by Laura Leone
"I did not—" She paused. "Did I?"
"And showed me how to make you happy."
"Since you'd forgotten."
"Still, I muddled through well enough, didn't I?" She grunted non-committally in reply, so he continued, "Oh, well, if I've left you wanting, we can certainly—"
"Oh, stop," she said in exasperation. "Enough."
"Of course, at the time, you seemed pretty pleased. But I'll be the first to admit that I'm not quite myself, so—"
"Are you sure?" she said dryly, also sounding more amused than angry now. "Because you're starting to sound just like yourself."
He came closer, ready to make up. "Am I an irritating husband?"
"Very," she whispered, reaching for him.
They bumped noses in the dark, laughed softly, and then kissed. They were gentle, mindful of his sore lip—and of each other's volatile feelings right now.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I came back from death, and you were there. So beautiful. So free with my body... and with yours, too."
"Well, you're my husband," she whispered back, "even if you don't remember that."
He slid his arms around her, trying to imagine what this must be like for her, being with a spouse who didn't know her. She hesitated for a moment, then embraced him, too.
Her palms were smooth and warm on his naked back, and exquisitely gentle on the bandages she had put over the stinging marks of the whip the Gestapo had used on him. Her fingers absently kneaded his shoulders. Her breasts flattened against his chest, the worn fabric of her slip a delicate barrier between them. Her flat belly snuggled against his groin, and she ran her hands down to his buttocks, which she cupped and suddenly gripped hard, pulling his hips possessively against her.
"This body is mine as much as yours," she informed him fiercely. "You gave it to me."
Wedding vows. "With my body I thee worship."
"Yes. And you have been... well, a very dutiful husband in that respect."
"But not in other respects?" he asked.
She pressed her face against his neck. "As much as you can be, Paul. But the war is not kind to lovers. Or to marriage."
No. Obviously not. A secret marriage. A wife who was often alone. A husband who told her precious little about his work.
"How did I wind up in your cart?" he asked suddenly.
She sighed shakily. "That last time I saw you was in May. You—"
"What's the date now?"
"June fourth. Almost June fifth, I suppose. It's nearly midnight." Feeling his tension, she prodded, "Paul? What is it?"
"I don't know." June... June... D-Day.
The invasion will be soon.
He didn't know how he knew, but he knew.
Words and images suddenly flooded his mind, making his head ache fiercely.
Neptune. Overlord. Omaha. H-Hour. Utah. D-Day. Poker.
***
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Unsympathetic Magic Excerpt
(The third Esther Diamond Novel)
Copyright 2010 by Laura Resnick
Lopez said to me, "You got picked up while playing in traffic in Harlem in the middle of the night, dressed like a hooker and acting like a lunatic. And it's going to take a really good explanation to convince me that arraignment, remand, and a psych evaluation aren't the best things for you."
"What?" I gripped the bars. "No!"
My cell mate grumbled in her sleep and rolled over.
"Shhh," I said to Lopez.
"I'm not the one raising my voice," he pointed out.
"Lopez, you've got to get me out of here," I said desperately. "And you've got to get them to delete any record of my arrest! I don't want it on my record. I don't want a record at all."
"Start talking," he said implacably.
"First thing's first," I said. "Please get them to send a squad car to look for this guy I found tonight. He's severely injured."
"They sent a car, Esther. There's no sign of the man you described."
"What?" I frowned. "That's not possible! Darius was hurt too badly to get up and walk away. The cops must have looked in the wrong place."
"No, they looked in the right place."
"How do you know?"
"The two cops who went over there to check it out, in response to your story, turned on their cherry top—"
"Their what?"
"Uh, the red light on the roof."
"Oh."
"And that attracted the attention of a resident who came downstairs to ask if they were looking for the drunk hooker who'd been ringing his doorbell and shouting up at him a little after midnight."
"I wasn't drunk," I said wearily.
"So that sounds like the right place?"
"Yes. But Darius must have crawled into a doorway or something. He couldn't have gone far. The cops just didn't look hard enough."
"They were thorough, Esther," Lopez said patiently.
"They didn't even believe me!"
"No, they didn't," he agreed. "But it's a slow night, and you claimed you saw a man who'd been, er, attacked and maimed, which is serious stuff. So, just in case you're not quite as insane as you seem, they decided to be thorough."
I looked at him suspiciously. "You didn't waltz right in here as soon as you arrived. You talked to the cops out there first, didn't you?"
"Uh-huh."
Shit. While waiting for Lopez to get here, I had planned what to tell him: a version of the night's events that was close to the truth, but a tad more plausible.
He lifted one brow. "A man with a sword? A severed hand? Gargoyles?"
Too late now.
"That's what I saw," I said defensively.
"Sadly, I don't find it hard to believe that's what you think you saw," Lopez said. "Which is why I'm not so sure that getting you out of here is such a good idea."
I tried to control my frustration and focus on the most important thing. "Fine, let's forget about that for a minute. But, please, you've got to get them to find Darius."
"Esther, he's not there," Lopez said firmly.
"Then check the local hospitals. Maybe—"
"He's not at a hospital, either."
