He looks at me, a knot between his eyebrows as though tryin' to figure somethin' out. Me, maybe. His fingers tick against his pants leg. Trying to figure out his words, then.
“Why didn't you tell me you had seen me die?” There is no anger in his words, but I feel guilty nonetheless.
“Folks are not usually so fond of being told the when and how and wherefore of their end. Especially not when it's violent.”
“But you told Gil Mains.”
I nod. “I was young still. And the good he would do if...” I hesitate. One thing you learn real quick when you mess with the future is that the dream of a better future is just that. You can pull on those threads and change the numbers, change the timing, but some things you can't prevent, and in the end, everyone dies.
“If he didn't die when he was supposed to.”
“Everyone dies when they're supposed to, Mr. Cox. Just depends on what they do while they're alive.”
“And some you give a little helping hand.” Percy sits down next to me.
It is a simple answer to a question that is fraught with complication and complicity, but I nod. “Yes.”
“Then there's a way for me to avoid death in the arms of that thing called The Salesman.”
“Once you know the future, you can change it.”
He considers that for a little while. “And your future?”
“Uncertain. But I am more... interested in the present. In this moment.” I lean forward and touch my mouth to his. Not a kiss, but an invitation. My lips and breath brushing against his while my heart thuds hard in my chest, before I sit back.
His eyes widen, looking at me differently, though he doesn't move away. “Delaney.”
“Percival.” I don't dare to breathe or move or even wish, unwilling to touch any of these threads. Whatever happens next, he must do it on his own, even if it means he walks away.
He takes my hand, folds both of his around it. Trying to use his Sensitivity to read the situation. The pain that nearly crippled him earlier is gone, replaced by the electricity we both feel.
“Explain this to me, Delaney. We have only just met.” A pause, remembering I have seen him before. “I have only just met you, but I feel... is this your doing?”
“You and me being here in this place. That is my doing. But not how you feel. Not even how I feel.” I clutch his hands tight. “I did not mean to fall in love with you, Percival Cox. But I would never use you so poorly as to make you feel the same for me.”
He frowns. “Not deliberately.”
My breath sticks in my throat, knowing his words are true. It is possible I have Touched something in him without realizing it. “Never deliberately, Percy.” It is just a whisper, but I look him square in the eye despite feeling naked and ugly and cruel.
This time he is the one who leans forward to press his lips against mine. At first we only touch, an uneven reflection of each other—palm to palm and mouth to mouth. Touching. Waiting. Growing comfortable in this moment.
The sense of electricity builds 'til I am shaking with it. Percy too.
He is the first to move. One hand tangles in my hair. His other arm wraps around me, his hand moving under my sweater and the heat of his skin soaking through the thin cotton of my dress.
And this thing which should be strange and awkward because we are new to each other—the caress of tongue and gentle tease and pull of lips, our breath coming and leaving together—it is as easy and natural as the beat of my heart. Of our hearts.
By the time he pulls away I am full to overflowing with feelings so unfamiliar, I barely recognize them. Joy. Contentment. Excitement and anticipation. Desire. All making my heart heavy and raw and about to explode if I don't run or scream or hit something, and, since I can do none of those here, I cry instead. Not delicate tears like the lady actors cry in the shows on TV, but big, hot ones that make my face sticky and my nose run.
“Shhhh.” Percy pulls me into his lap. “It's all right.”
“I'm sorry.” I try to dry my face on my sleeve. “It's just...”
“You have been alone for a long time.” He says it quiet and with his cheek pressed against mine.
More tears spill over, and all I can do is hold on while my heart pours out in big hiccupping sobs. “S-silly,” I stammer after a while.
“No.” He smooths the hair back from my face and looks at me. “No, Delaney. Not silly. Or stupid,” he adds before I can open my mouth again. “I have walked a little distance in your shoes. Cried these same tears, though it was years ago.”
I shake my head. He is referencing something from the years before I knew him. “I don't understand.”
“When I was younger, I was in an institution for a while,” he says, and the lines around his mouth tell a story I feel in my bones. “Only a couple of years, but the memory is still sharp. The static in my head from the meds. And the…the shocks. The way no one wanted to touch me or talk to me. How no one would even look me in the eye because they were afraid that somehow I would do something to hurt them. I remember how even when I wasn't locked up alone, I might as well have been.”
His arms are like stone around me. I touch his face and feel the anger still burning under his skin despite the calm facade he presents. “But you are out now.”
“As you are. As you should have been.”
“Then we might not have found ourselves here.”
“Not here, but somewhere. If we are meant to be together, there will always be a road leading me to you.”
“Ah.” For a moment I want to tell him the truth, but it is not time for that. Not yet.
I kiss him again before I can change my mind. Lose myself for a while in the taste of him and the heat of his body between my legs, until we have both put some distance between us and the memory of isolation.
He sighs. “Are you certain you want to do this now?”
“Yes.” The pinch of worry returns. Despite the kissing, perhaps he has no desire for physical intimacy. “Don't you?”
