Desires, Known, Page 3

  Or on the cowboy, who had picked a spot right in front of May on the couch and was gyrating with good-natured abandon.

  Gloria’s deck was a jungle in summer; in winter, the wisteria vine died back and it looked a little bare. The porch light had a red bulb too, that had been May’s suggestion. The cold air hit Em all at once, every exposed bit of skin roughening up into gooseflesh. The sudden shock settled her stomach, but she leaned over the railing anyway, just in case. Drunk could sneak up on you with little vomit-soaked cat feet.

  I’m getting old.

  The thought almost made her laugh—May would say she’d been old since she was born, along with boring, responsible, and most likely to have an actual savings account with something in it.

  Which wasn’t bad. Em blinked several times as the postage-stamp backyard blurred. The weather report had said rain, but so far it was holding off. Clear and chilly, the night was alive—running feet, children’s voices, flashlights bobbing along the sidewalk over Gloria’s back fence. The high, narrow townhouse was in a good neighborhood, and even though the music was loud tonight, the neighbors probably didn’t mind. A leafless elm stood sentinel at one corner of the fence; Em took a cautious step sideways so she wouldn’t yark into the barbecue.

  The trouble was that she just couldn’t get drunk enough to loosen up. There was always that little voice in the back of her head, warning, admonishing, snarking away. It wasn’t even a parental voice—it was just something Em had been born with. Mom called her an overachiever—when she called at all—and Dad was, well, Dad, retired to the golf course and the Elks Lodge instead of absent at the mill all the time. All he’d ever wanted was a son to sit and tell lies about baseball games with.

  Instead, what he’d gotten was Em.

  Christ. She was at a bouncing party, there were strippers inside and plenty of booze, and she was thinking about her parents. Alcohol was a depressant and she was probably heading that way anyway, but for once, couldn’t she just enjoy herself?

  Just when Em was sure her stomach wouldn’t precipitously unload its cargo, the door banged open and out tumbled a breathless four-legged tangle. They almost went down in a heap, recovered with a lurch, and Em blinked. It was Andy and Bert, and they were both not only drunk but amorous as well. Bert, with an aggressive flourish strange for such a short, skinny hipster, pushed Andy back until they both hit the railing right where Em had started out, and she stepped hurriedly around a stack of four folded-up chairs for summer porch-parties, into the shadows next to the flung-open door.

  Andy tipped his dark head back and moaned, his mouth wet and loose, dark curls bouncing. He’d come as an unshaved Blue Man, and the little bobbles attached to his headband jerked and spun wildly. Em’s eyebrows threatened to nest in her hairline—Omar was inside, she’d seen him fiddling with one of the speakers just before her stomach had begun complaining. What he would think of his best friend mauling his boyfriend was a subject neither of them seemed too concerned about.

  These are the situations never covered in listicles. She tried to think through the now-pleasant spinning of her poor head. I just have to wait for my liver to process all this.

  Unfortunately, her liver was fresh out of ideas, and she couldn’t get around the door to slip back inside.

  So she crouched behind the stack of chairs, wincing a little as her back reminded the black platform wedges, while pretty boss at making her taller and giving her stride some sway, were not the best shoes for squatting, and cleared her throat.

  Loudly.

  The response was energetic, to say the least. Andy peeled himself away and whirled, too quickly for his own alcohol-loaded perceptions to keep up. He tripped over nothing and sat down, hard, his teeth clicking together and the whole deck rattling. Bert let out a high squeaking “Jesusfuck!” that might have been funny in another situation, and both of them stared, blinking, at the dark corner. Em held perfectly still. The glitter on her tits might give her away, but maybe the shadow over here was deep enough.

  Well, it was Halloween, and she’d just performed a trick without meaning to. The treat would be in not vomiting or being caught eavesdropping.

  “I heard someone,” Andy whispered, sitting on the deck with his legs splayed and his face contorted with pain.

  Bert stared, his eyes round as a three-year-old’s. Could he see her? Em’s lungs burned from holding her breath, and a jungle-juice scented burp threatened to give the whole game away.

