Desires, Known

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “The woman. The innocent.” The priest’s mien grew severe, and his grasp on the hilt firmed. “Tell me you mean her no harm.”

  “Harm?” Hal shook his head. “This is all for her safety.” He paused. And she will never know. “Friend, I think it’s best you leave now.”

  Frank nodded. Smoke curled from the shattered double doors behind Hal. The rest of the building was now full of torn cloth and fragments of furniture. Soon, it would be ashes. “I think so too.” He did not say God watch over you, or even that absurdity, God bless you.

  Instead, he simply turned, and began picking his way for the front door. He weaved perhaps a little bit more than was acceptable, swaying with exhaustion.

  Hal reined his irritation. He spread his hands, and the power filled him.

  The least he could do was make sure the man was safe. And heal the worst of his wounds. Emily, after all, might have wanted as much.

  * * *

  He could have appeared in the middle of her flat, but that might have startled her. Hal glanced down at himself again. Jeans. Sweater. No blood on cloth or skin, no stain of the violence he had sunk into, except those marvelous boots, clean now and very decorous indeed. The ring gleamed on his finger, and he stood outside the door to her small, shabby home. He could have slid right through, as he had that first morning, but…

  He checked himself again. Yes, he was clean. Unbloody. What did a hero of those marvelous novels do?

  Ah. He lifted a hand to knock. Halted, his head tilted slightly and his face changing by degrees.

  Sounds filtered through the thin pasteboard door. Whimpering. A thudding noise.

  Then, inside Emily’s home, a woman began to scream.

  The door shivered into splinters as he propelled himself through it, forgetting that he could thin out into insubstantiality. The short hall was nightmare-long, twisting, and the sound kept going, on and on.

  Cavanaugh. His first sight of the man in so long, and he looked just the same. Except instead of wide breeches, hose, and square lace collar, it was a spare dark suit of a more modern cut. The man lifted a dripping knife, its blade a hurtful glassy gleam. The scrawny, ancient mortal looked up as Hal burst through, and there was Emily’s red-haired friend, hands and feet bound, on the floor in front of the television. There was the stink of some acrid medication in the air—had Cavanaugh poisoned both of them? It was likely. How?

  Did it matter?

  The back of the couch barred Hal’s view of whatever Cavanaugh was savaging, bright beads of blood hung in the air, and Hal’s silent, internal scream twisted most of the room sideways from the timestream. Just a fraction.

  Just enough.

  The room quivered, restive, as he stepped forward. Was the floor moving? No, he was reeling as if he was mortal-drunk.

  While he had been at work, his former bearer had too.

  Cavanaugh’s pockmarked, pale face was splashed with blood, and his hair was lank and foul. His mangled left hand had risen, flung to the side as he lifted the blade in his right. It was a sacr’pell, a glassy Knife of Ending, and it could perhaps do Hal a mischief were it buried in his own guts. It could certainly kill Cavanaugh—it was one of the few things that would bite his throat, did its wielder have the sense to decapitate the beast.

  Stillness. Quiet. The timestream plucked at the edges of his control. He reached the back of her slumping, shabby, very comfortable brown couch, and looked down.

  Emily.

  His bearer lay half on her back, pale and still. Her sweet, lucent cheek was dewed with bright crimson. Her hair was a glory of tangled curls, but the bindings at her ankles cut cruelly. They were plastic, wicked little things meant to cinch tight and become impossible to loosen. Her wrists were probably similarly bound, trapped helpless underneath her.

  So much blood, and…chips of glaring white bone. Her eyes were half-closed, and the spark of life trembled in its violated container.

  Quickly now. Delicate work, to keep her in stasis so that spark did not flee to more congenial climes.

  The room shook and spun at that thought, and Hal clamped down, fiercely. No.

  The glassy knife trembled, giving off a high thin singing sound of strain. It wanted more. It had been used for murder in the recent past, longed to be used so again. It fought Hal’s grip on the stream. His hands gripped the back of the couch, wood and stuffing and fabric melting under his will.

  The spark, a bright serene point of light caught in Emily’s broken, beautiful mortality, guttered.

  No. Do not leave me.

  Her voice, soft and sweet. I thee wed, and all that…do you know the difference between right and wrong?

  He was too old, and had been chained far too long, to know. If there was a distinction, she would have to teach it to him.

  And for that, she had to be alive.

  Hal moved.

  Worthy of What Was Given

  The world turned over. Em hit the floor, hard, arms and legs suddenly free. She choked, coughing, and rolled, a giant warm hand shoving her along. The coffee table was smashed aside with a muffled crack, splinters flying, but none of it touched her. Whatever was pushing her along had simply batted it out of the way. She came to a breathless, tumbled halt right next to May, whose mouth was ajar and a tiny whispering scream struggling for release, her blue eyes wide and terrified. The puddle of vomit had disappeared, and the living room was full of a vast rustling quiet.

  And the fiery, furious scent of burning cardamom.

  “You,” Hal said quietly.

  He stood in the middle of the ruin of Em’s couch, and she felt only a weary wonder that she was alive. Something had happened in the past few moments, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to remember it.

