go," she said, voice reverberating in the huge room. "'Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor gloom of night . . . .'"
All three men smiled. "Thanks, Mom," said Tom.
"No trouble a'tall." I had to suppress a smile—this woman ought to bake gingerbread cookies for a living and give them out to little kids. She squeezed my shoulder. "Just go easy on him. He's not as tip top as he'd like us to believe."
I wanted to say aw, shucks. Mom did that to you.
"We'll be gentle," said Mac.
Mom "hmmph"ed and left us. "Neat lady," I said when she had passed the pendulum and was out of hearing range.
"Yes," said Tom. "Her husband was killed by the griffin at our farming community. Mac says he told you about it."
I nodded. There was an uncomfortable pause. "I, uh, I'm sorry about last night."
He waved his big hand. "Don't be. We've all been under a lot of pressure these past few weeks."
"Let's get this over with, Pete," said Malachi. "We've got to rake you over the coals."
My smile was mirthless. "Rake away."
Tom let out a long breath and began. "Between Malachi, Mac, and the young lady—Shaughnessy—we know enough about you to save you a lot of story telling. What we need from you is what happened between the time you set foot in New York and the time you found Mac."
I told them, in as much detail as I could, what had happened, trying not to embellish but to remember exactly what I'd seen. They listened without interruption. When I finished Tom offered me a drink of water from a dark brown canteen set behind him on the sideboard of the locomotive. I accepted gratefully. "Anything else?" I asked, wiping water from my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Tons," said Tom.
And then the interrogation started. Where was the necromancer, exactly? At the top? What floor? Where on the eighty-fifth floor? Could you draw us a map? Could you show us the route you took from the eighty-sixth floor observatory deck to the necromancer's room? Could I draw them a map of the observation deck—the eighty-sixth floor, which I'd landed on atop Shai-tan. What about the strength of their group? Why a thousand? Why not more, or less? Supplies—what sort of arms did you see? How is their food supply holding up in the city—you mentioned their difficulties with loners working away at what they needed to scavenge. How about division of their manpower?
They digested my responses for a few minutes, and then Tom folded his bowling-pin-sized arms and said, "Go over your escape again, Pete. Maybe there's something there. As you said, you shouldn't have got away."
I went over it again, trying not to seem testy. "I don't know if that's any more help," I added after I'd finished. "I still think I got away because they're not well organized and didn't have the manpower to effectively cover something the size of the Empire State Building, as I said before. That, and I was descending, which made it a little easier—for me. I'd say it would be difficult to damn near impossible for us to fight our way up elevator shafts and stairwells. They almost killed me by just tossing bricks down the shafts. Having three hundred people's not going to help; it'd be like shooting fish in a bucket."
We were interrupted by the hollow echo of running feet. The poundings seemed to underscore the Smithsonian as the dead museum it was. He was about my age, I noted as he stopped before us, breathless. "Sorry to interrupt," he panted, "but the rest of Mac's scouting party is back—what's left of it."
"What? What happened?"
"They were ambushed. Walt came in with Esteban tied to the horse in front of him. He's been wounded pretty bad. Walt's okay but he can barely talk, he's so exhausted."
"What about the others?" demanded Mac.
The kid—funny I thought of him as a kid, despite the fact that he was about my age—tightened his mouth and turned palms up helplessly. "Walt says it happened about thirty miles north of here. Everyone else was killed."
"Were they followed?" Tom wanted to know.
"Walt's pretty sure they weren't."
He stopped, thinking. "Send out six people, and make sure they all have bows. Have them retrace Walt's route for twenty miles. Tell them to shoot anything that looks like a scouting party heading for New York. Have them report back to me immediately when they return. And make sure Esteban's getting whatever help we can give him."
"Doc Mundy's working on him now."
"How bad is it?"
"He took an arrow in the chest. Doc says he'll do what he can."
"All right."
I pictured a doctor working frantically and swearing because medicine was nearly a frontier practice again—only hand-powered instruments, a shortage of drugs, no anesthesia save alcohol or ether.
Tom looked thoughtful while the messenger bit his lip and eyed me openly. I stared back, blank-faced.
"Tell Walt I'll see him soon," said Tom.
"Right." He nodded importantly, turned, and trotted away, leaving behind the echoes of his running and one last speculative glance at me. Tom watched him go, then turned back to us. "Christ, I hope they weren't followed. All right, then, gentlemen, we've got to step things up. Unless we can think of a practical way to reach the top, I'm afraid we're going to have to stick to the only plan we've got: fight it out floor by floor, all the way up.
Malachi and Mac said nothing, but I knew what they were thinking: it's literally uphill all the way—and at more than three-to-one odds. We'll be slaughtered.
"Well, obviously we can't use their methods," said Mac. "Pete, you're sure the griffin was their only way up and down?"
I shrugged. "I didn't see anything else. You could go down easily enough by walking down the stairs, but I didn't see another way up besides Shai-tan. I can't think of anything else that might work, except a hot-air balloon, which would be just—wait a minute! You could hang glide!"