  The awkward silence stretched, and Em’s lungs were just about to tell her to fuck off and die, when a shadow passed through the door and boots clicked on the deck. “Hey,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Anyone got a ligh—oh, hey. You okay?”

  It was the cowboy stripper, back in his jeans with sewn-on chaps and Velcro tabs. His oiled chest and broad shoulders gleamed, and he had the hat back on. A cigarette hung between his lips, and Em’s legs began to ache-shake in that particular way that meant she was going to fall over. Crouching in heels was hard on the quads.

  Cowboy Stripper offered Andy his hand; neither of them had a light. “There’s, uh, matches in the kitchen,” Bert said, and scurried off as if he was going to get one. Andy followed, dusting off the seat of his leotard, and Em finally let out a long soft breath, the dark speckles in her vision going away once she could fill her lungs again. The cowboy stepped up to the railing, looking out over the backyard just like Em had.

  She eased upright, quietly, and decided now was a really good time to learn how to ninja-foot in heels. Unfortunately, the first step was a little wobbly. Her hip hit the stack of deck chairs, and the stripper jumped visibly.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Nope. Just me.” Em held her arms out. “Don’t shoot, cowboy.” Holy crap. Did I just say that?

  “Hey.” He grinned under the hat’s shadow, a nice strong chin and just a touch of stubble. “It’s Elvira.”

  At least he was old enough to know who that was. Em was actually feeling charitable, and opened her mouth to thank him. What came out instead, though, was different. “I thought strippers didn’t smoke.”

  The smile didn’t go away, but she got the idea it was a little less real. His hand stopped halfway to his mouth, with the unlit smoke pointing at her. “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s a pretty athletic vocation.” She didn’t even slur vocation. She was doing really well and her stomach was settling down. Now she wanted some potato chips, nice and salty and crispy. Alcohol hunger always fastened on party foods, just like hangovers always wanted Tex-Mex. “Lots of c-cardio.”

  Well, fuck, that sort of blew her cool, stuttering over cardio. Great. This guy was probably thinking she wanted to throw herself at him.

  Emily decided, with a great deal of relief, that she was not nearly drunk enough to do so.

  “Yeah. You’re right, I should quit both. I’m Jake.” He offered the hand that had the cigarette, realized what he was doing, and laughed.

  “Emily. Nice to meet you.” Em edged around the stack of chairs, not offering her own hand. Maybe interrupting whatever booze-fueled mistake was going to happen out here had been her good deed for the night, and she could find a quiet corner. Or call a cab. May would party until dawn, but Em was already regretting this. She suspected she’d regret a lot more tomorrow when her body decided to take vengeance on her partial poisoning of it. “Good show, in there. It was really…yeah.”

  Then she could have smacked herself. What was the right way to say, I appreciated the artistry of you shaking your G-string-clad package at a whole roomful of people? Yet another thing not covered by listicles.

  “Thanks.” Now there was a gleam of teeth under the hat. Whether it was a smile or a grimace, she couldn’t tell. “I thought I’d take a break while Rico was in doing the Latin Lover set. One of your friends is doing limbo.”

  Probably May. “Yeah, that sounds like something they’d do.”

  “So why are you out here?” He even sounded interested, those sandy eyebrows going
up so hard they tilted the hat back.

  Her eyes had adapted by now. His almost-stubbled chin was very nice, too. “I thought I was going to hork and I didn’t want to get the carpet dirty.”

  He tipped the hat further back with one finger—Christ, he had all the moves, probably from watching Bonanza as a kid—and examined her. “Polite.”

  “Yeah, well.” She decided she wasn’t going to fall over and took another step, congratulating herself when she didn’t hit the chairs again. “I, uh, hope you have a productive night.” She didn’t add, with many crisp George Washingtons. That would be too far, even though her inhibitions were probably at doorstep level.

  “This is our last stop.” He didn’t sound regretful.

  “Then you go trick-or-treating?” Doing double duty. Get dressed up, and maybe the candy-throwing housewives will have a few dollar bills hanging around.