“I do. But your first time...” He hesitates and a flush touches his cheeks.
“We will take it slow and you will be gentle with me, Percy.”
He relaxes. “Yes.”
“Good.” I comb his hair back off his forehead. “It will be all right.”
He murmurs in agreement and tugs at the edge of my sweater. “Can we take this off?”
I shrug it off reluctantly, nervous about showing him my scars, but knowing I cannot keep them hidden forever.
His eyes flicker and he touches the rough skin. “How did...” He stops as I tuck my arm against my chest and attempt to cover them with my other hand. “I'm sorry. That was rude of me.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You are right. They're ugly.” I let my hair shield my face again. I'm ugly because of them. It's why I wear a sweater even in the hot months. To keep them hidden. So there is one less reason for folks to flinch away from me.
“Hush.” He reaches down and snags the edge of his shirt, pulling it off over his head in a single motion. “Here.” He takes my hand and presses it against the scar on his shoulder. “Does this make me ugly?”
“N-no.” I'm stammering again. My heart beats fast and all of me tingles with the need to touch him.
“And this one?” He lays my other hand over the longer scar that wraps around the bottom edge of his ribs.
“No.”
Slowly he unbuttons the front of my dress and slips it off my shoulders. Then the thin strap of the worn bra underneath. Brushes his fingers across the lumpy ovals on my shoulder. “And these?”
I shake my head. “No.” It's just a whisper. I cannot manage anything else past the lump in my throat. I had not thought it was possible to love him more than I already did. Even knowing that there is some measure of pity in his feelings for me, I am breathless with the sense of fullness that comes from holding him. From him holding me.
I stand up and let my dress slide down my hips to fall to the floor. Pry my sho
es off. Fiddle the hooks on my bra apart. The cool air raises gooseflesh as I slip my underwear off. The carpet is rough under my feet, and I shuffle back and forth for a moment 'til I find a patch that’s less worn.
Percy sits on the edge of the bed. His hands are on his knees and his gaze fixed tight on me—sliding hot across my body. “So that's it?”
“It's just skin.”
“Hah.” He unbuckles his belt, stands up, and lets his pants drop. “I forgot you are not as shy as you seem.” His boxers follow his pants and it is my turn to look at him.
“You are not so shy as you seem either.”
He shrugs and there is an uneasy slant to his mouth, smoothed away a moment later. “There is something about you that makes me comfortable where I am not with anyone else.”
I am afraid that is my doing. But I cannot know for certain, and there is no undoing it now. These threads are set.
I take a step closer. Take his hands in mine. “Percival.”
“Delaney.” He tilts his head down to kiss me, as deep and honest as anyone has ever been with me.
I close my eyes. I had hoped that once I reached this moment, I would find a different road. I want there to be new threads that do not require the magic and blood I have poured into the ones that have led us here.
But these threads are the ones I have twisted and pulled since I first saw Percy. Worn thin to the point where all might break away and leave me drifting without direction or control and faded 'til I must use all my skill to discern where one ends and another one does not.
I had hoped once I reached this moment, I would find another road, but this is the only way. Neither of us will survive without the other, no matter how much I might have twisted the roads that lead away from here.
I wrap my arms around him, breathless and warm. “Now?”
“Yes.” He pulls me back onto the bed so that we lie next to each other.
I smooth the scar on his shoulder with my thumb. These things do not make us ugly. “Gently then. But not too slow.”
17
Afterward we lie together, legs still intertwined and hands laying claim on each other. His hair curls around his ears, damp with sweat, skin glowing against mine. I rest my head on his shoulder and wish this moment never ends. I know it will. I know it must.
“I wish it didn't,” I whisper.
Percy murmurs and opens his eyes. There is a moment of confusion, soon replaced with worry. “What's wrong?”
“It's nothing.”
He touches the corner of my mouth. “You look upset.”
“I'm just tired.”
“Then sleep.”
“In a minute.” I comb the hair off his forehead. “I want to remember this.”
Percy lies quietly for a little while, watching me. One hand moving across my body, drawing little circles on my skin as his fingers drift across the hollows and hills of my belly and breasts. “Are you afraid?”
I lick my lips. “A little.” I look at him more closely. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I cannot see the future, Delaney.” He says it crossly. “I cannot even fathom what sort of... thing this Salesman must be. How can I tell my team how to stop it? How can I fight something I know will kill me if it touches me?”
“I will not let that happen.”
He shivers. “You do not...”
“Listen to me.” I lean my forehead against his. “It is the story that has given birth to this thing. Small magic from many tongues. The repetition of fear and hate collecting like drops of rain forming a puddle. Growing larger over the years as more tongues whispered revenge. Larger, but without form. And without form, it had no power.”
A moment while he thinks about it. “Then something has changed.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know... I mean, have you seen it?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. The threads are numerous; I do not see them all nor remember every one that I see. “I think that... pool has found a way to take on a form. It has attached itself to something ordinary.”
“Ordinary?”
“Something physical. Something that can be destroyed.”