They were already shaking their heads. Their expressions were a mix of despair and urgency. "We talked about it," said Tom. "It won't work."
"Why not?"
"Because the only point in Manhattan higher than the Empire State Building is the World Trade Center."
"Right! You could—"
"Let me finish. The World Trade Center is three and a half miles south of the Empire State Building. If you jumped off the top you'd be descending all the way. Oh, you'd probably make it to the Empire State Building—but at best you'd only be halfway up."
"But that still cuts your climbing time in half," I protested. "Plus it gets rid of about eight hundred enemy soldiers below you.
Tom shook his head. "Still no good, Pete, believe me. I've done it a few times. Hang gliders are maneuverable, but they can't dodge arrows—and three hundred people in the air aren't going to take anybody by surprise, no matter how unorganized they might be. And there's nothing to land on halfway up. The sides of the buildings are too smooth. The windows are too small to afford entrance. A small force might work because it might retain the element of surprise—but only if it could come in from above. That means landing where you did—the eighty-sixth floor."
"But—" I shut up, frustrated. He was right.
"Then it's uphill all the way," said Mac.
"Back to square one," said Tom. "No worse off than before." He stood from where he'd been leaning against the locomotive. "Okay, we've all got things to do. I need to see Walt and Esteban. We'll meet here at noon tomorrow and see if any of us has anything new to kick around. Pete, be thinking about your experiences in New York. Maybe you'll think of something else that may help us. As it is you've given us a lot of information we needed."
We broke up and I left with Malachi Lee.
* * *
"I guess we have some catching up to do," I said. We sat on the front steps of the Smithsonian. Fred lay across my thighs. I'd found some duct tape in a maintenance closet and was wrapping the wide, strong, gray stuff around the end of Fred's black scabbard where it had cracked.
White plastic spoon in hand, Malachi scooped beef stroganoff from the paper plate on his palm and pushed it automatically into his mouth. We'd found the food piled in the East Storage Wing. Malachi said they were freeze-dried emergency rations retrieved from underground bomb shelters beneath the government buildings. Tom Pert had led the foraging parties that had stockpiled the preserved foods.
I chewed a bland spoonful from my own plate, waiting for him to reply. When he didn't, I washed it down with warm Tang from a foam cup and tried again. "Of course, you already know most of what happened to me."
He finally looked at me as if just realizing I was there. "What happened to your sword?"
I felt guilty. "I fell down an elevator shaft in the Empire State Building. The scabbard cracked. This is the first chance I've had to repair it." I pulled more tape from the roll. As a saving grace, and because I felt foolish, I added, "The blade's in good shape, though."
"Let's see it." I tried to think his eyes weren't accusing. His gift of that sword had been a trust. I smoothly drew the blade and held it vertically, edge toward me. He took it from me and lay the backside of the blade across his blue-clad left shoulder. He bent his face closer, closed one eye, and sighted down the edge. "Mmm."
Now what the hell did that mean?
He straightened, nodding. Favorably, it seemed. I hoped. "Still straight. A few nicks, but a blade's the better for those." He smiled ruefully. "If you're alive then they were well-earned."
I started to reach for it. He shook his head. "You've tried to clean it but there's still the trace of blood—it smears the tempering pattern. Go ahead and finish fixing your scabbard," he said, not taking his eyes from the slightly dull mirror-metal. "I'll clean your sword." He frowned. "Needs sharpening, too."
His backpack leaned beside him on the dark old steps. He reached into it and began removing things: a black silk rag; two small, milky plastic, thin-nozzled bottles, one with liquid the color of motor oil, the other clear. Both were half full. He moved my sword gently onto one knee and turned it to one side, blade toward him. The twined handle lay in the corner formed where right leg met hip. He squeezed fluid onto the silk rag and began rubbing it onto the blade slowly and methodically. I finished taping the scabbard.
"The night Faust and I left Atlanta," said Malachi abruptly, "there was a wind. I never saw anything like it. It seemed confined to a very small area. Faust kept growling and howling. I kept an eye on him. He kept turning, sniffing the air. He looked as if he wanted to attack something but didn't know where it was. I felt something searching, but I couldn't tell what it was or who it searched for. And then it was gone, as fast as it had come. It headed south; I could see it bending the trees as it went.
"Faust and I kept walking until two in the morning. I slept beneath a tree." He paused. His rubbing ceased. "Faust would always bark when the sun came up. I still don't know why. Some dogs bark at thunder or lightning; he barked at the sunrise." The rubbing resumed. "He was my alarm clock the entire trip. I'd make camp at one a.m. and get up at sunrise. We hunted along the way. Faust ate rabbits."
The black silk was now three-quarters of the way to the tip of the blade. "I thought you'd follow me."
I watched him cleaning the blade, fascinated by the deft movements of his hands, the patience exhibited as he worked one small area and moved on to the next. I blinked, realizing he'd been talking and I'd tuned him out.
