Darkly Human

by Laura Anne Gilman

  They sat there in silence, each taking a second measure. She thought that he was beginning to understand the stakes, and that pleased her. There was no point to playing with the stupid ones.

  He sat there and looked at her, the lines of his face quietly composed, like the body of a cat not yet decided to spring. Tension, yes, but layered under control, tempered by a knowledge of his own strength. His hands lay on his denim-clad knees. They were strong hands, scarred at the knuckles, tapered to clean rounds of nail. There was control in them as well. She lifted her gaze back to his face, the rounded dent in his chin, the sharp plane of his cheek, the ironic tilt of those brows.

  Despite herself, she was the one to break the silence, bemused by his steady regard. There was something flickering behind those wide-open eyes, something simmering in the brown depths that made her want to draw it out, decipher it. Own it. Own him.

  Down girl, she thought. Let’s not lose all sense of perspective here. You going to pick up any stray ghost that wanders in? False logic, he wasn’t anyone. And she was beginning to suspect he had wandered the same way a cat might, with purposeful intent.

  “Tell me how you died.”

  He folded his arms across that broad chest and raised one finely arched eyebrow at her. “Isn’t that awfully personal for our first date? Tell me how you live.”

  That caught her by surprise, but she recovered quickly, tilting her head coyly. “I share, you share?”

  “That’s the name of this game, isn’t it? Winner’s the one who gets the better answers?”

  She nodded her assent. Yes, he understood the stakes. He was willing to play. Let it begin. A small smile rewarded him. “All right. Who goes first?”

  His eyes crinkled with real humor, an unexpectedly provocative expression that left her gut twisting against itself in cruel, unobtainable anticipation. “I’d flip you for it, but…” and he dragged his fingers through the sofa to make his point.

  She laughed, and pulled a coin from her jeans pocket. “Here. I’ll flip, you call.” She went to toss the coin, but a motion of his hand stayed her. Guessing what was in his mind, she held the coin up for inspection, showing clearly that there were two distinct faces. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” he agreed, leaning back again. She flicked her thumb and the coin spun into the air. D.S. studied it as it flashed through the lamplight, waited until it reached its apex, then called out “tails.”

  Nick reached up to catch the coin, slapping it down on the back of her hand. “Tails it is. What’s your pleasure.”

  He gave her a long once over, assessing, and smiled sadly. “I think my pleasure’s severely limited these days. Be as that may, I’ll choose to receive.”

  Nick chewed on the inside of her lip. Not to worry. She’d played this game, in all its variations, a hundred times before. And she’d always emerged the victor. Always. Without lies, without refusal, both of which would invalidate the game and lose the prize.

  “I’m an artist.” There. Truth, but not the whole truth. Draw him inside, make him give up his own truth. Piece by piece the game is won.

  “What kind of artist?”

  “Ah-ah. Your turn to give.”

  “No.”

  Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

  “No. That wasn’t a complete answer. My question wasn’t 'what do you do?’ it was ‘how do you live.’ You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Tough guy, huh?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him the way she’d seen southern belles do in made-for-tv movies. When he only cocked his head, waiting, she relented. “Spoilsport. Okay. I design websites. People give me the information they want put on their home pages, and I piece it together for them.”

  “That’s art?”

  She shook one finger mockingly. “One question at a time, D.S. My turn.”

  He inclined his head, giving way. She considered him for a long moment, noting again the breadth of his chest, the muscles obvious under his shirt. She needed — wanted — him off guard. A frontal attack.

  “What was your favorite position?”

  He pulled his head back, surprised, then recovered quickly. “In a chair, you on my lap.”

  She felt an involuntary grin stretch her face. God, he was fun. Such a pity he was dead.

  “My turn, right?” She nodded assent. He closed his eyes for a moment, one finger tapping against his lips. “How old were you when you lost it?”

  “Lost what?” Then she groaned, understanding and realization sinking in at once. “My virginity. 16. And you get another question.”