  “Nah, there’s another party on the West Side. Place with a pool and a bunch of food.” He was still examining her. “Want to come along?”

  “I’m fine here, thanks.” As a matter of fact, an Irish goodbye and a cab home is starting to seem like the best idea ever.

  “Nah.” He shook his head, slowly. “You don’t look fine. You look bored to death.”

  Oh, gee, thanks. “Does that work on girls in Jersey? Because you look about that cowboy.” She held up first finger and thumb, rubbing them together.

  “Ontario.” His grin broadened, and now it was all smile, and all real. He was probably used to charming every double-X chromosome carrier in range with that expression.

  “They have cowboys in Canada?”

  “At last.” He lifted the cigarette to his lips, plainly forgetting it wasn’t lit. “An American girl who knows where Ontario is.”

  “At last,” she parroted. “A Canadian who doesn’t say eh at the end of every sentence. Have fun on the West Side, kid.”

  That hit a nerve. “Kid?”

  I feel old. She waved her fingers at him, and set off for the kitchen door. Wonder of wonders, she could even walk a reasonably straight line.

  “Invitation’s open,” he called after her. “You look like a lot of fun.”

  “Don’t I wish,” she muttered, and promptly banged her left hand into the side of the doorway. Or at least, it felt like she had, and she let out a short bark of pain lost in a sudden swell of thumping music from inside. Her fingers seized up and she had to shake them out as she headed for the buffet table in the dining room. The music swallowed her whole, and as soon as she got a handful of potato chips she saw Andy leaning against Omar’s broad shoulder, those headband bobbles swaying gently.

  Her stomach flipped itself over again, but she had her wits about her now. Or at least, mostly about her.

  It was time to go home.

  Fascinating Confusion

  Hal surfaced from a sweating tangle of tentacles—when the boredom reached a certain pitch, even that form of relief was no pleasure. Soft moaning sounds trailed away as the succubi faded, wet little kisses printed on his legs and abdomen turning chilly, roughening his skin. He knelt on the bed, the walls flickering between wood and stone, and the lighting brightened, dimmed. A frown creased his lean face—what was that? It wasn’t a summons, if the bearer had said the words he would have been pulled forth willy-nilly. The pressure mounted, his wrists and throat beating with a frantic tattoo, as if the bearer was in danger.

  Perhaps his fetter had fallen into ignorant hands? But no, Cavanaugh had been part of the Sophics, the Fratres, and though that collection of men were somewhat stupid, they were not nearly enough so to let his prized possession slip away. They were, in fact, more likely to find a loophole in Cavanaugh’s near-immortality and relieve him of his treasure for their own purposes.

  It made no difference. One of them was just as bad as another. A moment’s worth of thought had Hal dressed in the fashion Cavanaugh preferred, just in case. A fine cloak of bottle-green, a doublet to match, lace fountaining at cuffs and his ruff fine but not overlarge, breeches and hose, and shoes buckled with wide silver rectangles instead of a workman’s boots. If he was to make an appearance, it should be a presentable one.

  He glanced at the room again as the lighting dimmed and brightened. A rushing sound pressed against the outside walls, and the gray fog outside would be turning bloody. Perhaps the bearer was indecisive?

  The tugging began, weakly, against his hands and feet. This time, Hal did not resist. It had never done any good before, and he was—impossible to deny it—actually curious.

  He suspected a long while had passed outside his confinement, and if his current bearer was unknowing, so much the better. Working mischief would soothe his boredom nicely, and there was always a chance he could seize something.

  When one was stuck fast in miserable slavery, it cheered the heart to spread the misery to one’s master, and to steal whatever could be taken to adorn the walls of one’s prison. It would amuse him to work Cavanaugh a mild mischief or two as well, if the man still possessed his fetter.