"—didn't want to, because a horse would have been too noisy, too conspicuous. Hard to find, hard to feed, hard to get rid of in a hurry. And it would have been hard for Faust to keep up that kind of pace." The rubbing paused once more. "Saw dragon fire in Tennessee and went across some scorched ground. Saw a roc once, in the late afternoon, but it was flying away."
Roc: picture that prehistoric flying reptile, the pterodactyl. Now picture it twenty times bigger and add a taste for fresh meat—whole cows, for instance. You've got it.
"The only incident we had was in Alexandria." I remembered the aftermath of the swordfight that Shaughnessy, Ariel, and I had come across in Alexandria and knew what was coming next. "I got caught sleeping. I usually looked back every few minutes to make sure nothing was headed up the road toward us. I hadn't looked in at least ten minutes. Too much faith in Faust's nose. But they were upwind, and by the time I looked back and saw them they were too close for me to make myself scarce without raising eyebrows. It was all open road, anyhow, and no place to hide—no exit coming up I could pretend to take, just the highway and more streets off of that. I had to let them come up on me. When they were close enough Faust started growling. I hushed him up. I turned around about the time I knew I had to, and there they were. There were four of them, all armed, of course. Their weapons were out and there wasn't going to be any bullshitting; they didn't want to stop and palaver. There was a man with a double-bladed axe, one with a cutlass, another with a rapier, and one with a katana. I drew. Faust crouched down low."
He began rubbing the blade with the clear fluid from the other bottle. The smeared look he'd given the entire blade began to glisten where he rubbed.
"They never said a word. The one with the rapier brought his arm back for a side strike. It was meant to distract me; he was too far away to touch me. The one with the axe swung, hoping I'd shift my eyes, maybe my blade. I crossblocked. I cut through his handle, reversed direction, and took him off at the shoulders.
"Faust got to the one with the cutlass as he lunged for me. Faust went for his throat; I saw what was coming and didn't have time to stop it. He just kept his blade straight and Faust speared himself. I got to him just as Faust was sinking his teeth into his throat. I came down and cut his arm off, but it was too late. I turned and met the thrust of the one with the rapier—the fall of his axe-carrying friend's body had cut him off from me and he'd stumbled over him. I barely caught the thrust—it nicked my arm—and sliced him across the belly. His guts fell out and he landed on them.
"I turned. The last one was standing there. He hadn't moved the entire fight, except to return his sword to the sheath. He looked from the man I'd belly-cut to me. He nodded. I turned around and cut low and the man on the ground stopped moving. I looked back. The remaining man hadn't moved, other than to put his right hand on the handle of his sword. 'I figured,' he said to me, 'that if you got through them you'd be worth it." He told me I was as good as he'd heard I was, but from the way he said it I could tell he thought he was better. I nodded at him and asked if he had a clean rag. He gave me one—this one—" he held up the black silk rag "—and I wiped Kaishaku-nin clean and sheathed it. We stepped away from the bodies and onto the road where there were only a few cars. We bowed—neither of us took our eyes away from the other. When we straightened up he told me his name was Jim D'Arcy and that his sword's name was Migi-no-te. It means 'right hand.' I told him it was a good name and gave him my name and Kaishaku's. After that there wasn't much left to do, so we hit our stances—and started playing mind games. We stared at each other for two or three minutes, waiting for a waver, a blink, a passing bird. Or for the other one to draw." He straightened a wrinkle on the silk rag. "A draw is a committal move. I was going to wait until he began his and counter-draw, trying to beat out his blade on speed alone. You know what my draw's like."
I nodded.
"His was at least as good. His arm twitched and his sword was out, and so was mine. They met halfway. For a second there, while our blades were locked, I saw the surprise in his eyes—and I knew he could see it in mine. I tried to come in over his blade and thrust. He backstepped, batted my blade aside, and almost took my head off in the same motion. No surprise there, though—as soon as our draws had met I'd known he was at least as good as me. I ducked the head slash just in time and brought Kaishaku up, sliding in as I did. Anyone else I'd have cut from hip to opposite shoulder; he just stopped the slash midway and blocked down, then tried to do the same to me. I jumped back and we squared off again, blades pointed at each other's throats. We had already been fighting twice as long as it had just taken me to kill three men—about ten seconds. Once it's actually started and metal begins to swing, ten seconds is a long time for a swordfight."
He was quiet a minute, finishing up one side of Fred. The blade was bright now, like a new dime. He turned it over. Another spot of the clear fluid on the rag, and he resumed speaking as he began to rub. "We circled each other like alleycats, attacking, trying different combinations, counters. It was always the same. No ground yielded on either side. Once, when we were circling, we saw each other—I mean saw each other, our fighting concentration broken—and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was: should we quit? We were both good, had pretty much proven ourselves equal—it would seem a waste if either one of us died. A kind of honor among thieves, a mutual respect, I guess you'd call it. We stopped circling and he and I came out of our stances at the same time. 'I get the feeling one of us will live to regret this,' he said. And he sheathed his blade. I didn't say anything, but I sheathed mine, too. He turned around and walked away. He didn't look back."