  He was smiling, those narrow lips parting slightly to show white enamel. She had a sudden suspicion that he wasn’t fooled by her ‘slip.’ Damn.

  “Another question. Let me think.” He leaned back, carefully stretching his legs out. He was a long lean one, of that there was no doubt. The shoes carefully propped heel-up on the edge of her coffee table were fine leather loafers. She filed that information — a higher income bracket than she was used to seeing, but the wear on the soles suggested he wasn’t just a desk-warmer. His feet stayed atop the surface — his control was getting better. Another fact to file.

  “What was your favorite movie last year?”

  “’Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory.’ Hah!” she crowed when he would have protested, “you didn’t say new movie! And that’s been my favorite since forever.”

  He shook his head, visibly disgusted. “I suspect I had better learn to be a gracious loser,” he said ruefully. “You’re far too good at this.”

  She leaned forward, chin cupped in her palm, elbow propped on one knee, refusing to be distracted. “When did you decide not to comb your hair over that bald spot?”

  He blushed, a slight flush of pink that started at the base of his neck and refused to progress onto his face. She would have missed it completely if she hadn’t been watching for it.

  “The morning I discovered that my comb was becoming my worst enemy. I made a vow then and there that I wasn’t going to fight Mother Nature. The thought of winding one strand around my scalp was less than appealing.” He shrugged. “And, as it turns out, I didn’t have to worry about going completely bald. See how it all works out?”

  “I don’t think most people would consider death a viable cure for male pattern baldness.” D.S. shrugged, those shoulders moving smoothly under the cloth of his shirt, eyelashes sweeping down in mock modesty. “People always told me I never did anything halfway.”

  She waited, but he didn’t volunteer any more information. No need, not with those bedroom eyes. She shifted, aware that the warmth of her skin had nothing to do with the thermostat.

  “So…” His face was solemn, but the lowering of his gaze showed that he knew exactly how she had interpreted his last words. Oh, he probably broke hearts all over the place. Well, not hers.

  “Why do you keep ghosts?” She’d been expecting that question, if not quite so bluntly. They were difficult to ignore, if you could see them at all. And another ghost would certainly be interested in the answer. She could give him half a dozen answers, and they would all be the truth.

  “They came to me, needed me. The same way you did.”

  He raised one eyebrow, looking amused. “And who said I needed you?”

  Nick looked at him steadily, then leaned forward to touch her index finger to his lips. He shied away slightly, obviously expecting her finger to go through him. Instead, her touch whispered along the semi-substantial form, sending a shiver down his spine — and to a few other places as well, if she knew her own abilities.

  “How…”

  She shook her head, savoring his reaction. It wasn’t much of a skill, but she put it to good use. “Not your turn yet. I still haven’t answered.”

  He drew a slow breath in, then let it out. “Oh, I think you did, quite well.”

  Time passed, time Nick usually counted in slow seconds ticking the night away. Now it flowed like the ocean outside her door, like the wind coaxing spring branches
to rustle beyond her windows. Every thrust she made, he parried, every advance met, not with a retreat but a sidestep. He was too good at this, a small portion of her mind warned her. Too good at not giving information. Too good at worming out that which she didn’t want to share. Had they met in life, she might have been worried. But the one thing she’d learned over the years was that no ghost had the strength to stand against a living will. He would learn that soon enough. Then she’d have him.

  She ran a hand through her hair, fluffing the crop out, then smoothing it down again. She knew that her hair was her best feature; thick, black and straight as the road to hell. An old lover told her once that she had been a Siamese cat in another life, with her sleek pelt and pointed chin. He hadn’t lasted, but she lingered often over that image in bemusement. She’d never owned a cat. She’d never had a pet of any kind, nothing that demanded when she wasn’t willing to give.

  He repeated the question. “What’s your worst sin?”

  “Selfishness,” she answered finally, always honest.

  “That’s not too bad a sin,” he said thoughtfully. “I mean, it’s pretty harmless, as they go.”