“How?” He clutches at me, desperate.
“You will know once you see it.” I touch his cheek reassuringly. “Everything physical can be destroyed.”
Percy nods, though the pinch of worry remains. “You'll help me?”
My lips tremble as I force a smile. He can't know how his words cut to the bone. “Yes. I'll help you.”
“Good.” He pulls me into the circle of his arms, lets his breath out slow. “We should rest now.” Already his eyes are sliding closed again, a sleepy burr to his voice.
I rest my head on his shoulder. His heart beats slow and steady under my hand. This is a moment I wish could last, but I know it won't.
Everything physical can be destroyed. Even them that don't burn.
18
Six good years.
Gil Mains stares at the coffee in his cup. A thread of steam creeps across the surface, but he doesn't have the gift to see any meaning in it. He sighs and takes a sip.
Six good years with his wife he got because of Delaney. And one year of pain and beauty after the cancer got hold of her liver. He takes another swallow of coffee.
The doctors had talked about new treatments and options for drawing the last few months of her life out. But the numbers were still so small. Odds that no fool would take if it weren't a question of watching someone you love eaten up from the inside.
He'd gone to visit Del. Offered her whatever she wanted that he had to give. Begged her to do something to save his wife. Had cursed her when she said she could do nothing more.
It was the only time he ever saw her cry.
He stands up and takes the empty mug to the sink. Washes it out and wipes it dry with a towel. Some weeks he lets it all pile up in the sink. There's more than enough dishes for just one man and no one coming to visit, so it's more trouble than it's worth to wash each plate when he's done with it. Let them pile up for a bit as long as the flies don't find 'em.
Same with the rest of the house. He don't let it get too bad. Not filthy-like, anyway. Just dirty sometimes. No one's there to fuss if the bed ain't made up every morning or the clothes folded and put back in their drawers.
But today Gil's thinking of his wife and he's put it all straight. Today he's thinking of Delaney and The Salesman and feeling tight and strange in his chest like he's going to walk out that door and never come back.
Six good years. And one hard one.
Del told him she couldn't do nothing more than what she already had. There weren't no changing the fact that his wife was dying or how she was dying. But she wouldn't be facing the pain and fear alone.
Six good years and the chance to hold Lettie's hand when she passed. It wasn't the future he would have picked, but he wasn't the one with the Touch and as much as Del scared him...
She's more kind than not. If she said it was the best way, he had to accept it.
But today, with the sky so washed out by the sun it don't have no color and the feeling of electricity in the air that says a storm is coming, he wonders what else she has in store for him.
Not that he won't do it.
He'd promised her whatever she wanted that he had the power to grant and he meant it, even if it seemed at first that he was getting the short end of the stick. Because Lettie was dying and there was no stopping it.
She fought the best way she knew how. Not the way the doctors wanted with their offers of experimental treatments and promises of better odds that were measured in fractions of a percent. Not the way he wanted with his desperate bargaining with the only Power he knew for sure.
Lettie had lived fiercely in the twelve months she had left. Cramming twenty years of living into one and dragging him along with her. And eventually he realized that six good years was enough if it meant having the one.
So Gi
l Mains stands on his front porch watching the heat boil up off the road and the horizon getting grayer with every passing minute and he knows that he has a promise to keep.
He rubs his head, thoughtful-like.
Inside the phone rings and he nods.
“Huh. I figure that's about to come due.”
19
I don't spend much time around normal folks. Even at Greenhaven I'm usually alone for most of the day and night. Not left to myself, but alone nonetheless.
I'd forgotten how deep the whispers cut, just how heavy the looks get. Even with my hair combed and pulled back neatly on the back of my neck and the scars that run down my arm hidden under the thick weave of my sweater, even with trying to stand straight and smile and not stare at anyone too hard with my brown eye, I still stand out like a sinner on Sunday.
Percival is in Sheriff Tolbert's office along with the rest of his team and a handful of senior deputies. Since I'm here only because Percy insisted I not be left behind at the motel, I'm balanced on the edge of a hard bench in the reception area doing my best not to fidget. A task made more difficult by the ornery nature of the bench—too tall to let my feet touch the ground unless I sit on the front edge where the wood is cut in a clean corner instead of rounded like a sane piece of furniture.
I rub my forehead and stare at my hands again. Try and organize things in my head.
By now Ms. Drowner is unfortunately dead. I figure that's the source of most of the hot looks and cold words flying my direction. But there's also Luke and Merv. MacKenzie and Elliot didn't find them at home and their truck was spotted abandoned this morning.
Tolbert ain't stupid, so he's guessed the boys have stolen a different truck or maybe a car and are out looking for another woman with the Touch. Truth be told, there aren't that many. Half the names he put on that list last night are no more special than a cow turd, but most folk will seize on any difference as a sign of supernatural powers. I figure Luke and Merv aren't any different.
By now Tolbert's also figured out they aren't going to intercept them before they snatch another woman. The only way to stop someone else from gettin' burned up like yesterday's dinner is to find the place they're taking her.
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