I nodded, sighed, and threw my head back, resigned to the fact that I would have to sleep next to Evanora…on top of the blanket, thus ensuring that I would freeze to death, but also thus ensuring that her virtue would remain intact.
But as I climbed on top of the bed, I couldn’t help but look over at Evanora, with her back turned toward me, her damp ringlets fraying slightly at the ends, and her ears twitching slightly as she periodically sniffed and made a soft mewling sound in her sleep.
“Good Christ,” I whispered, gently pulling her hair behind her shoulder and away from her face. “Nothing has changed.”
I must have fallen asleep again, because I found myself waking up when I heard the mewling sound.
Angelique was still sleeping soundly, and Jordan was, of course, snoring loudly, but this time, Rosie didn’t wake up either. I figured that I should let Rosie sleep, and tend to Evanora if I could. Worth practicing for when my own kid comes, I thought.
Slowly, I rose and tiptoed towards the bassinette, taking care not to trip over the various bodies or wake the exhausted parents. As I put my hands on Evanora, I realized just how tiny she was – her whole head could fit in the palm of my hand – and I flinched despite myself, afraid of picking her up, and even more afraid that I was going to drop her once I did pick her up.
Ultimately, though, I calmed down and picked her up, and as I did so, I settled her head into my chest while cradling under her neck with one hand and under her behind with the other. She let out a slight, unfamiliar moan as I did so, and I started to talk to her, inasmuch to calm me down as to calm her down.
“Heyyyyy, Evanora Joy. Eva. Nora. Joy,” I said, repeating each syllable of her name to help it roll off my tongue easier. “Boy, you’re quite the attraction. The first Faust baby! All the papers are talking about you, Evanora Joy, you know that?”
She let out a little hiccup. I laughed softly.
“I know! I said the same thing. Little old you causing all this big old news? No way, right?” I started walking with her and tapping her back, lightly, with the tips of my fingers. “Some of our groupies just think you are too cute for words, and some just want to beat up your mother because” – I donned a Valley Girl-type accent – “she’s totally the Yoko Ono of Faust, you guys” – I resumed talking in my normal voice – “but either way, you’ve caused quite the splash, little girl. I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do – what you’re going to be – when you’re all grown up. I’m betting you’re gonna change the world, Evanora Joy – what about you?”
I looked down at the top of her head, hoping – foolishly – that she would answer.
But she didn’t. She simply breathed, steadily and slowly, as her eyes shifted underneath her eyelids – a long, slow dream in color.
Chapter Twelve
Evanora
When I finally woke up in a chilly, dark apartment somewhere on the Bowery – an apartment that had seen better days, to be sure – I realized that I was wrapped tightly around Jamie Ryan, as much for warmth as for personal comfort, with little more than a thin black blanket on top of me, separating him and I. My arms were wrapped tightly around his chest, my hands were grasping his taut, muscular pecs, and my hips were pressed firmly against his strong butt.
I had to lay there, perfectly still, for a few minutes, as I desperately tried to commit the look, and the feel, of him into my memory. I didn’t want to forget even the slightest detail.
He was dressed in a tattered white undershirt and a black pair of boxer-briefs that left nothing to the imagination, and I couldn’t help but marvel at his long, thick cock, which leaned slightly to the right and left an unmistakable imprint on the front of his fading underwear. And even though I was, of course, still a virgin, I couldn’t help but lick my lower lip and allow my mind to wander to a place where I could imagine the feel of that long, thick cock inside of me…even despite myself.
What would my father say if he were alive today? I thought. Maybe he’d be a bit permissive, what with him being a rock star and all, but no way would he go for his daughter and his best friend. Ever.
Jamie was older, no doubt, and maybe a little heavier than his strapping Young Lion years – but he was far from fat. In fact, he was quite the opposite: his body was in peak physical shape, thanks in no small part to the fact that he had been on the run for as many years as I’d been alive, and maybe more, and had to limit his nutritional intake to the barest of necessities.