"How do you know?"
"We'll talk about that in a minute. For now—"
"But—"
"For now," he said, "I want you to tell me what happened. As clearly and rationally as you can."
"All right." I took a breath and tried to calm down. "That's fair."
"Glad you think so."
So I started by explaining that a lead actor had fallen ill on the set tonight, which disrupted the shoot.
"Where were you filming?"
"East of Mount Morris Park."
"Did you tell the cops this?"
"I tried, when they were booking me." I shrugged and admitted, "But by then, they seemed so convinced I was crazy, I gave up before long and just asked for my phone call."
"It's not that I don't appreciate you thinking of me when you're locked up for being a demented hooker," he said, "but I'm wondering why you didn't just call the set and ask them to come confirm that you are who you say you are."
"All the phone numbers I need are in my purse, which was stolen before I was arrested. And I'm just a guest performer, so I don't even know most of the people's full names. When the cops let me have a phonebook, the only number I could find was the show's regular production office. And when I called it, all I got was an answering machine. The office staff isn't there at two o'clock in the morning, go figure." I sighed. "Next, I called my agent's cell phone, thinking he could come here and straighten this out. But he didn't answer, either."
I rested my head against the bars for a moment, feeling depressed. "I was supposed to be back on the set hours ago. They've got no idea where I am. I'm in so much trouble." I would be very lucky if the producers didn't fire me.
After a moment of silence, Lopez put his hand on min
e and squeezed sympathetically. He knew how important my work was to me.
"What's the show?" he asked, trying to be nice.
"The Dirty Thirty."
He flinched and removed his hand. "I hate that show."
"It's a really good script," I said morosely, still thinking about how I was bound to be fired. And probably banned from all Crime and Punishment sets. "I play a homeless bisexual junkie prostitute being blackmailed for sex and information by a corrupt cop."
"Whatever," Lopez said sourly.
"I mean, that's what I'm playing if I've still got a job now."
"So some actor on a totally fabricated, insulting, bullshit TV show," he said, "got sick on your location shoot. They sent for a doctor, and filming came to a halt. What happened then?"
"Oh. Well..." I continued my story, explaining how I had wound up walking through the neighborhood alone in the dark in my costume, and what had happened next.
Lopez said, "And this guy had a sword?"
"Specifically, a rapier."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I'm an actress. The rapier was a common weapon in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and they're used in the plays of that period."
"Did he threaten you with it?"
"Not really," I said.
"What does 'not really' mean?"
I explained that I had startled the young man, who lowered his sword as soon as he recovered from his surprise. I recounted our conversation, his departure, and what happened next.
"And this is when you saw the gargoyles?"
"Could we not focus on that?" I said irritably. "The important point is that I saw this man being attacked. And maimed." I continued my story.
Lopez soon interrupted to say, "The man was wearing a tuxedo?"
"Yes." Seeing that he was looking at me as if this required an explanation, I said, "What's so strange about that?"
He shrugged. "It just seems a little odd. Never mind. So this man..." Lopez's tone concealed something. I wasn't sure what. "He told you his name was..."
"Darius," I said. "Darius Phelps."
"You're sure?"
"Yes." Since he just kept looking at me, I asked, "Why?"
"Besides the tux, what did he look like?"
I described Darius.
Lopez lowered black lashes over blue eyes and stood there silently for a few moments. He seemed to be thinking.
Finally, he said, "So you saw him being attacked. Go on."
I described the scene that ensued. And since Lopez already knew I thought the attacking creatures looked like gargoyles, I decided not to waste any time or energy prevaricating about that.
"Wait, you did what?" he said.
Caught up in my description of the struggle with the growling, befanged thing that had stolen my purse, by the way—"And is anyone here doing anything about that? Hah!"–I was taken by surprise when Lopez suddenly slipped his arms through the bars of my cage and slid his hands around my waist.
He drew me as close to his body as the cell bars would allow, rested his forehead against mine, and closed his eyes. "You saw a stranger being attacked on the street at night, and you jumped in to help him?"
"Well, um..." It felt so good to be touched by him. So good to feel the warmth of his skin and the soft tickle of his breath on my cheek. I had tried—with varying degrees of failure—not to think about this since he had broken up with me. And it was the last thing I had expected to experience tonight, given the circumstances.
"Esther, that's... dangerous," he said quietly.
I tried to snuggle closer, frustrated by the iron bars between us. "More dangerous for Darius than for me, as it turned out."
"Listen to me," he said, his hands moving from my waist to my forearms, stroking along my flesh. "I'm very serious about this. When you see something happening—something like that, I mean—it's much better to call nine-one-one than to go diving in like that. Do you understand?"
"Nine-one-one!" I pulled away just enough to meet his gaze.
"Yes." He touched my cheek. "I know you want to help people, but—"
"No, I mean, that's why I ran out to Lexington Avenue and, er, bothered people. Darius was severely injured, and that creature had stolen my phone, which was in my purse. I was trying to find a phone to call for help!"
His expression cleared. "So that's why you were wandering in traffic on Lexington?"
