by Chris Howard
She told Nicole and Zypheria to leave Bachoris alone. He was helping, and he was going to stay as long as she wanted him to. She didn't want their help, if they couldn't do it with him. Nicole ran errands, reined in her attitude, and tolerated Bachoris' presence stoically. Jill hid in her room, sobbing, and when she did appear, her eyes were red, swollen, and when she had to speak, to answer a question, she used single syllables, or just nodded or shook her head. The house was dim, a gray mood, and outside, the weather followed with thick mist, a window rattling nor'easter dumping rain and shaking the trees; the Atlantic was angry, coming into the coast milky gray, churning, impatient.
Days passed, and Kassandra's recovery went on with all the power of the kings and queens in her head working without stop, not only because they could, but because she had commanded them to.
She had a schedule to keep.
Nicole made shopping runs in the pouring rain, Gregor helped Bachoris reluctantly, and Michael Henderson made chicken soup, slipping the recipe to Bachoris when Zyph wasn't looking. Zypheria brooded in the living room, sleeping on the couch with her sword and a loaded crossbow; the main task Kassandra had given her was to prevent her father from answering the front door.
Kassandra woke early four days after being shown the edge of death, her head swimming, brain sloshing around. Her mouth was dry, an empty rumbling in her stomach, cramps and aching joints, but she slid out of bed and put on her robe. She smiled down at Bachoris sleeping in an arched uncomfortable lump on the floor.
Zypheria jumped from the couch sword out, when she heard someone in the kitchen, lowering it slowly, forgotten when she saw Kassandra standing in front of the refrigerator, both doors wide open, light spilling over her death-pallid features. Indecision was a good sign. A sign of life.
Kassandra smiled, a sleepy warm smile. "Good morning, Zypheria."
Zypheria dropped her sword. It slipped out of her fingers, clattering to the floor, a burst of tears down her cheeks. "Oh, milady." She hugged her gingerly. "You will kill us all. Worried to death."
"I am lucky to be surrounded by your love, you and Michael, dad, Nicole." She hesitated, blinking to hold in her feelings. "Jill." She shut the fridge door, glancing over her shoulder at Bachoris coming down the stairs barefoot, nearly silent. He sat down on the third step, rubbing his eyes. "And my Bachoris."
His shoulders dropped, relaxed, the burden sliding off them.
Kassandra grinned. "Couldn't pee without you, dear." She elbowed Zypheria, giving Bachoris a teasing look. "And I wouldn't have gotten one peanut butter sandwich if you hadn't stuck around."
He nodded wearily, rubbing his eyes. "I have met things—immortals—that kill for fun, that enjoy spectacles of pain, who torture their friends. I fear them..."
Kassandra looked up. "What are you trying to say?"
He looked back at her, shoulders hunched, wretched. "I—I don't know. I'm lost, Kassandra. Lost without you. I just didn't know—wasn't sure, until..."
She raised an eyebrow, waved airily, an affected lightness in her tone to try to bring his spirits up. "I'm a demanding bitch. Not sure if you'll be able to stand me after a while."
Bachoris looked away, alarmed.
He didn't like the way she was steering the conversation. "I know its name was Ormenos, but what kind of animal was that thing in the water? That thing that almost killed you." He gave her a worried look. "That thing you killed."
She returned an unkind smile, looking directly at him. "Something immortal. Ormenos was one of the original nine Telkhines lords."
Kassandra spent another three days recuperating, in bed more than out of it, feeling well enough by Thursday to leave the house, ignoring King Moiriades in her head complaining about recommended recovery times. They'd just managed to get her lost braid grown back.
And Bachoris kept his promise.
"Going where?" Gregor stopped her by the front door, Zypheria jumping up to join them.
She gave her father a don't worry smile. "I feel fine. I won't be out late. I'm just going to Bachoris' for dinner." She glanced at Zypheria, made her eyebrows jump. "Guys who can cook are total turn on's."
Nicole wandered over, a sandpaper rough undercurrent of suspicion in her tone, in every motion. "Haven't seen you in a skirt in a while."
