Desires, Known

by Lilith Saintcrow

But there was a rushing noise, and everything went black.

  Wake Up

  Noise. A throbbing. No, a pounding. He half-woke, then jolted into full awareness as his door—locked, for God’s sake, like it was every night—swept open, hitting a carefully left slice of turned-up carpet and slowing. That little bit of insurance was cheap and effective indeed. The old man cursed, and Peter sat straight up, stuffing his left hand under the pillow. He’d let go of the knife, where was the hilt, his damp fingers scrabbled and his skin shrank over his entire body, his balls drawing up as fight-or-flight chemicals poured through him.

  His ancestor many times removed jerked the bed’s doorward curtain aside with his thin, pasty-white right hand. “Peter! Peter, my boy—”

  The glassy hilt closed in his palm, and Peter jerked the blade free. His own hand darted out from under the pillow, and the short, curved, crystalline blade clove air with a low, sweet, deadly sound.

  Shit. He hit full consciousness a few seconds after the knife, kissing fabric, tore through the old man’s waistcoat, just whispering along the skin underneath.

  Well, he was committed now. Stupid, stupid, stupid. A junior mistake.

  The old man threw himself back, dropping into a crouch that was too spry for his wasted frame. “Peter!” he spluttered, and Peter tumbled out of the bed, bare feet hitting the Axminster and burning as he lunged.

  “Peter!” the old man yelled, and perhaps he didn’t think his great-great-however-many-greats grandson was quite awake or rational yet.

  Oh, I’m awake now. Peter slashed, hearing his mother’s screams before she was tranquilized into oblivion. I’ve been awake for quite some time.

  If the old man was breaking into his room, either the time had come for him to get rid of Peter or he was too excited to observe any precautions. Either meant that the map had changed, and now Peter could find the ring—

  If, that is, he could just kill this bastard.

  They collided, and now the old man saw the knife. Its blade zinged, a not-quite-audible sound felt more in the teeth than admitted through the ears, and comprehension flashed through the old man’s eyes.

  Which were, really, very much like his father’s. His dead father’s.

  The old man is dangerous, Peter, his father had said, with the papers for committal on his desk. It’s best this way.

  The old fucker seemed to have octopus arms, for Chrissake. He writhed in Peter’s grasp, one scrawny dead-white hand locked around Peter’s right wrist. “Treacherous,” he exhaled, foul breath touching Peter’s cheek. “Treacherous little bastard!”

  Mom. Dad. He freed his arm with a galvanic jerk, stabbed wildly. The blade caught flesh, sank in, and the old man howled. The glassblade—it was, said the books, a good way to kill anything immortal, and this one had been a beast to acquire—sang again, and Peter stabbed again. The blade caught on a rib, and the old man sagged, his breathing coming harsh and rancid.

  Peter realized he was saying it, over and over, as he plunged the knife home again and again. “Mom. Dad. Mom. Dad. Mom Dad Mom Dad MomDadmomdadmomdad Mommyyyyyyyy…” He had to stop, whooping in deep, terrible breaths. His arms ached, his pajama pants were twisted around his waist, and something hot and acrid spurted over his hand, slippery and reeking of iron. A hot foulness. Probably the old man’s blood had turned to vinegar, or something noxious, just like the rest of him.

  When the old man finally sagged and went utterly, sickeningly still, Peter rolled away. He lay on his back, half on cold hardwood, half on carpet that soaked up the sweat all over him. Tears filled his eyes, so he closed them, let the hot salt water trickle down his temples to vanish into his hair.

  Mom. Oh, Mom. I did it. I promised I would. I love you, Mom. God.

  The only sound was his breathing, just like in a horror movie. He’d often wondered why everyone gasped and panted their way through action flicks, too, but now he knew—it was just what happened. His lungs heaved. Little by little, the frantic throbbing of his heart subsided. His hand ached, ached. He was going to bruise all over, probably.

  What a way to wake up. It was the middle of the night; orangish citylight filtered in through the window and turned his room into a collection of half-sensed edges. The map was downstairs. In a minute he would get up, clean himself off, make plans about the body. Then he would—

  A slight scratching sound. His eyes flew open. A silver nail descended, slammed through his chest. Something was in his throat, and there was a ringing in his ears.