He finished cleaning my blade and tossed the rag back into his backpack. "How's that?" he asked.
It took a moment before I realized he meant Fred, which he held before him to catch the fading sunlight. "Um . . . ." I looked at the blade. It was better, a hundred percent better, gleaming like captured moonlight against the daytime sky. "It's better, it's much . . . . Thank you. Thank you very much."
"It still needs sharpening." He pulled a small grinding block from his pack.
"We found the bodies," I said. "And Faust's grave."
He hunched forward and began sharpening Fred, holding it by the handle across both knees. "Hold this for me," he said. I took the handle. He leaned to his right, retrieved the black silk rag, and wrapped it around the blade, holding it with one hand to steady it while sharpening with the other. I tightened my grip so the sword wouldn't move as he worked on it.
I thought of Russ Chaffney, and of Asmodeus. It reminded me of something Malachi had said: if a person's buddy dies, he'll live through it. The pain will subside in a few years, and in maybe ten years he won't even hurt anymore. Faust hadn't been Malachi's buddy; he hadn't been held to him by a loyalty spell—but the relationship between the dog and the man had probably been stronger because of that. He'd lost a friend, and I wondered if his—outward hardness was because he was trying not to let the hurt show.
He stopped grinding the blade with the stone. "Turn the blade over," he ordered. I complied.
"Right after the fight in Alexandria I headed north. I decided to go as directly as possible to New York, cutting across anything that might be in the way. I didn't need to run across more scalp-hunting parties. It turned out to be a good decision; I'd no sooner left the road than Shai-tan and the rider flew overhead. There was a pyramid of sewer pipes not far from me and I hid in one. They landed on an overpass ahead of me and stayed there for about half an hour. The rider looked around with a telescope, then they flew away. I waited another half-hour to be on the safe side. Or as near to it as I ever get. I don't know if he was looking for you and Ariel or me."
"Both, probably. We came close to having a run-in with him in the same place a few days later."
He nodded. "I crawled out of the sewer pipe and headed north. When I came into Washington I was spotted by a road watch—one of about two dozen they have watching the main roads through here. I talked with him a bit. He was friendly but guarded, which made me suspicious—sentries are posted so somebody gets warned. I tried to convince him I was one of the good guys and that I wasn't stupid. I kept at him, trying not to invite any more suspicion. The name Tom Pert came up somehow." He shook his head. "Tom and I were in the Society for Creative Anachronism together."
"The . . .? Those nuts you told me about, the ones who played King Arthur before the Change?"
"Yes. But don't call them nuts. If you ask, you'll find a lot of the people still around were S.C.A. members at some time or another—not a large percentage, certainly, but enough to be noticeable. They had learned medieval combat before it was forced back into being; they were—combatively, at least—ready for the Change before it occurred. Some of them couldn't have been happier when it happened; it was tailor-made for them."
"Like you."
He shrugged. "Tom and I were knighted at the same tournament."
"Tournament?"
He nodded. "We used to make our own armor and go at it with rattan swords. I was one of the few Japanese personas around; most people were European knights. Tom was one of those. Combat was mostly honor system—if somebody hit you a shot that would have put you out of the running had it been real, you were expected to fall down and die. Or lose the use of the limb you'd been hit on."
Apparently my mind didn't work chivalrously. "What if you didn't want to honor his shot?"
"It happened. Tom once fought someone who wouldn't honor his shots. It irritated Tom; he was running circles around the idiot and nothing was being acknowledged. Tom's Society character—we called them personas—was a pre-Arthurian warrior named Beowulf Brassmountain. You can see why." I could indeed—Tom Pert was big. "The guy he was fighting was bigger than him. Tom kept banging away at him, killing him half a dozen times, and he just kept swinging back. Tom called a temporary halt, found an official, and protested. The official asked Tom's opponent why he wasn't honoring shots. Tom's opponent said they weren't hard enough to be counted as killing blows. The official just grinned and told Tom to keep hitting harder, until his opponent had no doubt whatsoever that he was being dealt killing blows. So Tom strides back onto the field, engages his opponent, blocks a slow swing, and gives him a Babe Ruth special on the ribs. Everybody watching heard him gasping for breath, but he stayed up and tried to swing again. So Tom reared back and sent one to the side of his head. The impact went through his helmet and knocked him cold."
I laughed, but not without some bitterness. It must have been fun when all that was for pleasure and not for keeps.
He paused, eyes looking into the distance. It was as close as I ever saw him to nostalgia.
"Anyway," he said, and he was his old self again, "I was taken to him here. I told him everything, he told me everything, and he said that if I'd help him, they might be able to help me. They sent out a few more scouts to New York and Tom told them to be on the lookout for you and Ariel, to mention my name and get you back to Washington if they found you. Mac's team had already been sent when I arrived, so they didn't know about me when you met up with them." He looked up from his sharpening. "We'll do something about Ariel, I promise you—but you better realize something. These people will do what they can for you, but they have other priorities. People they cared for have been killed by those in New York. I have my own reasons for going up against the necromancer and the rider. But I'll do what I can to help you get Ariel back."