I loved how he smelled, too – like cold air, library books, and lime citrus – and found myself breathing in the scent on his neck despite myself. I understood, now, why the young women of the old New York went crazy in his presence – he was the total package.
Before I got up to shower, I ran my hand along Jamie’s hip, and to his front – hoping that he would respond in some way, either positively or negatively, so I could see if there was a chance, any chance at all, for us to be…well…us. I was startled, slightly, at how hard his cock was – I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, to be honest – maybe something that felt a little softer, or had a little “give” to the touch?
But he didn’t even move. He didn’t even stir, slightly, from his deep sleep.
I suspected it was the first time in a long time that Jamie got anything resembling a deep sleep, so rather than wake him up with amorous thoughts, I slowly unwrapped myself from him and stripped naked, taking care to look around to make sure none of the other men were looking at me in all my naked glory as I padded into the shower – not that I had anything to worry about from Tommy, but still…
But no one moved an inch. All I could hear was Kanoa – Supreme Allied Commander Shinomura, as I knew him, who was always so sweet to me when I was younger – snoring loudly, Basile periodically grinding his teeth and mumbling something about “N’awlins,” and Tommy thrashing around fitfully while whispering Spike’s name.
And still, not a sound – not even the slightest stir – from Jamie Ryan, the man once known as Ivan Sapphire, the man whose primal screams could shake this very Bowery to its core, the man who single-handedly caused the women of the old New York to loosen their inner thigh muscles just ever so slightly, and the man who was my father’s best friend and who could, better than anyone, tell me what exactly he was like.
He was, to turn a phrase, as quiet as the tomb.
I turned on the shower and blasted the hot water on my bare back, absently watching my arms turn a splotchy red as I did so.
I couldn’t do anything but think.
Tommy and I didn’t make our way back to Emperor’s Park until well into the afternoon, having slept through most of the morning. And who could blame us, really – because to say that we had an interesting night would be the understatement of the century.
Our return to Emperor’s Park was shocking, as it looked just as it did before the blast. The debris had been completely cleaned up to make it look like nothing had changed – move along, folks, nothing to see here! – but I could tell, just from the energy I felt in the air as I walked through the door, that everything had changed.
Tommy and I strolled through the front door, dressed all in black like we were going to a funeral – Tommy, wearing clothes borrowed from Basile, and me, wearing clothes borrowed from Kanoa. Even though Jamie’s clothes would have fit me a little better (not to mention were infinitely more stylish, having been custom designed by various Old New York fashion mainstays during Faust’s prime – and oh, how I would have loved to have made off with Jamie’s double-zip black pants with a crisscross belt, or his plush black shirt with a straight jacket belt design in the front, but oh, how obviously Jamie Ryan/Ivan Sapphire it would have been…), we all feared that, if I’d walked through the door wearing anything belonging to Jamie Ryan, my mother would have recognized it as belonging to her erstwhile friend, and it would have blown everyone’s cover.
My mother – who looked like she hadn’t slept a wink because she was pacing and wearing out the marble on the floor �
� grabbed me, hugged me violently, and wept uncontrollably.
“Where were you? Where the fuck were you?” she repeated, over and over, stroking my hair and hiccupping between fits of crying.
I hugged my mom back. “I’m fine, Mama, I’m fine,” I repeated, over and over, rubbing her back to reassure her that I was alright. “Tommy took care of me. He made sure I was okay. He proved himself worthy, Mama, and we’re getting married.”
She sniffled until her tears stopped, then rubbed her nose. “Oh. That’s wonderful, Evanora, baby. That’s so wonderful. I was hoping that this would happen.”
Suddenly remembering that we had company around us, she took Tommy by the hand and began affecting the phony cadence that I called the “Wife of a Dictator” accent. She thought she sounded noble and genteel – or maybe that’s what Emperor wanted her to sound like – but she sounded totally ridiculous. You are from the Bronx, Mama, I thought to myself. Don’t be ashamed of that. You overcame a lot to get here – don’t ever hide it. Not from me. Not like this.