  They sat for a short silence, both considering. Nick reached for the glass of water she had poured herself. She’d wanted wine, but couldn’t risk losing any control. “What was the worst thing you ever did to someone else?”

  He watched her take a sip, his eyes hooded, running through a lifetime of small harms and greater ones.

  “I allowed those under my protection to be harmed because of I wasn’t paying enough attention.” His words were heavy, dragged out of him from a long distance, obviously painful and long-regretted. Nick felt something inside her shift, wanting to console instead of lay bare. Her eyes must have shown that weakening, because he raised his hand, running one finger along the side of her face with a touch that was almost-cool, almost-substantial. She found herself leaning into it, enjoying the illusion.

  “Do you love your ghosts?”

  That blew in from an unexpected quarter. She sat back involuntarily, letting go the hard-won connection. “Love them?”

  He stared at her, still relaxed, still open, but his eyes had changed. The housecat had stretched, revealed himself to be a tiger, with a tiger’s claws. “Your ghosts. There’s no reason for them to stick around, unless something holds them. Is it love?”

  Nick blinked, fascinated again by the hard muscle she’d almost forgotten, so fascinated with the softness of the pelt. More fool her. But the question was fairly asked.

  “I… I used to love them. Now they are simply familiar. Comforting. Comfortable.”

  “Pets.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Why do you want to know?” Not the question she had wanted to ask, but it slipped out, her curiosity as always racing to overpower his.

  “I wanted to know what keeps so many spirits tied within this house. If they’re…willing.”

  “You came here,” she pointed out.

  He smiled, a glint of white enamel showing through parted lips. “True,” he said softly. “I did.” The smile disappeared abruptly. “My question again.”

  She nodded, feeling a surge of tension gather in her belly. She hadn’t given him an answer, not one he should have been satisfied with. Damn. This game was slipping beyond her control. She couldn’t get it back unless she knew how it had gotten away. That meant figuring out where he was going. Ghost. Ghosts. She had to outpace his mind, anticipate the next question…

  “Did they all die here? In this house?”

  Her mind froze, a squirrel captivated by the sound of an oncoming motor. “Yes,” she heard herself answer, tied to the rules of their game. Then, like a switch thrown, she was back in control, knowing the questions to ask.

  “Why did you come here?”

  “I was curious” He gave a half-shrug, as though embarrassed to admit a weakness. “You have a very strong pull, very appealing. Staying by you is almost like still being alive.”

  “You weren’t ready to die.”

  “I suppose not. Too much left undone.”

  She nodded, settling further into the welcome embrace of the sofa to await his next question. He’d tried to throw her off-balance, and had succeeded. Fine. What did that reveal to her? What did she know about him? He played hard, played to win. What did he want to win? Why did he come here? Not to be alone. But not to be part of a crowd, either. Her ghosts. He wanted to know why she kept them. Or, how to get rid of them? Yes. He would insist on being the sole resident, the sole object of her attention. Alive, D.S. must have been enough to keep a woman occupied. Perhaps he still was. Perhaps she would let the others go, as they had begged so long ago. Now, of course, they would be lost without her, but souls were supposed to be lost, weren’t they? Enough. She focused herself, trying to read intent in that controlled stillness.

  He simply sat there, however, hands folded in a lap that seemed solid enough to touch. She’d forgotten they could be that solid. Had any of hers clung to the fiction of life so strongly, even at the beginning?

  “Why did you kill them, Annika?”

  Alarm shot through her, a shock of such exquisite intensity that she almost blacked out.

  “You know — how? How do you know my name?”

  He smiled, and the sexiness of that smile was undiluted for the shark’s likeness that emerged. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Sucking a painful breath through her nose, Nick stared at the ghost in front of her as though she’d never seen one before. He knew her name. He knew her name! And the bastard didn’t seem to give a damn about it. Didn’t care that he could walk out, discorp back into the ether whenever he wanted. He knew her name. She’d never had a chance. Damn him!