Kassandra smoothed her hands down the light cotton, shrugging her shoulders. "It's comfortable." She pulled the thin strap of her top back over her shoulder, bowed, and pulled open the door.
She walked to Bachoris' place, a tiny rental cottage just up from the shore in Hampton. She passed Alex Shoaler's house on the way, glancing in the windows to see if anyone was home. Dark and silent. Elizabeth's car wasn't in the driveway.
Bachoris answered the door wearing an apron. He looked down, following her look, and smiled back. "Something I've gotten used to. I'm usually wearing tailored clothes, something nice, and I can't afford to get anything on them." He was wearing shorts and a tee shirt underneath, nothing on his feet.
"Smells good. What's for dinner?"
She slid her hand around his waist, under his shirt as he led her back to the kitchen.
"The couscous dish I couldn't hold onto at your party, and I'm just getting the fish out of the oven, a panko encrusted cod."
She slowed down, let him go, wandering around the tiny living room, a bookshelf with someone else's old books. She guessed the two shelves of crack-spined paperback romance novel's were part of the rental agreement.
He stopped her at a closed door at the end of a short hallway, stuck his head out of the kitchen. "Don't go in there."
"Bedroom? Hiding something?"
"My world," was all he said, pointing away from the closed door to a narrow open door on her left. "That's the bathroom."
She came back through the kitchen, took another step into the dining space—part of the kitchen space but without counters, to a small wood table for two. She set out the place mats, dishes, silverware. Her smile brightened when Bachoris lit the candles with a snap of his fingers.
He served, pulled her chair out for her, and they ate with all the formality of a state dinner with a visiting monarch—not much to Kassandra's liking.
She indulged him.
She got up, took her dish to the sink. "Delicious, Bachoris. You haven't asked, but the answer's yes, if you can cook like this, I might just marry you."
He had to jump to grab his own dish which had slipped from his fingers.
She took it from him, stuck it in the sink, and led him outside where they could breathe the cool ocean air and listen to the gulls. She untied his apron and tossed it underhand behind her, pushing him forward through the sand toward the beach.
"Loosen up." Kassandra drummed her fingers up his back. "I've never seen you so nervous."
Bachoris slowed, took a deep breath, let his racing mind wind down, and swung his arm over her shoulder, his fingers playing with the strap that kept falling down her arm.
They followed the sandy path to Hampton Beach with a very calm Atlantic, a sheet of blue steel with low round waves. She was about to dash forward, but he touched her wrist, firm warm fingers against her skin, and she turned, met his eyes, deep enough to swim in, dark beautiful eyes.
And no lifeguard on duty.
He kneeled and then sat down, pulling her to the sand, smiled—a go-ahead-and-swim-in-them smile.
"Gladly," she whispered.
His fingers played up her thigh, pushed her skirt higher. She stared at his hand, warm brown fingers on her skin, the pressure of his finger tips, his palm, a heavy fluid motion over her skin, his touch like sand poured into the shape of his hand.
He is rock, desert, sand... quicksand.
She glanced over her shoulder, back toward his rental cottage, then spun into him, a quick kiss. "I want to see your world," she breathed into his throat, her fingers gripping his arm.
He tried for funny, got about halfway there. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
"Deal." Playin
g with hair at the back of his neck. "Mine first."
She'd already taken him on a few long ocean trips, but the way she pushed her world to the front of the line made it sound like she had something interesting planned. He made a disappointed humming noise, grimacing. "You won't like mine, waterless—to you a waste." He tilted his head down to lean his chin against her shoulder, kissed her there. "You'll probably like my world much less than I like yours."
Fingering the collar of his shirt. "Oh, you're going to love mine." In a tone that added, whether you like it or not.
He shifted his legs to balance himself. "So sure?"
Her fingers glided across his chest, cold when they stroked his throat. She leaned in for a kiss, and then let him go. "Come with me and I'll show you."
She somersaulted backward, long braids whipping by, coming up on her knees behind him, then a smooth glide to her feet. She walked right by, down the beach, into the water, and let it play around her ankles. She smiled over her shoulder, gave him a come-here curl of her finger.