* * *
I lay awake in my cot, staring at the dim ceiling. The lone candle burned pitifully a few feet from my head and darkness threatened to engulf the room. I'd lit it from one of the paper-covered Japanese lanterns in the hallway outside my door. After a while it was extinguished by its own build-up of liquid wax and the room was swallowed as if by a great whale.
Whales—there was an unbelievably huge reconstruction of a blue whale on one mammoth wall of the Smithsonian, fully ninety feet long, Nature's biggest and most prideful possession. I had talked a while under it with Tom Pert just before coming to my room. He told me the latest on the ambush of the returning scouting party. Apparently they'd been attacked by a roving band of scavengers. Esteban was dead; Doc Mundy had been unable to stop the bleeding from the arrow wound.
I turned on the stiff cot. So much, so fast. I resolved to go to sleep, as it would bring the day of the march to New York a little closer.
* * *
I unbutton her shirt with trembling hands . . . .
I dreamed it again, more graphic than ever this time. When it ended, another came—a brief image, almost a photograph:
I am in a huge bell jar, and Ariel is on the other side.
* * *
Malachi woke me up at eight a.m. by charging into my room with his sword out and screaming like a homicidal maniac. I had Fred out and ready before he could reach me, and before I was fully awake and knew what the hell was going on. He smiled grudgingly, lowered his sword, backed away, and bowed, indicating the door.
I returned Fred to its sheath and stared at him. "Ah, shit," I finally said. "I wouldn't have got back to sleep anyhow." I used the chamber pot, covered it, and followed him outside. We began limbering up on the dew-soaked grass.
Somebody had made him two wooden swords, or perhaps he'd made them himself. Not a lot to it, really—a yard-long dowel with a circular wooden guard ten inches from one end to prevent smashed fingers. He tossed me one.
He put me through my paces for three solid hours, pressing attacks that took everything I had to block, not giving me time to counter, then easing up and allowing me to work on strategy and technique. About a dozen early risers had gathered around to watch by the time we finished. They maintained a respectful distance. I didn't notice them until we disengaged and Malachi lowered his wooden sword. My concentration relaxed as the sword lowered. I was startled by the staccato of applause. They were making fun . . . . No, they weren't; their applause was sincere. Malachi nodded curtly to me and walked away without a word. I was exhausted, but it felt good. New York had left its mark; I was not in the best shape I'd ever been in.
Hunting up lunch later on, I met Shaughnessy.
"You've been keeping yourself scarce, Pete," she said.
I was conscious of my sweat-soaked body. I probably stank. "I've been busy. There's a war in a few days, you know."
"Yes, I'd noticed."
The cat-and-mouse distance between us irritated me; I didn't feel like playing games. "I, uh, I've got to be going, Shaughnessy. Got to eat and then see some people."
"Will you come see me later? I'm staying in Archives. I've still got your blowgun, remember?" Her face was blank, not matching her tone.
"Will do."
We went our separate ways down the hall.
* * *
I ate lunch on the steps where Malachi and I had talked last evening. A plastic spoon and a paper plate of beans and franks. I could have found something else, I suppose, but I'd grown to miss the little buggers. Someone sat down beside me.
"Mac! How's it going?"
"Hey, Pete. Where were you? You missed the meeting."
"The—oh, shit."
"You didn't miss much. Nobody had any new ideas."
"We're still stuck with fighting all the way up, then, I guess." I snorted. "Mac, that's suicide."
He shook his head. "I don't think so. Neither do Tom and Malachi. If they're as loosely organized as you said, we at least have a fighting chance. It's just going to be a long, drawn-out battle."
"'Just?'"
He spread his hands. "Okay, so it won't be easy. What other choice do we have?" He hesitated. "I don't want to say this, Pete, but it's sort of obvious why you're so anxious that we raid the top."
My fork paused en route to my mouth. Would I use these people like that?
Yes. To get Ariel back, yes. Oh, that's shitty, Pete.
Yeah. I chewed on beans and franks.
"When you finish eating," said Mac, changing the subject, "you want to give me a hand with some stuff?"
I swallowed. "Sure. What do you need?" Why did I get the feeling that everyone was trying to keep me distracted, to keep me occupied instead of dwelling on Ariel? Dammit—I didn't need anyone's sympathy.
"Some help putting together equipment."
I stood. "I'm finished." I walked down the steps and threw the rest of my lunch into a green metal garbage can.
He nodded and rose. "Follow me." We went indoors. He began leading me through the maze of corridors.
"What made you people choose the Smithsonian?" I asked as we walked. "I'd think it would be pretty inconvenient."
