22
Eduard perspired heavily in another man’s body, but this time it was an exhilarating workout instead of suffering a miserable fever.
He stood under the overhead lights in the exercise room. Two plate-glass window walls looked out onto well-tended gardens and paths; two walls were floor-to-ceiling mirrors in which he could watch his muscles ripple, see how he exerted himself.
Mordecai Ob’s strong heart pumped as Eduard exercised, the blood flowing. Warm sweat trickled from his close-cropped chestnut hair. He panted, and fresh air burned in his lungs. According to the clock and his employment contract, he still had another hour of required exercise before his boss would be satisfied with the workout.
Leaving the weight-training equipment with a clank of metal on metal, Eduard gulped half a bottle of electrolyte water and toweled off. He tugged a sweatshirt over his head, plucking at the cloth where it stuck to his damp skin. He already wore running shorts, good shoes. Ob had taken care of everything. Eduard just had to do the time-consuming work.
He waved at the sensor, and one of the windows skated aside. He puffed out two breaths like small gunshots, preparing himself, then set off at a fast jog into the fresh air and morning sunshine. . . .
In the past few weeks, Eduard had settled in at Ob’s expansive estate. The man didn’t want to be friends with him, just business associates. In fact, Eduard rarely saw him except to swap in the early morning, then back again, sometimes in a few hours, sometimes not until the evening, whenever the Chief returned.
He had his own separate apartment in a wing of the large mansion, all his meals and needs provided. The Bureau Chief didn’t really require much, though he occasionally asked to swap at odd hours, without explaining his mission. Some shady Beetle stuff, Eduard supposed. He really didn’t care, as long as he got his body back at the end of the day. It was part of the job.
Now, jogging around the estate, Eduard fell into a rhythm along his usual running path, a circuit that encompassed two miles. He ran around hedges, through a quaint shrubbery maze copied from an old English manor house. Some of the stone benches tempted him—rest here!—but he refused to relax. He had his routine. With a sharp grin, he pushed on. This was so easy.
As the running path wound through the extensive rose garden, Eduard waved at Ob’s huge Samoan gardener, Tanu. The gardener’s upper arms were as wide as most people’s thighs; his skin was dusky, as if impregnated with the dirt in which he always worked. Tanu had a mane of charcoal hair like a sword-and-sorcery barbarian’s, but Eduard knew the bearlike islander was friendly and good-hearted, somewhat shy. Tanu spent his time alone with his flowers and shrubbery, trellises and hedges. He not only talked to the plants, but seemed to listen to them as well.
As Eduard jogged past, the Samoan raised a hand the size of a boat oar. “I’ll come by and talk to you later!” Eduard called. “We can have iced tea.”
He glanced over his shoulder, still trying to get a reaction from the Samoan. Not looking where he was going, Eduard stumbled from the path and crashed against one of the rosebushes. A thorn left a long red scratch down his right thigh, but Eduard recovered without missing a beat and lurched back onto the path. He glanced down at the rosebush, but didn’t see any obvious damage.
“Sorry!” He brushed his legs, then sprinted onward. Another mile to go.
Eduard brewed a pitcher of iced tea and carried it on a tray with two glasses to the gardener’s shed. The ice cubes tinkled, and beads of condensation sparkled, like the sweat Eduard had recently showered off Ob’s body.
“Hey, Tanu!” He wandered around to the back of the shed, where he found the big Samoan nestled inside a stand of flame bushes, pruning branches one at a time, as if he knew each one personally. Eduard couldn’t imagine how the gardener had worked his bulky form into such a cramped area without trampling the plants. “Come on, let’s have some tea. It’ll quench your thirst.”
Tanu looked down at his bushes, reluctant to move. The gardener’s voice was surprisingly rich and gentle coming from such a gigantic chest. “Still lots of plants to work on.”
“Plants have taken care of themselves for billions of years, Tanu. They can wait ten minutes while you drink some tea.” Eduard set the tray on a bench, poured a tall glass for the gardener, then one for himself.
Tanu downed the iced tea in a single gulp, as if that were the quickest way for him to return to his bushes. Eduard refilled the glass, just so the gardener wouldn’t have that excuse. He enjoyed his conversations with Tanu, though the dialogue was mostly one-sided.
He rubbed the red scratch on his leg, which still stung. “How’s that rosebush I stepped on?”
Tanu had spent as much time tending the plant as if it were a seriously injured child in a hospital emergency room. “Fine.”
“I’ll be more careful from now on. No problem. I’ve got to pay more attention to where I put my big feet. Mr. Ob’s big feet, actually.” He flashed a quick grin. “Forgive me?”
Tanu remained expressionless. Finally, after a long moment, he said, “You’re not like the other ones.”
Eduard raised his eyebrows. “Other ones? You mean Ob’s previous body caretakers?”
Tanu nodded, then looked longingly back at his flame bushes.
Eduard couldn’t imagine why anyone would give up such a plum job. “Why did they stop working here? What happened to them?”
“They’re gone.”
Eduard finished his own iced tea. This conversation was harder work than two hours of exercise. “Well, I’m here to stay.” He placed the glasses next to the half-empty pitcher. “Thanks for taking the time to chat.”
He carried the tray back toward the house. The Samoan watched him go, his dark eyes filled with infinite sadness.
Mordecai Ob returned home at no set schedule, flitting back from BTL Headquarters whenever he felt his day’s work was finished. As soon as the Chief arrived at the estate, he would summon Eduard immediately. He wanted his own body back, wanted to spend the evenings as himself.
In the foyer Eduard met his employer as Ob set down his documents in a holding area by the door. On him, Eduard’s home-body looked weary and drained, his expression covered with a veil of stress. Impatient, the Chief gestured him forward. “Take your body back. I want to feel refreshed again.”
After they hopscotched, Ob took a deep breath and smiled, while Eduard experienced disappointment to be in his own form again. The muscles felt lethargic and ragged, without the clean energy that came from a rigorous workout. Ob had left him with a tension headache in the back of his skull.
Tough day at the office, Eduard thought, rubbing his stiff shoulders.
The Bureau Chief stood in the foyer, touching himself, taking a bodily inventory. When he discovered the long scratch on his leg, he glowered. “What have you done?” Ob undid his pants and reached under the fabric to feel the minor wound. “What is this?”
“Just an accident. I scratched it on one of the rosebushes during my morning jog.” After having undergone near-fatal open-heart surgery for Madame Ruxton, Eduard couldn’t summon much sympathy for the ridiculously minor blemish.
“I don’t want to hear about any more accidents, Eduard.” Ob’s olive-brown eyes blazed.
Eduard’s muscles seized up in an unconscious panic reaction. He could see why this man was so successful among the Beetles. “Okay, okay—I’m sorry! It’s just a scratch. It’ll heal before you know it.”
“Eduard, I have entrusted you with my physical being.” Ob’s voice was low and threatening. “If you can’t take better care of my body, I won’t need your services any longer.”
Eduard struggled to keep his temper and shock in check. “I . . . I’ll be more careful from now on.”
Ob didn’t answer as he strode to his chambers.