  “Answer me, Nick.”

  “Why? The game’s over. You’ve won.” She knew she was sulking, didn’t care.

  “No. I haven’t.” The smile was gone, and that face was a cold mask, all sexiness, all attraction gone in the face of determined inquiry. His eyes were lidded, giving nothing away. “Did you kill them?”

  She sighed, not caring. “Does it matter? I’ll tell you, and you’ll go away. You’ll leave me alone.”

  “You’ll still have your other ghosts.”

  “Them? They’re nothing. They don’t even talk to me any more. They sulk, and pout, and I have to coddle them into better spirits.” A semi-hysterical giggle escaped her. “Sorry. Bad pun.”

  “You were lonely.” Like solving the last puzzle piece, she could see it click for him, and hated him for that insight. Hated him for knowing her.

  “Did it help, Nick? Did the ghosts make the loneliness go away?” His voice was quieter than it had been, softer and stronger, more assured, and Nick suddenly realized that this was the man he had been in life. Not an innocent flirt, not the charming conman she could outmaneuver. Something stronger, more dangerous — infinitely more appealing. And once again she felt a keening ache within her that she would not have his company through the long nights and longer days that stretched ahead.

  He waited, a rock her confession could break around, and Nick felt herself give way, like slipping on ice into the path of a truck. He had come here to know her, had wanted her memories — her Self — to tuck under his skin. And who, after all, would he tell?

  “They came to me, when they were alive. Salesmen, repair people, lost tourists… They’d seen so much, done so much. I just wanted to hear their stories. Listen to their voices. I didn’t care who they were, only what they’d seen.”

  Speaking of it made the memories into reality, and she saw them one by one come forward from their positions against the wall, coming between the two of them. Displaying themselves. For him? Or for her? She couldn’t tell. He was so much more solid, tangible. Desirable. An illusion of life, an echo. Alive, he would have been too much for her. That rare moment of reality made her cringe.

  He wouldn’t stay, she suddenly realized. He had what he had come for.

  Angered by her r
ealization, she looked up. Their eyes locked for one long instant, and she realized with a clutch of anguish that his eyes were paler, the lashes less distinct.

  “No!” she screamed inwardly, the word emerging only as a cracking whisper.

  He looked down, almost surprised to see his outline muddied, running into the air like a chalk outline in rain. His face furrowed into a frown, those eyes angry, unfulfilled.

  “Damn. This won’t be enough… oh hell. Not like I could do anything about it anyway…” His lips turned up in a wry smile, his eyes at once both sad and satiated, like a man who wakes to realize his lover expects to be paid. Then that finely-detailed mouth lost the ability to express anything, his corporeal presence shaking into a few tendrils of brown and white sludge, which in turn faded to grey fog floating back and out through the walls. And then he was gone, too fast, finally truly gone, to wherever ghosts without binding went.

  The hum of the heat kicking on stirred the newspaper left unattended in front of her. Rehydrating her throat with a long swallow of water, she glanced down at the unfurled front page and almost choked in the act of swallowing.

  On the front page. In grainy black-and-white pixels that didn’t catch the way light shone off his hair, or the squint of his eyes. Or the tip of tooth that showed when he smiled. Or the cold determination that fueled his every motion.

  The headline read: F.B.I. Joins Manhunt.

  She had never thought to read the front page.

  “Pritchard. Adam Black Pritchard.” She said the name the way one might try out a new flavor of coffee, holding it on her mouth, letting it rise though the roof of her mouth and stroke the back of her throat. The name of the agent mentioned in the op-ed piece.

  She giggled, a hiccup of sound. Some people just didn’t know when to quit.

  Nick sat there for a long moment, staring now at the candle still sitting forlornly on the table. She reached out with one delicate fingertip and touched the hardened wax at its tip. Then, with a savage backhand, swept it onto the floor, the glass breaking, the candle rolling off the carpet and stopping with a thunk against one wall.