"It has disadvantages, sure. But this place is a gold mine. It's full of relics from times when the Change wouldn't have made that big a difference—pioneering days, colonial times. It's loaded with ideas. Just take a random walk through this place and you'd find things right and left that'd help you survive." We stopped in a large chamber. Mannequins were arrayed along the walls, dressed in clothes of bygone days. A black sign with white letters said that they were gowns worn by previous First Ladies. In front of one wall was a long stretch of tables. Almost two dozen people sat at them. As we neared, I saw they were using short lengths of wire, snippers, and pliers to make chain-mail garments. They looked up as we approached. One of them, a short woman with long brown hair and bright blue eyes, stood. "Hi, Mac. Coming to work with us lowly peons?"
He chuckled. "Yeah. Every now and then I like to remember what the low life was like."
"Hmmph." She looked at me, eyes . . . cautious? Something; I couldn't recognize it. Appraising, maybe. "You're the one they brought in from New York," she said. "I saw you at the assembly the other night. Paul, isn't it?"
My heartbeat increased. "Pete." Aw, come on—what was there to feel flustered about?
She looked at Mac expectantly. "Oh," he said, "ah, Pete, this is Terri—Theresa McGee."
"Hi." She smiled at me. "Okay, let's put you two to work. Grab a chair and the stuff you need. You ever make this stuff, Pete?"
"I'll show him how," said Mac.
"I'll show him, Mac. You get busy."
"Sir yes sir!" He grabbed a vacant chair, sat down, and started to work.
"Come on, Pete," said Theresa. "Sit next to me and I'll show you how it's done."
"I'll bet you will," Mac muttered under his breath.
I followed her to the table. We made chain-mail vests for the next three hours. I finished one that had already been started. They were easy to make, but time-consuming: cut off a short length of wire—an inch and a half or so—slip it through a previous ring on the vest, bend it into a circle with the pliers, repeat the whole thing. Turn the mail the way you want it to go and leave holes for arms.
After a while Theresa put down her pliers and looked at me. I didn't really notice until she'd been motionless for almost a minute. I looked at her expectantly. "You need a haircut," she said.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"A haircut," she repeated firmly. "You can't go into battle with your hair that long."
"Oh. Is it a breach of etiquette?"
"It'll get in your way. You want hair in your eyes when someone's trying to take your head off?"
I drew a deep breath. "You have an eloquent way of putting things."
"You need a bath, too."
My cheeks warmed. True, I'd managed to rinse off once since New York, but I hadn't had a real bath since . . . since . . . hell, I couldn't remember the last time. "I suppose," I answered defensively, "that I don't want to smell bad if someone's trying to take my head off, either."
She smiled. "Don't get mad. I was just telling you. I know what you've been through; you've probably been too busy to notice."
I started to ask her how she knew and stopped. Everybody in Washington probably knew by now.
"I'd be glad to give you a haircut, if you'd like."
I looked down at the lengths of wire I'd snipped off and began bending them to form more links. "I . . . . Yeah. Yeah, that'd be nice, thanks." I looked up and smiled. "I can take my own baths, though."
She returned my smile and shrugged. "Can't win 'em all."
Mac appeared very interested in bending wire into links.
My hands were clammy. I tried to busy them in making mail and fumbled with the pliers. Wire fell to the floor. "Shit," I muttered, and picked them up. Theresa seemed not to have noticed, having returned to her own chain-mail vest, almost completed. Across the table and four chairs down, Mac appeared to want to say something, then apparently thought the better of it. We kept working until I had completed one vest and started another. Mac put his tools down and announced that we had to leave.
"I knew it was a token effort," chided Theresa.
"Sorry, hon. We've got other things to do to turn them ol' war machines. Coming, Pete?"
"I—" I glanced at Theresa. "Sure, Mac. Nice meeting you, Theresa."
"Terri."
"McGee," I decided.
"Nice to meet you, too, Pete. I meant what I said about that haircut."
"Okay. I'll . . . be by when Mac's finished with me. How long will we be, Mac?"
"A few hours. Three at the most."
"That's fine," she said. She gave me directions to her room.
* * *
"Where to, Mac?"
He was silent for a minute, leading us back outside the Smithsonian. "Horses," he finally said. "We're going scavenging."
"For?"
"Weapons. Bows, arrows, knives, anything we can find to make life easier for us in New York." He stopped walking. "Look, Pete, this is none of my business, but—"
"McGee," I said.
"Well, yes." We were out on the front steps now, blinking in the sunlight.
"Look, Mac, you don't have to be diplomatic. If you don't want me to see her, I won't. I mean, if she's one of your prospects, don't worry about me. I'm . . . spoken for."
He made a sour face. "It's not—Ah, hell. She's not a prospect. I've known her since I've been here, but . . . she's—" He broke off. "Never mind," he finished. "It's none of my business." He went down the steps ahead of me.
I stared at his back, confused. "Hey," I breathed. Then louder. "Hey, wait up!" He turned around and I caught up.