But she either didn’t hear my thoughts, or she didn’t pay attention to them, because she continued with her Lady of the Manor routine. “Tommy, is it? Tommy. So wonderful. You’re the son of a Cabal officer, are you not? A Cabal officer we lost last night on the streets. So sad, Tommy. So sad. Your father served Emperor so honorably.”
Tommy lowered his eyelids and attempted to look forlorn. It was clearly an effort on his part. “Oh yes, Empress Consort Cunningham,” he said, devoid of any emotion or affect. “Such a sad loss for me. Such a sad loss for my family. I do hope we’ll be able to push through and survive. Your thoughts and prayers are so appreciated at this time.”
My mother smiled a pitiful, almost condescending smile. “Always, young man. How honored we are to have you join our family – to have you chosen by our darling Imperial Princess Evanora,” she said.
At the sound of the words “Imperial Princess,” I rolled my eyes so hard, I thought I could see the back of my head. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mother,” I said, exasperated, immediately hating myself because I was forced to call her Mother when I always – always – called her Mama. “Tone it down with this ‘Imperial Princess’ talk, will you? Emperor is nowhere around – we don’t have to be so formal.”
She shook her head slightly and smiled a dreamy smile – almost as if she was on the same stuff that killed my father. Given the current circumstances, I’m not sure which one of them had the worse fate.
I hate it when she gets like this, I thought.
“How perfect,” she said while turning to me, still affecting the phony cadence. “I shall set it up with Emperor. We will announce your betrothal in the morning. We’ll make sure to get you a nice, new dress – and for you, Tommy, a nice new suit. It will be a city-wide celebration – a time to rejoice in the new New York.”
I rolled my eyes again. “I’m sure, Mother,” I said sarcastically. “I can’t wait to see the guest list – all the victims of psi and the Cabal. Half the audience is better off dead, and the other half are the living dead. But don’t worry, Mother, it’s gonna be great.”
Tommy held my right hand tightly in both of his. His crisp white gloves warmed up my fingers, which were starting to chafe in the cold, dry air blowing on the balcony.
My breath was forming light, white clouds around my lips, which were turning a deep red underneath my clear lip gloss. “I’m freezing up here,” I whispered to Tommy.
Tommy rubbed his hands together over my right hand. “It won’t be long,” he whispered back. “You know what you have to say.” He put on a wide, exaggerated smile, took my hand in his, and turned to face the crowd. “Ready, Imperial Princess?” he asked through clenched teeth.
I surveyed the people below me. Cabal members in perfect formation, all blending into one another as the somnambulant living dead looked up at us blankly, guns at their backs to keep them from drooling or drifting off. Quite the welcoming party, I thought as I clenched my teeth. “As ready as I’m going to be, Prince Consort,” I replied.
He took my hand as we walked forward to face the crowd. I stood before the microphone, but before it turned on, I looked around quickly to assess the situation.
Tommy, of course, was resplendent in his white tuxedo, tailor-made for this “special day,” complimented by his warm white gloves and thick white cummerbund. My mother, too, was just as resplendent, decked out in a black kimono-style dress made of fine-spun silk, with matte black lipstick and a set of black chopsticks in her tightly-twisted hair.
But as beautiful as the sight of Tommy and my mother were, the sight of my step-father, Roger – Emperor – made my skin crawl.
I had no idea how this worm of a man – a walking pustule – who was as ugly on the inside as he was on the outside – could have become as powerful as he’d become.
I knew, academically you could say, how he got his position.
He got his position the same way that countless Presidents before him got their positions: enough people voted for him.
But there was a difference – a huge difference – between him and them: Presidents were up for re-election every four years and could only hold their office for a grand total of eight years. And they were kept in line, and prevented from abusing their power, thanks to a series of checks and balances.
