When we break apart this time, it’s for more pragmatic reasons.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“Couch.”
“Clothes—oh.”
Don’t ask me who said what. I’m not sure and I don’t really give a damn. We’re kissing and unbuttoning and tugging and we wind up tangled together with the cool smooth leather against our bare skin. I’m on top and he’s looking at me like he’s trying to burn every last detail of my body into his memory. I realize what he’s doing and put my hand gently over his eyes.
“Stop,” I say softly. “Don’t do that. I’m not going anywhere.”
He nudges my hand away. Smiles at me, a little ruefully. “I’m sorry. Old habits die hard.”
“So do I. Now stop thinking about how I’m going to die someday and make me feel alive, okay? Starting with right … here.”
I move his hand. It’s all the invitation he needs.
When I first got to Thropirelem, I had an ill-advised and drunken fling with a werewolf. Nothing kinky, no fur on the bedsheets, but it was still my first time with a supernatural lover. Unfortunately, it was also my first time with magic-enhanced booze, and my memories of that night are fuzzier than the guy I slept with. Still, what I can remember is … enthusiastic. Athletic, even. Thropes are stronger than human beings even when they’re not in were-mode.
This is nothing like that.
I read a sociology paper once that stated there were two features that human beings always find sexually attractive, that turn people on no matter what kind of society they live in. Two factors that apply universally across all cultural boundaries—one for males and one for females. For men, it was youth; for women, it was status.
Cassius is both, all wrapped up in the same package. He’s got the body of a twenty-year-old surfer, though his tan has faded somewhat after a few centuries in the shade. A swimmer’s body, long and lean and muscled in that elegant way that reminds me of racehorses. Smooth, soft skin, cool but not cold. Long, clever fingers.
But this is no college boy, fumbling his way around in the dark. His touch is experienced, sure, firm. He knows a woman’s body the way Jimi Hendrix knew a guitar, and he plays with just as much joy. He has me gasping halfway through the first song and he hasn’t gotten to the solo yet.
I do a little strumming of my own. He smiles in a way that makes me breathe a little bit harder, and I give him a kiss that makes what I did before seem like a great-aunt’s birthday smooch.
He slides me around and over and now we’re side by side, necking like teenagers in the backseat of an old Chevy. I can feel the strength behind his tenderness, the power he’s holding back, and it makes me crazy; I want it, I want my whole body wrapped around it, and I want it now.
And that’s exactly what I get.
Everything gets a little slippery. Inside, outside, time, skin, senses … it’s an overwhelming cocktail of sensation and emotion, feelings sliding into and over and under one another, playful tongues and rough joy and salty urgency. The taste of his nipple, caught between my teeth. His tongue, tracing its way around my belly button. Biting my own lip. Him inside me and me inside him, lips and tongues and trembling eagerness. Everything spiraling up into the inevitable, me making far too much noise and not giving even a single damn. His own orgasm a minute later, staring intently into my own eyes the entire time. I feel utterly connected to him, joined not just at our hips but at our gaze, a completed circuit with a surge of pleasure cycling through it in an endless loop.
It fades, eventually. Neither of us wants to break the moment by speaking. I finally, reluctantly, look away. “Damn, Caligula,” I pant. “When was the last time you got laid?”
“Turn of the century.”
“Which one?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I know.”
We both shut up again.
And there it is—the dreaded awkward silence. I’ve just shared one of the most intimate moments of my life with this man, and now we’re realizing neither of us knows where this is going to go next. He’s my boss, for God’s sake. And of course, there’s the great unspoken truth that both of us know exactly how he feels about me … and neither of us knows how I feel about him.
“So,” I say.
“Is this the part where I regret surviving after all?”
“No. This is the part where I thank you for saving my life. Even if you were kind of self-destructive about it.”
“I think you’ve already returned the favor. Though I have no idea how you pulled it off.”
“Oh, come on. I may have been enthusiastic, but I don’t think I actually detached anything.”
He sighs. “This is what I get while basking in the afterglow? Puns?”
“You want a more serious answer? Simple. Sexy hot woman magic. I’m a master practitioner.”
“Ah. It’s all clear to me now.”
“You’re just lucky I held back. Could have blown the top of your head clean off.”
“I believe, in fact, that’s exactly what you did.”
I grin, and snuggle onto his chest. “Damn straight …”
Which is when the door opens, and Charlie walks in.
He looks at us. We look back.
“You two done?” Charlie says. “Or do I have to get a firehose and a pry bar?”
EPILOGUE
I’m not sure what I should do now.
The case has been wrapped up. The Don’s out on bail, and Gretch tells me the murder charges against him may not stick; Arturo’s too wily to be caged that easily. A deal will be struck, Falzo will stay free and in charge, and his accomplice will probably take the fall. In the meantime, Tair stays in custody while the higher-ups negotiate—which means Cassius disappears behind a wall of NSA lawyers and I’m left to do paperwork while Charlie sharpens some choice remarks about my new relationship.