Bachoris jumped to his feet, dashing after her, arms out low to scoop her up. She dodged his grasp with a laugh, dropping flat onto her back in the water, coming up straight and spinning behind him. He was no match for her in the sea. She danced around the sweep of his arm, slapping his hand going by.
She shoved him and he splashed through the surf, spray going everywhere, laughing as he stumbled forward, caught his fall with his hands, and continued into the Atlantic, the blunt rolls of water darkening his swim trunks, baggy pale orange with a fall of sharp green leaf shapes.
She stopped and waited for him. He caught her hand and they went under, laughing, twisting in the shallows, Kassandra grabbing him, taking the lead. They blew the air from their lungs at the same time, and she leaned in and caught his eyes, gave him a kiss, the hard pressure of her lips distracting him from the shock of letting water into his lungs.
She had given him the curse weeks before. No one got used to interfacing quickly, even those born with the ability.
With Kassandra leading, pulling him along, they were a mile from shore in minutes, a smooth angle into darker sea, deeper into her world.
She turned suddenly, kissed and released him, her legs coming around him, climbing up his body, her knees digging into his ribs, her fingers in his hair, curling around the back of his head to bring her throat to his lips.
She was like a different kind of...thing in the water, her skin glassy fluid smooth, reminding him of the warm polished inside of a seashell, but pliable, polished marble that moved and molded to his touch.
She tightened her legs around him, paddling one hand to set them spinning, and they fell deeper into the Atlantic.
"Bachoris dear, this isn't just an extension of my world—this three-dimensional space, the ocean, the Sea. This is me."
"Oh, gods, Kass." The water caught the s's in her name, currents of it hissing around them. "I do love your world."
"That's right you do." And she tightened her grip on him, closed her eyes because she didn't need them anymore, and rolled him into the deep.
Chapter 27 - World Without Water
Kassandra danced out of the surf, light as air, her body running with adrenalin, a buzz that made her fingers numb. And she laughed and grabbed Bachoris by the hand, tugging him toward his house.
"Your turn to show me yours, love. Now. I need to see it. You promised."
He tried to protest but she kissed it off his lips.
Bachoris nodded, swung his arms low, scooped Kassandra into them protectively, and carried her to his little rental cottage in Hampton. He felt a cold tap at the base of his neck, looked over his shoulder to see Akastê and her three incarnations, the white-blond haired young man, the little girl with the mask. He shuddered, and nearly dropped Kassandra, but she clutched his arm, her fingers curling around his neck to get a better hold on him, closing her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder.
At the edge of the porch, he looked back one more time.
Akastê gave him a smirk. Her last words to him, oozing in his ears. Lead Kassandra into your desert, let her fade, let her die there, take the crown. Do not come out without the Sea's crown, Bachoris, or I will consider you a failure, a loss, and I really have no use for Agenika without you.
Akastê waved, nodding at him encouragingly. The young man with the long white hair gave him a jaunty salute, tipping a non-existent hat. The girl with the painted porcelain face took off her mask, showed him the rot and maggots underneath, a squirm of wet crackling motion filling out her cheeks, the hole of her nasal cavity, a patchwork of decay and foamy white splatters of bacteria. She bowed low to him before sliding her face back on.
Bachoris kicked in the front door to his house just to get away.
By the time he reached the door at the end of the hall, he was crying softly; a tear rolled down his cheek, and she caught it on her finger, tasted it. "What's wrong?"
He tried to focus on her through more tears. "At the party you told me not to be afraid." He spun the handle, lifted her higher in his arms and stepped through the soft glowing opening in the air. The tears dried off his face.
The door slammed behind them, and there was no sign of the cottage's bedroom, no bed, no room, no door to go back through.
"Put me down," said Kassandra in a cautious whisper. "Please."
He pulled her closer to him. "Not until I get to the stone house, someplace where the sand will not burn the skin off your feet. She stopped struggling, let him carry her up the slope.