  The old man’s face, speckled and starred with a strange, tarry fluid that was not at all what blood should look like, hovered above him. His ancient claws, both mutilated and whole, were wrapped around the hilt.

  “Little bastard,” the eldest Cavanaugh hissed into his however-many-times-great-grandson’s sweat-wet, dimly surprised face. “You should have taken my head, instead of resting.”

  The pain was a red-raging beast, but Peter Cavanaugh did not cry out. The sound of a knife buried in meat or chipping bone echoed and re-echoed, a cracked, elderly voice raving about betrayal bouncing off every wall.

  But mercifully, for Peter Cavanaugh, everything went dark.

  Fetter, Castle, Blade

  It was a small, shabby place, really. Why would she choose this over the palaces he could build? Why not choose to retain some of his gifts? Why would she…

  Hal stood over the messy bed, watching. Her breathing came evenly, regular and deep. The flush of healthful sleep was on her cheeks; he had almost, almost been unable to hold to substantiality as the roaring filled his ears and the summons to the castle filled every limb with the sharp-sick tingles. Wise of her, to bind him to a promise before she smiled and…

  With this ring I thee wed, and all that.

  Sometimes, over the long years in the safety of the castle, he had contemplated briefly what it would be like. To be…free. It had never seemed possible, and of course, his knowledge of what could free him had been circumscribed. The ones who made him were intelligent enough to plan for that eventuality, and yet in the end, they had been undone by a simple mortal woman.

  No, she was not simple. Perceptive, altogether too intelligent for his comfort, and…kind. Kind, to him. Dealing with the evidence of the invisible world with far more grace than most, and so determined to do…what?

  Do you understand about right and wrong?

  There was no need to, when he was fettered. Choice was not a luxury he possessed. Even now, the idea that he could do as he pleased was somewhat…terrifying. His heart thundered in his ears, his palms were slippery with mortal sweat. It was the closest to mortality he had been since they had placed him in the circle and begun their chanting, the heavy incense making him drowsy and the symbols sliced delicately on his skin sending down thin rivulets of blood that caught flying sand, crusting him with stone worn down by infinity.

  And go find that priest, make sure he’s okay.

  He could take that to mean unable to do further harm, though he knew she had intended him to be…merciful.

  Kindness. And a…morality? It seemed such a bloodless, inelegant word for her dedication to do what she saw as right.

  Hal spread his hands. He looked at his palms, their lines shifting a little as his indecision communicated itself into flesh. The ring moved, fingers creaking and the bones sending a sweet lancing pain up his arm as he shifted. When it finished, they had been rearranged, and the ring was now on his third finger, to match how she had worn it. Warm and forgiving, the metal caressed his skin. It was heavy, and he marveled at its weight.

  It was a simple matter to fuse it to his own flesh, as he had contemplated fusing it to hers. Why had he not? Had he suspected she would do this, and somehow influenced her?

  Lying sprite, Cavanaugh had called him more than once. It was an article of firm belief, to the Fratres, that a fettered spirit would yearn for vengeance against those who used it. Hal had never given more than he was asked for, and often played the game of fulfilling the letter
of a request instead of its intent. Do not trust the invisible servants, the grimoires agreed. Perhaps because any slave, substantial or not, would eventually wish for a small measure of liberty.

  Emily sighed, moving slightly, and Hal found the knife in his right hand. Plain, wooden-hilted, the blade not metal but flint, sharp as a murderer’s whisper. The fetter, the castle, and the blade, all part of his being. Sometimes, in the very inmost core of his being, he had promised revenge on any bearer foolish enough to free him.

  Hal leaned forward, slowly. His toes dug in, and as his face lowered, he breathed her in. The scent of clean dark hair, her lucid skin, the hint of her soap, the sandalwood perfume oil she dabbed at her wrists and throat. Simple, subtle, and overwhelming.