  The tugging came again, weak but definite. It would mount in intensity, even if the bearer escaped danger by his own efforts. The terms were strict—they did not allow Hal to ignore, and for once, he did not even truly wish to. He closed his eyes and let the faint pressure take him. The familiar sense of falling, the familiar sickening chill…

  …and Hal landed on hard paving with a jolt, a confusion of voices and excitement spinning around him, the smell of a damp chilly autumn night enfolding him along with a mineral reek he had never experienced in all his long years. He drew in a deep lungful, opening his eyes, and cast about for his bearer.

  “Whoa.” A small, light voice, very close. “Cool costume, man.”

  It was not his bearer, but a small child wearing a suit painted with some glowing material, portraying a tiny skeleton. Hal blinked. There were lanterns over the street, burning smokeless. It was too bright to be night, too dark for dusk.

  Wherever he was, it certainly smelled better than usual. The thick mineral tang in the air was not nearly as bad as the usual choking pall of human excrement, smoke, and small dead animals, but it required a bit of adjustment nonetheless.

  A group of children appeared, shrieking and laughing in carnival finery and masks. They swung heavy bags and babbled excitedly, dividing around Hal as a river around a stunned rock, and something very large and shining heaved past with a coughing roar. Hal flinched, the power rising to strike—but it was gone in a heartbeat, and he realized there was no danger. It was simply a sleek metal carriage, its eyes bright diamonds, going far more quickly than the horse-drawn traps of Cavanaugh’s world.

  What, in the name of the Ring…

  The children were herded by a pair of adults who gave him strange glances. The woman was wearing breeches, and both of them—and all the children—had all their teeth, except one or two of the children missing only milk-fangs. They were much taller than mortals usually were, and overfed as well. Smooth skin and gleaming eyes—at least he was among the wealthy. He cast about, deciding it would be best to be taller once he had a moment to attend to his physical form.

  The mortal man cleared his throat, his expression familiar. Protective, and a little wary. “You lost, Mister?”

  Their speech was different. Hal’s head hurt, a swift lancing pain as he absorbed its rudiments. Very close to Cavanaugh’s tongue, as a matter of fact. “Yes, lost.” He chose the words with care. “I shall find it soon.”

  The parents—though they could not have produced such a numerous brood, the children were everywhere—exchanged another troubled glance, but their charges were hopping up paved steps and hurrying to the door of a large domicile. With every window lit and the outside festooned with all manner of paper and strange symbols, it could have been a castle. It would have been counted one, in the time of his early bearers.

  The door opened, and the children chorused “Trick or treat!” The adults hurried after them, and now Hal could see the entire st
reet was alive with mortals intent on the same business. Each gigantic house was large and copiously lit, too, with warm golden glow that did not flicker as flame would.

  Intriguing. But he had to find his new bearer. He turned in a complete circle, searching.

  “Ow!” A woman’s voice, the sound of a scuffle. The hook sunk into Hal’s belly twitched, tugging him forward, and he had no time to admire the poured stone of the walkway or the young trees flanking it. It looked very much like Roman cement, and he burned to find out what he could of this new, rich, fascinating confusion.

  Perhaps he could sweeten the new bearer’s temper until he had learned everything he could, then irritate them into sending him to the castle to think.

  No, that would not do. The thought of going back was unpleasant at best. He’d had his fill of being trammeled.

  Hal quickened his pace, catching a thread of unphysical scent. The bearer had come this way, and recently, too. As he walked he swelled, subtly, until he was as tall as the glamorous, rich, exceedingly stout adults hurrying through the darkness.

  A Single Drop

  No children came up the drive at Peakes End. They knew better than to climb the stone wall at the end of the property, or try to wriggle through the bars of the iron gate. Even the rowdiest little snotnose stayed away, most likely instinctively. It was a variant of the same aversion thieves would feel when approaching a place the Sophics used for their ceremonials.

  Well, the real rituals, not the mumbo-jumbo for the outer circle. And children were exceedingly sensitive before they hardened and stopped believing.

  Peter had finally laid down, his head on a snow-white linen pillowcase, and let out a long sigh. The antique bed-curtains were drawn, and the stuffy, enclosed feeling of safety was a balm, especially to his aching head. The old man hadn’t wanted his dinner, and Peter’s own stomach was a knot.