* * *
Riding wasn't so bad this time, or perhaps my nerve endings had gone on strike. For hours we searched every department store, pawn shop, and sporting goods shop on the outskirts of Washington proper. Our efforts yielded little; previous scavenger parties had been thorough. I made Mac detour on the way back to the Smithsonian and we headed west until we reached the east bank of the Potomac. I tied my horse to a guardrail, threw off my clothes, and cannonballed in with a huge splash. The water felt fine.
I scrubbed myself all over with a bar of soap acquired during our foraging, swimming underwater to rinse off, and scrubbed myself again.
"What are you looking impatient about?" I asked Mac as I soaped my hair. "Why don't you jump in, too? Or do you think you smell like Chanel No. 5?"
His tone was rawthuh snotty. "For your information, I had a bath three no, four days ago."
"All right, I'll just be a few more minutes."
"Take your time. I'll appreciate it as much as you will."
"Up yours."
I took a deep breath and went under, frog-kicking toward the center. I surfaced, wiping my eyes.
I was bathing in a lake when I saw the unicorn . . . .
I swam back to the bank.
"What's wrong, Pete?" asked Mac when I reached him and began wiping myself dry with the blade of my hand.
"What? Oh, nothing. The water just irritates my eyes, that's all." I remained nude until I dried off, then got another set of clothes from a store along the way.
* * *
judith ray, announced the sign on the door. a.p.b.s.c. I knocked tentatively, wondering what the letters stood for. I waited three seconds. Oh, well, she's not in. Guess I'll—
The door opened.
"Well, hello there, stranger," said McGee. "Come to get your ears lowered?"
"Just a little off the top, thanks."
"Sure you want me to stop when I reach scalp?" She opened the door wider. "Come into my parlor."
I walked in and looked around. A rumpled bed, a huge poster of Beethoven, an Early American dresser, the inevitable chamber pot, candles, oil lamps, and a straight-backed wooden chair in the middle of the floor.
"Have a seat."
Fred clacked against the back leg of the chair when I sat down, and she gave a small smile. "You can put your sword in the corner, if you like. Here, I'll do it." She reached for my sword and I pulled it away protectively. She laughed. "You men and your swords. Heavens to Freud."
I colored and handed Fred to her. She took it as a lowering of my guard—which I guess it was—and brightened as she accepted it and leaned it carefully in the corner. She got on her knees and reached under her bed, pulling out a box. The denim stretched nicely where she bent. "And what would monsieur prefer?" she asked, straightening. "Zee cue ball, perhaps?"
"How about just even-ing it up and getting it out of my eyes?"
She pursed her lips. "Oui." She opened the box and removed the scissors and a black, large-toothed comb. I sat straight while she arranged a white towel around my neck and half into my shirt collar so the hair wouldn't fall down it. She played with my hair a minute, seeing which way it fell naturally, then leaned forward and sniffed gently beside my neck. "Somebody smells much nicer," she said. Her voice was low.
Mentioning my smell made me sharply aware of her own: a light, fragile odor, with a soft overtone of musk. The clammy feeling was in my palms again. I clenched them.
"You aren't nervous, are you?" she continued before I could reply. "I haven't lost a patient with these yet." She snipped the scissors.
"'Yet,'" I observed. Damn—my voice broke.
"I give haircuts all the time. Don't worry." She dunked a towel into a pail of water, twisted it to drain some of the water off, and stepped behind me. "Lean your head back. I can work with your hair better if it's wet." I leaned back until I looked at the ceiling, feeling skin pull from chin to larynx. She rubbed the damp towel through my hair, briskly at first, then more and more gently. I was sorry when she stopped. I became conscious of my own increased heartbeat. She started pulling the comb through my hair.
"Ow, shit!"
"Sorry. But it's very tangled and I have to comb it out."
"Sure. I'll bite a bullet or something. It's been a long time since my hair was combed, but I do brush my teeth on occasion, if it's any consolation."
She chuckled and went back to work with her comb, trying to be gentle, separating tangled strands of hair with her long nails, grabbing my hair with one hand and pulling hard on the comb with the other when gentleness wouldn't work. Eventually she could run the comb through my long hair unhampered. "Forward a little," she ordered, nudging the back of my head softly. I nodded forward. My thigh muscles bunched as my hands attempted to cover my erection. My breath caught, but she gave no notice. Hair fell in front of my eyes, landing on my lap. I brushed it away. She noticed me brushing and said, "Oh, I'm sorry. Let me get you another towel." She removed a thick, white towel from a stack atop her dresser. I reached for it as she unfolded it, but she ignored me and spread it across my lap, smoothing it over my thighs. My breath was ragged. An obvious lump showed beneath the towel. She appeared not to notice and walked behind me again. The snipping of scissors resumed. Two-inch lengths of hair fell to the towel.
My legs echoed where she had touched them. Her touch lingered on my skin like a sweeping whisper of distant bells. A drop of water from my hair fell onto the back of my left arm, spreading goosebumps for ripples.
"Are you cold?" she asked.