  “Emily,” he whispered, his breath touching her cheek. She did not stir, but she did sigh, a quiet, satisfied sound. The knifehilt, warm and hard, creaked in his fist, squeezed with more-than-mortal strength. The tremors were all through him, tiny shuddering movements as every bearer flashed through his memory, from the very first—the leading sorcerer of the group who had enchained him, his brother who slaughtered him, and on through murders, thefts, new faces spitting commands at him in ancient tongues, all leading to Cavanaugh.

  And now, to her. A black-clad woman on a rainy night, with no idea what she had unleashed.

  Hal inhaled, deeply, filling his lungs with her. The flint blade slid through silken strands, and when he straightened, he had a single, curling lock of dark hair. There was a priest to catch and some few matters to attend to, before he could enjoy his newfound liberty in the manner he had decided upon.

  A few moments later, there was a soft rustling as cardamom-scented air filled the space where he had stood, but no longer was.

  Academic

  Her alarm shrilled. Em reached over, bashed the snooze button with the thoughtless accuracy of long habit, and turned back over to catch fifteen minutes more, burrowed into a warm familiar nest. A dream quivered just at the edge of her waking consciousness, something to do with…

  …cardamom breezes and a spur of massive sand-colored rock. Diamond lightning in a story sky as a circle of men chanted all around her, all her skin stinging because she was bleeding, but the pain was faraway and fading just like her own hands turning invisible as she watched.

  Her alarm shrilled again, and she fumbled for the switch on the side that would turn it off. Her phone was right there, she checked the calendar.

  Thursday. Not a day off. Goddamn it. She was sore all over. Had she been out clubbing with May?

  Wait. Hal.

  Her stomach almost cramped as she shot upright, her hair standing up in wild curls and her body suddenly a-prickle with goosebumps. She was in a sweatshirt and her Tetris boxers, and even though the elastic on said boxers was popped out and useless, she could have wept with relief.

  It was her own shabby, comfortable bedroom, a print of Monet’s waterlilies on the wall next to the half-open closet, her clothes hanging in their usual order and her shoes marching along just as they were supposed to. There was her dresser, with the jumble of junk jewelry in a celadon dish and her real jewelry box on the other side, a carved cedar beauty that had been her mother’s, closed tight and wearing its usual prim smile.

  Oh. Em rubbed at her eyes, blinked at her room. Everything was the same. The urge to pinch herself just to make sure she wasn’t still dreaming was damn near overwhelming. She slid her feet out of bed, wincing as her body reminded her that she’d either had one hell of a string of hallucinations, or…

  Well, let’s not think about that. She had to go to work. Everything like it was before, that was the deal. She had to make it to work on time.

  Once again, her conscience had fucked her over but good. It would have been nice to wake up in that whipped-cream house and have a couple days of just lounging around.

  And getting shot at? You did the right thing, Em.

  She didn’t bother making her bed, for once, just rubbed her feet against the medium-cheap carpet and shivered at the feeling. Then she hauled herself up, like a cranky old lady, and staggered to the kitchen to flip the coffeepot on.

  Her living room was just the same, as if her couch and coffee table and everything else hadn’t been shattered. The blank eye of the television regarded her. She should have asked for a better home theater system before he left, really.

  It was all a dream. A really vivid one.

  She’d almost convinced herself as much by the time she shuffled into the kitchen, scratching at her ribs under her ratty, familiar Pigeons sweatshirt. There was a faint familiar smell—Indian food? Maybe. Had she gotten food poisoning and hallucinated? The local health authorities would probably be very interested in that, but fuck if she was going to tell them. How would you even begin to report something like that?

  Em halted. Her phone was buzzing, back in her room—her you-really-have-got-to-get-up-now alarm. Belt and suspenders, her father used to say, usually shaking his head at little Emily’s lack of foresight and preparation. He’d really, really wanted a Boy Scout of a son, and could never quite get over the fact that his daughter, who tried so hard to make up for her genetic accident, merely suffered camping rather than enjoying it.

  Little Emily never quite measured up, even now, when she was organized and prepared up the wazoo.

  Her eyes were hot, and very full. One scorching, betraying little droplet crawled down her left cheek.

  There, on the very clean Formica counter, the sleek silver espresso machine sat.

  So he had left her something after all. She couldn’t even pretend it was all some sort of Dickensian Christmas fable.