  It hurt too much.

  Hal’s boots ground against splinters and glass shards. His shoulders under the blue sweater were absurdly broad, his hair was tied back just as it had been the last time she saw him, but his face was pale and drawn. And he held a squirming, kicking, very pale and thin man with lank dark hair up off the floor with one hand, the man’s throat making little creaking noises as Hal squeezed.

  The man—Cavanaugh, she remembered his name now—swung the glass-blade knife. It whispered through Hal’s sweater, opening a long flapping slice of the wool. Cavanaugh’s hazel eyes bugged out, and Hal tilted his head slightly. His free hand came up, and there was the ring, gleaming mellowly as Hal struck the knife away. It landed with a soft clatter somewhere in the hall, and Em realized she could breathe.

  She could breathe.

  Why is it so quiet? Am I in shock?

  Hal’s head turned. He glanced at her. Em choked, the retches shaking every part of her. Something had happened, and her body wasn’t sure how to handle it.

  Something’s not right. I was…what happened? I was on the couch—

  “Ohgod,” May whispered. “Ohgod, Em, ohgod ohmygod…”

  Em’s lungs filled with air. Her hands moved when she told them to, no longer bound. Her eyes blinked. She ached all over.

  He stabbed me, she thought, clearly and pointlessly. Am I dead?

  “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered. “May? May, it’s going to be okay. He’s here.”

  Hal shook the man a little. “Fool,” he said, quietly. “Was your long life spent waiting for this?”

  Funny. Cavanaugh had looked so big when he was crouching over her, stabbing. Now he just looked like a broken-down old man.

  Wait. He was young before. Or young-ish. He was aging as he hung from Hal’s fist, withering in fast-forward. Lines branched from his eyes, poured from the corners of his mouth. His hair, still lank, crawled with gray, then white, then it began to slide free of his scalp in great clumps. He struggled, kicking, his face turning mottled-purplish, teeth losing their hold on his gums and popping free with small weird sounds.

  May buried her face in Em’s shoulder and moaned helplessly. Em sucked in another sweet, blessed, clean breath. “Hal.” Her voice didn’t want t
o work. Her throat was slick and hot with something that tasted so nasty just the thought of swallowing it made her stomach clench against itself. “Hal, please.”

  “Do you hear that?” Hal said thoughtfully, to the melting, aging monster he held up. “I have finally found a bearer worthy of what was given me.” He accompanied the words with a contemptuous little shake, and opened his hand.

  Cavanaugh fell. He hit hard, with a snapping sound like old dry seasoned hardwood breaking, and Em winced. Breathing felt good. Breathing felt marvelous, and she had never before realized how wonderful it was and how much she wanted to keep doing it. Everything on her hurt, but she could breathe.

  Hal turned on one heel, and in two swift strides was next to her, kneeling. “Emily.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him to be careful, someone had puked, but the vomit was gone. She lifted her left hand—her wrist was bruised, and her arm ached. “You…” She had to cough to clear her dry throat. He had her hand in both of his, warm hard skin and gentle fingers. There was a rattling behind him. Cavanaugh dug his wasted fingers into the carpeting, hauling his decaying body along. He was heading for the knife. “Behind…you…”

  “Oh, God,” May moaned into her shoulder. She wasn’t tied up anymore either, because she had her arms around Em. “Em, my God, don’t be dead, don’t be dead Em—”

  “I’m not dead,” Em whispered, and sagged in relief. I’m not dead.

  There was another rushing sound, almost of water rippling under sunshine, and a cramp lancing up her left arm forced a small cry from her. Had she been stabbed after all, and this was death?

  Hal leaned down close. He smelled of cardamom, of smoke, and of the night outside. His pupils flared, and his lips met her cheek.

  “Rest,” he whispered, and when he rose and turned, bearing down on the hideous thing still scrabbling across blood-soaked carpeting for its weapon, she closed her eyes.

  Half of the Infinity

  Her phone buzzed.

  Emily groaned, snaked one hand out from under the covers, and groped for it. Hal, anticipating, slid the small gadget within easy reach, and it disappeared under the covers. After a moment, a sleepy “’Lo?” came from under the blankets, and he suppressed a smile.

  So strange, to feel his face move in such ways. Freedom was full of unexpected pleasures—and some very expected ones he could enjoy anticipating.

  There was a muffled, excitable gabble from the phone’s speakers. The redhead, he guessed, and cast a critical eye over her bedroom. It was just as it had been the first time he’d seen it, except bright thin winter sunshine slid its fingers between the blinds, striping the wall and giving the white paint a soft radiance. The rain was over, but there would be snow later in the week.

  “Who?” She sounded half-asleep, still. Hal settled his feet again, cupped his hands, and the power took shape in his palms. “Oh, yeah. You’re dating him?” Movement under the blankets. Hal’s mouth had gone suspiciously dry. At least he was physical enough to feel it. It was…different, when he was not commanded to service a mortal woman for his bearer’s edification or voyeuristic glee.

  This felt much cleaner, and much more unsettling.