I could only shake my head slowly. The snipping resumed. Her body heat warmed my neck as she lifted the hair and began to even it up. "There you are," she said, a few age-long minutes later.
"Finished so soon?" I stood and turned to face her, plucking the towel with one hand as it dropped. I held it in front of me. She only comes up to my chest, I thought.
She blinked. "If it were six years ago I'd blow-dry it, but the best you can do now is ride a horse fast. It was just a trim cut, no big deal. Want a lollipop?"
"You're kidding."
"Nope." She opened the first drawer of her dresser and pulled out a green lollipop, the round candy part covered in square cellophane.
"Got a red one?"
She smiled. "Ingrate." She fished around and finally brought up a red one. I accepted it, grinning like an idiot. When had I last had a lollipop? "McGee," I began, putting it into a back pocket for later, "thanks a lot. Really. I don't—" I stopped. She was looking at me funny—looking at my mouth?
"Would you like a shave?" she asked.
"Uh—" I was about to tell her I needed to go eat dinner because it would be dark soon—was already beginning to grow dark—and I didn't want to go hunting up food in the dark, but she was already removing a bright steel razor and shaving soap from her wooden box. I sat down in the chair without another word, holding the towel the way Linus used to hold his blanket.
"Not there," she said. "On the bed. I have all my close shaves there."
I rose uncertainly. She opened a window—her room was along the edge of one wing—and shook out the towel she'd put across my lap, then shut the window and spread the towel over the pillows and part of her cot. "I shave men better if they're lying down," she explained. "They're less likely to move unexpectedly."
"Oh." I lay down self-consciously. McGee set the pail of water beside me on the floor. She rubbed the lower half of my face with a damp cloth, then applied shaving soap with an antiquated, horse-hair shaving brush with an ivory handle. "Supposedly," she said conversationally, stroking my jaw softly with the brush, "this once belonged to Abe Lincoln, though I have my doubts."
"I'll pretend it did and maybe it'll make me feel important."
"You seem pretty important now. To us, anyway." My face lathered, she rinsed the brush off and put it and the soap away. She unfolded the straight razor.
"You ever read A Clockwork Orange?" I asked nervously.
"Shh. You can't talk once I start."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She folded her legs beneath her, sitting Japanese style, and began gently shaving the softer skin beneath my chin with the bright steel. I remembered the griffin rider's sword twitching before my eyes and tried not to swallow. The blade was a gruff whisper across my skin. I felt the heat rising again.
"You know, you have a nice jawline." Her voice was a half whisper.
If it was a question, I couldn't answer. But no, I didn't know I had a nice jawline. Suddenly conscious of my breathing, I felt it was an awkward process, an action I had to constantly control. Don't turn your head, Garey. She'll cut your throat. Oh, wouldn't that be fantastic—come all the way from Atlanta, get away from New York, and have some pretty woman accidentally slit your throat while shaving you. It was just ironic enough to seem likely.
And yet—there was something strangely . . . erotic . . . about the gentle, skillful way she held the potentially deadly instrument. I dared not move my head. My erection strained harder against my underwear. The lollipop in my pocket pressed against my butt. I had to leave it that way.
McGee finished the left side of my face, dipped the razor in the water to clean it, turned my head to face her, and leaned forward slightly to start on the other side. Her breasts pressed against my shoulder and elbow. The delicate musk of her filled my nostrils. I felt strangely annoyed. I closed my eyes. Worse—it made me more aware of my erection, of her warmth against me, of her smell, the soft push of her against my arm. I wanted to sit upright and push her away, but I couldn't. And something underneath felt differently, didn't want to push her away at all.
I was only dimly aware of her folding the razor. Her long hair tickled my throat, moving as she moved.
It was so gradual: wiping my face dry with a soft cloth, continuing the motion with her hands long after my face was no longer wet. Her cheek replaced one hand, brushing back and forth until her lips slid like silk scarves across my own, then paused, making the motion halt to become a kiss. Something caught in my throat when her lips parted and my own followed after the barest hesitation. Her tongue found mine and danced wetly around it.
I slit open my eyes when the kiss broke; she breathed my name and her breath filled my mouth. Her hand rested lightly on my chest, feeling my heart pound, making her smile. Her other palm was cool against my cheek. My hips pressed into her. The hand on my chest slid slowly down, long nails rasping faintly on my shirt; then the hand stroked my erection through the corduroy. Her breath trembled with her hands, her skilled fingers.
Trembled—
I sat up. She had to grab the edge of the cot to keep her balance. "What—Pete, what's wrong?"
I stood. Looked . . . at the walls, through the walls, anywhere. "No," I breathed. "No!" I looked at her blue eyes, framed by her brown hair. They were very bright. "Ariel," I whispered. The name rode unevenly on my choppy breath. Confused, I looked down at myself. "I—" Eyes slammed shut. A great roaring in my ears. Hands clenched. "No." A flat statement this time. My eyes opened. They stung. They didn't want to focus. I stepped forward. Stopped. Confused.
Then I ran from the room.