My step-father – Emperor Roger Cunningham – wasn’t a President. When he came into power, he made clear that he wanted to be “Emperor for life,” and by God, that’s exactly what had happened. He’d held his office, at this point, for a little more than 20 years, and unless a true uprising could happen, he would hold this title for the rest of his pathetic existence. The only “checks and balances” my step-father knew or understood were the checks that went into his treasury, and the balance of his checkbook at any given time (which always, always, had to be more than anyone else, at any given time, in any given day – and even if it wasn’t, he was going to make it seem like it was, because woe betide the man or the woman that dared to be better than him at something, even if that “something” was as simple as pissing while standing up).
Money and power aside, I couldn’t understand how he was still alive – while he and my mother were the same age, he looked old enough to be her grandfather, let alone mine. His leathery skin always had a sickly orange tinge – in part, because he spent way too much time on a tanning bed, and in part, because whatever time wasn’t spent in a tanning bed was spent getting sprayed with a chemical that was, allegedly, supposed to make him look like he had a “golden California tan” (the company who made the chemical spray should have been sued out of existence for false advertising a long time ago, because it actually made him look like he had a “golden California jaundice diagnosis”). His beady eyes were puffed over with pockets of fat, causing them to look like the tops of bug antennae. His overbite was pronounced – embarrassingly so – and his teeth were bleached to a neon white, causing his gums to periodically bleed.
But what really completed this picture – what really made me wonder how my mother could look at this man, in the nude, and not get violently ill each time he dropped his pants – was his pot belly that hung a good six inches over his buckling knees, both of which were the result of a steady diet of his favorite foods of pizza, sugary cereals, ice cream, and chocolate cake. His pores emanated grease, not fat, and he smelled faintly like an abandoned slaughterhouse.
How, Mother? I asked myself, looking over at him as droned on the microphone. How do you manage to look at that, every night, and not get sick to your stomach? How do you go from the gorgeous demi-god of my father to this disaster? And how, most of all, do you think this is all you deserve?
As he droned on the microphone – blathering something about the blast being his personal Reichstag fire (“you weren’t even there, you bloody bastard,” hissed Tommy, under his breath; for my part, I couldn’t help but marvel at how Jamie got it right on the nose), how grateful he was to have his beloved wife and daughter alive
and well, blah blah blah – I couldn’t help but remember what the wife of a Cabal member told me about my step-father at last year’s Emperor’s Ball.
“Yes, enough people voted for him at the time,” she said, “but what were their other options? Someone who was extremely disliked – unjustifiably, I may add – and someone who was little more than living, breathing kompromat. But Roger – Emperor – your step-father won because he was their idea of a celebrity. He’s a poor man’s idea of a rich man, he’s an anonymous man’s idea of a famous man, and he’s a stupid, broke man’s idea of a smart, savvy businessman.”
I suppose that’s why they all bought his bullshit hook, line, and sinker. Of course, the psi also helped.
No matter how many times I tried to focus on what this man was saying – or, rather, blathering on about – I simply couldn’t.
All I could focus on were the psied populace below me – with guns to the back of their necks – barely able to stand up but craning their necks to the sky to see me, and Tommy, and Mama, and this asshole of my step-father, and contorting their distorted faces into what they think are smiles to celebrate my impending nuptials.
And all I could think about was how much I needed to help them. I need to help them…I need to help them…
Everything around me was going in slow motion – my step-father’s words stretched out to a distorted sound, my mother’s smirk crept across her face as though she were having a stroke, and each of Tommy’s twitches and tics seemed to be even more pronounced – as I repeated to myself, over and over, that I needed to help them.
And it was only when I heard the slimy bastard say – well, scream – my name that I finally snapped out of my state.
“Your Imperial Princess, Evanora Joy Cunningham, and her Prince Consort, the future Imperial Prince, Thomas Gendry Sherman!” he bellowed.
The Gathering: Book One of The Uprising Series Page 11