She stared over his shoulder at his world. Blinding light and sand in every direction, dry wind blowing, dust in her eyes, collecting in her lashes. And she couldn't breathe. A world like hell. She held in her complaint, waited to see what he had planned. If he could endure her Atlantic bed for several hours, she could take anything he showed her. She looked around sadly. At least for a while.
She pulled herself up, and he shifted to cradle her, but she felt weak, her muscles not working right. Her body felt heavy, her arms weighed down by the heat, the dryness. I have no power here. I can't feel...my power.
She tried to summon her armor, her trident.
Nothing. I am nothing here.
Her voice sounded scared. "Where are you taking me?"
He didn't answer, stopping to balance her in his arms while he kicked open a thick solid door. It swung in, creaking to a stop about halfway, and he slipped inside sideways, setting her down in the middle of a small empty room of brick walls with a high ceiling.
He didn't look at her, just backed out of the room and slammed the door, a rolling metal grating sound of the bolt. He had locked her inside.
She went to the door. "What are you doing?" She heard his feet gliding through the sand, around the side of the building. "Bachoris? Where are you going?" She followed the sounds.
His footsteps slipped away, soft brushing noises that faded into the wind, not going back the way they had come in, but continuing on past the building, climbing higher. She heard him sobbing, little coughing noises, murmured apologies.
She shrieked, "Where are you going, Bachoris! Do not leave me here. I cannot stay here!"
Outside, Bachoris turned at the head of a dune, and looked down at the little stone prison. He listened to Kassandra's pleading, and it made his teeth hurt, there was an ache behind his eyes, the sound of her crying burned inside his head. He walked away, sobbing harder, and didn't look back. He slid his hands over his ears.
Kassandra ran to the wall opposite the door, running her hands over the bricks, begging, "Please!"
She screamed his name as loud as she could. She clawed the stone walls. She kicked the door to her prison in the desert. She felt weaker, her strength draining with every breath, the water in her body drying up. The air was thin like razorblades, every breath cutting into her.
"Bachoris!" She screamed through the door one more time, pounding with her fist until her knuckles ran with blood. She slid to the floor, a smear of r
ed following her down. "No. This is not supposed to happen."
She slumped onto the stones, propped up on her hands for a moment, then fell on her face, Alex's metal cylinder ringing dully on its chain around her neck. She scrambled for it, knurled tungsten slippery in her hands, fumbling with it, her fingers shaking too much to grip the capped ends. She screamed in rage, and nothing happened. She stuck it in her mouth, grinding her molars on the metal. Her tongue was dry, sticky behind her teeth, chips of tooth, root burning pain.
She tried to spit, but nothing happened. Her lips stuck to her gums. She worked the muscles in her cheeks, her throat, the floor of her mouth, squeezing out enough saliva to make the sharp tooth fragments cut into soft tissue. She scraped them out of her mouth with her fingers.
Frantic, she pulled Alex's metal cylinder full of the ocean over her head. The chain draped along her arm heavily, dry links ringing against each other. The sound hurt her ears. She cupped the cylinder in her shaking hands, rolled it up between her fingers. It weighed so much, she didn't have the strength to hold it off the floor.
She screamed inside her head, a dry wheezing whistle coming from her throat. Too weak. She dropped the container of the ocean on the floor, and it rolled with its chain up against the door.
"Ochleros? Please find me. Someone help me."
Desperate, she curled her legs up, sobbing with her chin hitting her knees.
She closed her eyes and there was nothing but the sound of the dry wind, a hot drift of light as the sun set, and Bachoris' world became ice cold.
The ambulance backed into the driveway of the house at the end of Atlantic Avenue, an EMT jumping from the passenger side, boots crunching on the gravel. He was a stocky man in a dark blue jumpsuit, a shoulder patch with "EMERGENCY RESPONSE" in bold, and an oval on his chest that read, "Andy" in stitched italics. He dropped panels on the side of the vehicle, pulling out two orange utility boxes, stacking them at the rear passenger corner. He swung the backdoors wide, and the gurney ejected. The wheels dropped and locked, and he unclipped the restraints, letting them dangle, lifted the orange boxes and placed them on top.