"Yes," I said with relief, realizing it actually sounded sensible this time around, now that I was explaining it with relative calm to someone who didn't think I was a violent crack whore. "No one would stop to help me. Because of the way I'm dressed, of course—but I was so freaked out by what had just happened and so focused on getting help for this guy, I totally forgot about what I look like tonight. So I got desperate. And then the first person I stopped was so abusive, it kind of sent me over the edge. The next driver who stopped wanted me to, um, gratify him—"
"What?" Lopez's spine went stiff.
"I notice that he didn't stick around to complain to the cops," I said. "The next one after that is probably the guy who claimed I was grabbing his crotch."
"You were trying to grab his phone," Lopez guessed.
I nodded. "And I did try to steal the next person's phone—he was actually a pedestrian, not a driver—because I was frantic by then. But then the cops arrived, and, well..." I sighed and let my shoulders sag a little. "I wasn't coherent or courteous, I have to admit."
"And since you looked like a hooker and had no I.D..."
"It didn't go well." I shook my head, recalling the ludicrous scene. "Anyhow, then they brought me here and they booked me. And when I was finally allowed to make a phone call..." I shrugged. "After my calls to the Dirty Thirty production office and to Thack didn't get me anywhere—"
"Thack?"
"My agent," I said. "Then I phoned... um..." I stopped awkwardly.
He looked puzzled for a moment, then made an exasperated sound, released his hold on me, and stepped away from the bars of my jail cell. "You called Max," he said in resignation.
"Yes. I called Max." And, I realized irritably, I had no reason to feel awkward about that. Max was a trusted friend who had saved my life. The fact that Lopez mistakenly thought he was demented, dangerous, and probably drugging me was one of the sources of tension between us. But since Lopez wasn't dating me anymore, I owed him no explanations about my friendship with Max. "But Max has only got one phone, and it's in the bookstore, on the main floor. At this time of night, he's probably upstairs and asleep, like everyone else. So he didn't answer." The other possibility was that Max was in the cellar beneath the bookstore, working in his laboratory all night long, as he sometimes did; he wouldn't hear the phone down there, either.
I said, "So, you see, I really did try to avoid dragging you into this. But I didn't know who else to call. And the last time that I saw you..."
"I said I wanted you to call me if you ever needed my help." Lopez sighed and nodded. "And I meant it, Esther. God help me."
"But I don't know your number by heart." I hardly knew any numbers by heart; and I hadn't had occasion to dial Lopez's number in well over two months, after all. "And you're not listed. I knew the cops here could get your phone number, of course. But they wouldn't give it to me."
"Go figure."
"So I asked them to call you."
"And that was the icing on the cake. They thought that was hilarious. A cop involved with the crazy hooker in their tank." He smiled wryly. "It's like an episode of The Dirty Thirty."
"Sorry."
He waved aside my apology. "Look, all things considered, you did the right thing, calling me tonight."
"Does that mean you're going to get me out of here?" I asked hopefully.
He didn't seem to hear me. He frowned suddenly and murmured, "An episode of The Dirty..." His voice trailed off and he stood there silent and motionless, a faint frown on his face, staring off into space. Thinking again. Piecing together things scatter
ed in his head and making a coherent pattern with them.
After a moment, still frowning slightly at something I couldn't see, he said, "You're sure you told the cops here that you're with the production that's filming near here tonight?"
"Of course I'm sure," I said. "I was trying not to be charged, after all."
"Did you tell them what the production was?"
I thought back. "No, I don't think so. I was more focused on trying to convince them to send help for Darius."
Lopez shook his head and murmured, "But they must have known. It's their precinct. Of course they knew."
"Knew what?" I said.
He looked at me, his gaze clear now. "That the production filming in their precinct tonight is The Dirty Thirty."
I frowned. "So?"
"So that's a strikingly strange story that you're telling, Esther," he said. "A guy with a sword uttering vague warnings. A couple of gargoyles attacking a man in a tuxedo. A severed hand..." He shook his head. "My guess is that you got caught in the middle of an elaborate practical joke."
"What?"
"And since you were alone in the dark in an unfamiliar neighborhood, your imagination helped it along." He paused before adding, "You do have a vivid imagination."
"But why would anyone play such a gruesome practical joke on me?"
"I doubt it was intended for you. It may not even have been intended for anyone in particular."
"I don't understand. Why would—" I gasped as I realized what he was thinking. "You think cops were playing a joke on The Dirty Thirty tonight? On the crew or cast members?"
"I'd say that it seems more likely than a young man in Harlem hunting man-eating gargoyles with a sword." He shrugged. "Don't underestimate how much cops hate that show."
"I heard there'd been some unpleasant incidents last year, but no one mentioned anything this... creative." I frowned. "So you think the cops who arrested me were part of it?"
"Maybe. Or maybe they just came to the same conclusion after running Darius Phelps' name through the system." He shook his head. "I was pretty thrown by that, but if it's occurred to me, it's probably occurred to them, too."
"Thrown by what?"
"You supposedly saw a walking corpse." He looked at me. "A Harlem resident named Darius Phelps, exactly fitting the description you gave, died three weeks ago."