  Em scrubbed at her eyes and her cheeks, turned smartly around, and headed for the shower.

  * * *

  The line at the coffee shop on 158th was enough to make her grit her uncaffeinated teeth, her gray raw-silk skirt had a stain on it she didn’t remember, her heels rubbed unmercifully, and to top everything off, the spreadsheets were still refusing to make sense—someone, somewhere, had done something wrong, and it was up to Em to fix it. Her hair went everywhere, despite the conditioner she’d soaked her head in, and last but certainly not least, her phone began buzzing just after the lunch she was forced to skip while tracking down that goddamn data entry error. Not to mention she kept catching herself rubbing at her left ring finger, where there was a small divot.

  A small, empty divot.

  Her phone lit up again. It was May, of course.

  Call me, I have the most amazing news!

  Looked like Hal had kept his promise. Good for him. Now it was up to May and the Ontario Cowboy, and hopefully they would work it out. Or just bang each other senseless and be buddies afterward. Whichever it was, they could do it without her interference, or even without her commentary for a little while.

  Em pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling. Exhaled a long, tense breath, and when she opened her eyes, the answer to the data-entry bug was right there, staring her in the face.

  “Oh,” she said, softly. “Well, I’m an idiot.”

  She’d stumbled on something that could get Brett fired. The trail was there, in the numbers, with his entry codes on payments that shouldn’t be. She hadn’t been looking in the right place, just assuming the rather sizable discrepancy had been from data entry in an entirely different layer.

  Well, specializing in Forensic Accounting instead of just taking the basic courses had sounded incredibly interesting. Maybe it was time to go back to school. Meanwhile, she just sat and looked at the screen, absorbing this new turn of events. It was all right to feel a sneaking little sense of joy at karma that was about to land on—

  Her sense of victory was short-lived, because a pair of hands descended on her shoulders and squeezed.

  Emily yelped and dug her heels in, shoving her chair back. It hit the person behind her and there was a clatter, but she had already leapt free and grabbed her stapler. She whirled, and found Brett, blond and slicked-back as ever, had
been knocked on his ass. Her chair had fallen on him, and as he struggled to get up, it hit the cubicle-walls on either side of the door opening. They creaked alarmingly, and Becky next door let out a surprised little cry.

  Oh, what the flying fucksake… Em ran out of words, even mentally. Brett. Of course. She’d almost forgotten about his sneaking little harassing ways. Now, of course, she could wonder if he was sneaking up on her to see if she’d cottoned on to his embezzling. Not only was he a douche, he was a stupid, creepy little douche.

  She hefted the stapler. He was hopelessly tangled in the chair. First, she could bounce the Swingline off his stupid, pomade-scented head. Then she could stamp on the chair, driving it further into whatever parts of him it could bite. After that, she could pick up her too-old, clunky monitor and drop it on him.

  It sounded like a wonderful plan.

  “Ow!” Brett finally found his breath and yelled.

  “Serves you right,” Em found herself saying, just as loudly. “Haven’t I told you a million times not to sneak up on me? Haven’t I?” She filled her lungs again, and decided she might as well go for broke. “Stop trying to touch my breasts!” she screamed, drowning him out. “What is wrong with you, are you fourteen? This is not appropriate behavior!”

  Scuttering, scurrying sounds. The entire floor must have heard. Becky’s head appeared over the three-quarters wall. “Emily?” Her eyebrows—she’d gotten them waxed, good for her—nested in her hairline, and when she grasped the situation a disbelieving joy spread over her face even as her jaw dropped.

  Emily took another deep breath. She caught the sound of hurrying wingtips—it would be Funke. Not even her direct boss, but the one above, the one she’d been worrying about going into a meeting with when she couldn’t find the discrepancies.

  Oh, my word, it’s just like Christmas.

  Well, good. Good. Her very last nerve had been grated into nonexistence. Once you’d been shot at and set a genie free, an office harasser was small fucking potatoes. If she got fired over this—because she knew slimy little bastards like Brett were almost immune from anything, because they had twigs-and-berries—oh well. She had a degree and unemployment. Or maybe she could pack it all in, sell everything, and move to a hot country where the cost of living was ridiculously low.