I’m exhausted and elated, pumped up and strangely let down. Too much has happened and I need at least a week to just sleep and let everything filter through my subconscious while my body readjusts to being human again. I’m expecting big, weird dreams, but all I get is twelve hours of near-coma followed by a total lack of appetite. Considering how many calories I was werewolfing down before that, I don’t mind a little break.
I take Gally out for a long walk, the kind where I let my mind wander along with my legs. I feel … unsettled. Like something’s missing.
That bothers me, because the list of suspects is both long and troubling. Am I missing the heightened senses of a thrope? The bloodlust of a pire? The chance to truly belong somewhere that came with Leo’s offer to join the Adams pack? Now that Cassius and I are finally together, I could be missing him—or I could be feeling a supposed loss of independence. None of those things feels right, and all of them do.
It starts to rain, that light kind of drizzle that’s so common in the Northwest. I flip up the waterproof hood on my jacket and keep going, past the big plate-glass windows of a bar. Lots of people inside, laughing and drinking and talking. Mostly pires, it looks like—lots of wineglasses filled with red.
Gally senses my mood, comes up and licks my hand. I should really get him home soon—the sun will go down in less than an hour, and I forgot to bring his big-boy pants. “I’m okay,” I sigh. “Just a little—I don’t know.”
I think I’m starting to, though. I’ve carved out a niche for myself in Thropirelem; I’ve got a career, a home, friends. A dog. Even—though it’s a little hard to believe—a relationship.
But I don’t have anything that’s really mine.
It was visiting the Seattle Enclave that did it. I was looking to reconnect with my humanity, but I didn’t fit in there at all. This whole experience has made me realize just how alone I really am; there’s no one on this whole planet like me.
But then, I guess the same could have been said about me before I came here. We’re all really a species of one, aren’t we? Locked inside our own hea
ds, trying to understand how all these other odd beings around us think, trying to figure out why they do what they do. And that’s okay, it really is, because we all learn how to deal with it in our own way. We learn, we adapt, we overcome. Maybe we find happiness, maybe we don’t, but it’s always possible; there’s only one thing that’s guaranteed to stop us, and that’s giving up.
I don’t do giving up.
So. Internal pep talk over. Disgustingly optimistic attitude being enforced with gritted teeth. Next question: How do I beat this?
I think about it all the way home.
“Hello, Tair,” I say. “How are they treating you in here?”
He gives me one of his easy smiles. “No complaints. No assassination attempts, anyway.”
I nod. He’s back at Stanhope, with more charges against him pending. The interview room is the same one we talked in the last time, and he’s chained to the same steel post.
He studies me intently. “I know why I’m here, Valchek. Why are you?”
“I wanted to give you an update on my condition.”
“Ah. Not really necessary, is it? I mean, I felt the link dissolve. Give my congratulations to Cassius, will you? I really didn’t think the old neckbiter could do it.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
I’m not sure how to do this, but that’s never stopped me before. I take a deep breath and say, “I want to talk to Dr. Pete.”
He stares at me. Blinks. Then his eyes roll up and his head sags forward like someone who’s just fallen asleep. When he talks, his voice is hollow and spooky. “Jaaaaace. I am here. Speeeeak.”
“Yeah, that’s a laugh riot. You sing and dance, too?”
His head snaps up. He grins with only the whites of his eyes showing. “No, but I’m working on my ventriloquism. Want me to make your pants talk?”
“Not particularly. And stop staring at the inside of your own head—it’s creeping me out.”
His eyes slide back to normal. “Tough audience.”
“I meant what I said. Please.”
He frowns. “Look, it doesn’t work like that. It’s not like we’re two different people, okay? Just two sides of the same coin. I’m him, he’s me. Same way vision works: two points-of-view, coming together to form a three-dimensional image.”
“So you’re a complex person now, instead of a sociopath? Lots of layers, someone with real depth?”
He grins. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“That’s because I’m a trained psychologist. And as such, I can tell you your explanation is bullshit. In fact, it’s exactly the kind of glib, self-serving rationalization that a sociopath would come up with, making you sound sympathetic while denying any real responsibility for your actions. Nice touch with the vision metaphor, though.”
He shrugs. “I liked it.”
“The thing is, if you and Dr. Pete were truly integrated, you’d be presenting with a very different affect: more guilt, less denial. I don’t know if he actually exists as a separate entity or if you’ve just acquired some of his memories, but if there was any chance he was actually in there, I had to try. I owe him that much.”
He studies me coolly, and I study him back.
Waiting. Hoping.
“What do you want me to say, Valchek? What were you expecting?”
“I just want the truth.”
He snorts. “What good would that do? You’ll never trust me or anything I say. Even if I was completely honest, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
He looks at me with thinly veiled anger. I don’t blame him. After all we’ve shared, the risks he’s taken on my behalf, I’m rejecting him for the interloper who’s taken up residence in his head. For a weaker version of himself that somehow wound up happier. I can see how much Tair hates him, the kind of hate only a sibling can have for a more successful brother or sister. His hate is a wall—and unless I can get through that barrier, I’ll never know if Dr. Pete is behind it or not.
I stand up. “Okay, I guess I see your point. Good luck with your appeal.”