  The mug in his hands warmed, and a whiff of coffee rose.

  “May?” Much more awake now. “Are you okay? I mean—”

  A tinny laugh, and if Hal chose, he could hear what the redhead was saying. In the end, he had decided the memories of Cavanaugh’s attack were best erased from the woman’s head.

  “Who the fuck are you?” she had demanded, protectively clutching Emily’s slack body, her blue eyes spitting fire. “You leave her alone, or I’ll—”

  Perhaps that was why Emily was her friend, and came so fiercely to her defense. Hal had much to learn.

  “Okay, okay.” Em sounded slightly more awake. More stirring under the blankets. He tried not to think of her legs, her trim little ankles, the soft slight weight of her in his arms as he had laid her safely in her mortal bed again. “Just…whoa. Bad dream, I guess.”

  What a mortal thing to say. The redhead’s voice persisted, an interrogative tone to it.

  “Oh, God, May.” Em moaned, feelingly. “It’s too fucking early for this. I’ll call you back.” The phone slid out, she pushed the blankets back, yawned…and froze, looking up at him.

  Sleep-flushed cheeks. Her tumbled, glossy curls. That sweet curve to her mouth, even when it was ajar with shock. She stared at him, and her dark eyes were so wide she looked the beautiful girl-child she must have been.

  “Fuck,” she breathed, wonderingly.

  He offered the white china mug tentatively. “I, ah.” Every word he had rehearsed for this moment fell away. “Um. I…coffee?”

  Emily pushed herself up. No bruise or mark remained of Cavanaugh’s visit. The nightgown was pale cream silk; it quite suited her. Hal suspected she preferred her own clothes to sleep in, but…he could not resist.

  Nor could he resist bending down further. She did not move, staring at him, and when his mouth met hers, the pressure of lips did something strange to his ageless pulse. Filled every particle of his physical form with a light that had nothing to do with the invisible force used to work miracles. Her mouth opened, and he kissed her as he had seen mortal men do, holding the coffee awkwardly away.

  It was not as the books described.

  It was far, far better.

  And over far too soon.

  She blinked up at him, dazed and flushed. Shook her head, her mouth still slightly ajar, and he wondered what one of the heroes in those books would do now. Nothing seemed applicable except kissing her again, but he sensed once was all he was allowed at the moment. So he simply stood, and offered the coffee cup again, the handle turned carefully toward her.

  Perhaps she thought it a dream and meant to rub at her face, to dispel sleep. Her hands came up, and she stared at the silver gleam on her left third finger.

  It was not Hal’s ring, safely fused to his own hand. This one was smaller, more delicate, but its stone echoed his. The claws of the setting on his were gentle flowerlike curves on hers, the band was thinner, but it vibrated with the same power his did.

  What was half of the infinity he had been granted? Now he knew.

  The smaller ring was wedded firmly to the flesh beneath, and Hal hoped she would not try to refuse it. “Forgive me.” He found the words spilling out. “I left to deal with the Sophics, I did not think Cavanaugh could track you. I would not have left your side had I thought him capable of anything. Your friend will not remember, not even in her dreams, and you are safe. They shall not ever trouble you again. Nothing shall.”

  I will make certain of that, at least.

  “Um.” She studied the ring. Traced at its stone with one trembling fingertip. “Hal…”

  Speaking again, to forestall her refusal. “I have shared half of what I am with you. I have done it without your…consent, and without your command. You freed me, and I—”

  “Hold on a minute.” She shook her head. “Okay? Just hold on one goddamn minute.”

  “Emily.” He pitched forward, yearning toward her as the mortals had found planets yearned. If there was a gravity that could hold him, it was here in her small, messy bed, blinking at him in the light of a winter morn. “You cannot command me.” He realized, miserably, that such a statement might well destroy whatever chance there was of earning her…what? Her regard? Her trust?

  Something as numinous as the love the mortals craved?

  “You cannot command me,” he repeated. “But I will do anything you ask. Anything. Except leave you.”

  Her mouth closed with a snap. She glanced again at the ring. Traced the stone again, a small circular caress.

  “Do I…” She caught herself. Darted him a wondering, troubled glance. “Do I grant wishes now?”

  “Only one.” And that one is mine. “Anything, Emily. Desire it, and it is yours.”

  “Oh boy.” Emily’s shoulders rose a little. “You’re going to
have to explain everything.” She lifted her chin, and her dark eyes shone. “Why don’t you sit down, hand me that coffee, and get started?”

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks are due to Mel Sterling, as always; Miriam Kriss, who believed; and Skyla Dawn Cameron, who works miracles. A special shout-out to Holly Atkinson, who performed a yeoman’s editing job.

  Last but not least, dear Readers, thank you for once again allowing me to do what I love most: tell you a story.

  Here’s to many more.

  About the Author

  Lilith Saintcrow fell in love with writing when she was in second grade, and hasn’t stopped.

  www.lilithsaintcrow.com

  Also by Lilith Saintcrow

  The Dante Valentine series

  Strange Angels

  The Marked

  SquirrelTerror

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