I’m at the door, my hand raised to knock so the guard can let me out, when he speaks. “Hold on.”
It’s not Tair’s voice.
I stop. Turn.
The voice is weary, sad, with none of Tair’s cockiness. “Jace.”
My eyes are stinging. “Doc—Dr. Pete?”
He looks up at me with eyes full of pain. Starts to raise his hands and is brought up short by the manacles. “Jace. I’m—I’m a little confused. Why am I chained up? Did I—did I do something?”
“It’s—complicated,” I say. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
He shakes his head in bewilderment. “I don’t know. My memories are all mixed up. Sorcery?”
“Yeah. You got stabbed with the Midnight Sword. It changed your history and threw your physical body back in time a week. The new you has made some … questionable decisions in his past. A lot farther back than just a week, too.”
He nods. “That’s why everything’s so jumbled up. Tair. That’s the alias I used when I worked for the lem Gray Market.”
“I’ve been working on getting you back. Tair kind of sabotaged that.”
“I’m sorry, Jace. I’ve done—I’ve done terrible things.”
“No. Tair’s done terrible things. He’s not you, okay?”
“But he is, Jace. That’s what’s so horrible …”
I take my seat again. “I’m not giving up on you, Doc. We’ll get through this together, all right?”
“I appreciate that, Jace.” He pulls himself together with a visible effort. “How have you been doing?”
Good old Dr. Pete. Always thinking of others first … “I’m doing fine. Just wrapped up a case.”
He gives me a wry smile so familiar it makes my chest hurt. He lifts his manacles a few inches off the table and says, “Put the bad guys in jail, huh?”
I laugh. “I guess.”
“I don’t care about that, Jace. I don’t know how long it’ll be before—before I’m not me again. So don’t tell me about work. Tell me about you.”
And I do.
I tell him about Galahad, and how glad I am to have him. I tell him about Xandra, and how much she misses him. I tell him about Gretch’s baby, and the new dance steps Charlie’s been patiently trying to teach me.
“Sounds like you’re integrating well,” he says. “That’s good. That’s really good.”
“There’s something else, too.” I hesitate. “You told me, when you were first treating my RDT, that I needed to put down some roots. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, and I finally made a decision.”
“Which is?”
“I’ve started a dojo—that’s a martial arts gym, basically. Just a rented space in a dance studio on Sunday afternoons, for now.”
“Martial arts?”
“Yeah. It’s something that means a lot to me, but I can’t really train with experienced pires or thropes; the skills they have rely on more strength and speed than humans possess. So I figured I’d start with people who know nothing about martial arts and teach them what I know, concentrating more on leverage and tactics. Wily human stuff.”
“How’s that going?”
“Got six members so far—well, five and a half. Xandra, a thrope bouncer who likes to pretend he’s a pire, two recent immigrants who are determined to never be physically abused again, one genuine human in her fifties, and my dog.”
“You’re teaching Galahad kung fu?”
“What can I say? I seem to attract strays—and besides, he’s a good benchmark. If I can teach him, I can teach anyone.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Some people just can’t be taught.”
“That sounds like a challenge. Or are you saying I couldn’t teach you?”
“No. I’m saying some people are just goddamn idiots.”
I know that smug tone all to
o well. And I have a sinking feeling I know what he’s referring to.
He leans forward, his eyes intent. “I mean, come on, Valchek. I told you I couldn’t be trusted, and you still fell for it. Oh, poor, poor Dr. Pete, I’m so glad you’re back. Now let me tell you all about my depressing, pathetic life.”
I stare at him for a moment.
And then I smile.
“Nice try,” I say. “Smooth transition, too. But you’re not going to fool me again.”
He laughs. It’s an ugly sound. “Again? Don’t you mean still?”
“No. I know who I was just talking to, and it wasn’t you. I was wondering why you would let Dr. Pete out, and now I know: So you could yank him back in again and make me feel betrayed. Because then I’d never trust you again, would I? If the real Dr. Pete ever tried to talk to me, I’d dismiss it as a trick. You’re sabotaging any future attempts by him to get out, trying to make him feel isolated and alone. And there’s only one reason you’d do that—because you’re afraid of him. Which means he’s a lot stronger than you’re letting on.”
“Sure. Keep telling yourself that. I can’t wait for your next little heart-to-heart with me—I mean, Dr. Pete.”
I stand up again. “I’m not giving up on him, Tair. You hear me, Doc? I am not giving up on you. I’ll be back, okay? We’ll talk again, I promise.”
“Ooh, I can’t wait, sweetheart. Kisses.” He puts as much perverse venom into his words as he can, but I just grin and rap on the door for the guard. Venom, I can handle.
I leave the prison feeling better than I went in. There’s still hope; there are still possibilities, waiting to unfold.
It’s Sunday morning. Time to go home, get into some comfortable clothes, and go teach a few people how to kick ass.
It’s what I do best, after all.
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by DD Barant
Dying Bites
Death Blows
Killing Rocks
ALL-OUT RAVES FOR THE BLOODHOUND FILES
“Snappy writing, a page-turning story, and fresh world-building make Dying Bites a satisfying meal of a book.”