by Ruby Ryan
Cones of photons trumpeted the object's arrival; it grew closer, and would arrive momentarily. Rather than shift into whatever the being's form was, perhaps remaining in my natural, photon-based identity was ideal.
Light for light. As it was with the Karak.
I re-enable my emotional senses and felt a burst of hope. Whatever species this was, they were of our kind. They would accept me, and likely help me.
Help me return home.
The object neared with great speed. I moved out into the path to greet it, to allow our photons to join in the Karak way.
I realized my mistake too late.
2
JOANNA
"That would be a mistake."
Harry, the bartender and friend I'd known for too many years to count, shook his head at me. "Come on, Jo. One more won't kill you."
"Two's my limit."
"I've seen you drink men twice your weight under the table."
"Sure," I admit, "but that's always out at my cabin. Or at the town New Year's party, where someone else gets to drive. I'm not fighting those slick-ass roads with more than two beers in me tonight." I arched a dark eyebrow. "Unless we've got Uber now?"
Harry snorted at the joke. In the small crossroads town of Elijah, Wyoming, Uber was an abstract idea more than a real thing. Something for the city folk to enjoy.
"Besides," I added as I saw Leslie coming through the front door, "my smut peddler's arrived."
Leslie, the town's single police officer, had switched into civilian clothes. She waved to a couple at a nearby table and joined me at the bar.
"Cold as the devil's tits out there," she said by way of greeting. She shook her upper body and peeled a scarf from around her thick neck.
"You're late."
Leslie rolled her eyes--not in annoyance at me, but in the circumstances. "You have no idea what my night's been like. Got a call from Warren, that Air Force base up by Cheyenne? Apparently some communication satellites collided in orbit and are crashing, or burning up, or something. I stopped listening. Point is, they made me stand outside with my walkie talkie and scan the sky for an hour to watch for debris. They've got every officer in Idaho, Wyoming, and Nebraska doin' the same."
I snorted. "On a night like tonight? With the cloud cover?"
"Exactly what I told 'em. Guess how much they cared?"
I shook my head, sharing in her misery. Then I shifted gears, and asked in an exaggerated conspiratorial voice, "You got the goods?"
"Only if you've got the dough." We stared at each other a moment longer before smiles cracked the mischievous facade. Leslie pulled a rectangle of warped yellow paper from a pocket and tossed it on the counter.
I grabbed it like it was the arc of the covenant and made an ooooo sound at the cover.
"It's a good one," Leslie said. "You'll like it."
The King's Officer was the title, and on the cover was a dark-haired hunk pulling open what looked like a British uniform to reveal a muscled chest. His eyes were almonds as he gazed back at me, with just the right amount of dark stubble along his jaw and cheeks. He looked more like a Calvin Klein model than someone shooting at American Revolutionaries in 1778.
"That'll do," I said, pointing at Harry. "Give the lady one of your finest drinks."
"So Bud Lite?" Harry asked.
"Good enough for me," Leslie said.
He grabbed a glass and started pouring from the tap. "You sure you don't want another before you go?" he asked me.
"Positive."
Leslie eyed the two empty glasses in front of me and gave Harry a look of reproach. "For Christ's sake, Harry, you know two's her limit! You tryin'a kill her?"
He placed the beer down in front of the off-duty cop and raised both hands in surrender. Leslie picked up the drink and toasted the air.
"To Jo's date night."
The scattering of patrons in our town's only bar raised there glasses and let out a half-hearted cheer. I waved the air like I was clearing away smoke.
"Just what I need, the whole town thinkin' about me reading this."
"We've all got our vices." Leslie wiped foam from her upper lip. "You gunna be back tomorrow?"
"You know it. Supply day."
"See ya then."
I waved goodbye to Harry and shrugged on my coat, then exited into the frigid night.
The snow fell peacefully around me as I surveyed the road. Nothing sticking yet, though by the looks of the snowflakes--which were practically the size of shotgun shells--it wouldn't stay that way for long. Another reason not to stick around for a third beer.
That and The King's Officer. Cheesy romance novels were the one guilty pleasure I alloted myself.
I climbed into my pickup truck, tentatively listened to the engine gargle, and then pulled out into the night.
Running and maintaining hunting property took up most of my time, even now with the hunting season still two weeks away. The deer roamed the two hundred acres of my property randomly, and although the fences were in proper shape they still managed to find their way through in the best of conditions. If a tree fell and took one down? Well, then I sometimes had days of work rounding them up.
It was harder when we ran the actual hunting lodges, too. But after Fred died I sold that aspect of the business to an external investor, leaving me with only the hunting grounds to maintain.
Interestingly enough, as technologically backwards as Elijah, Wyoming was, hunting was shockingly advanced. Hunters wore vests with GPS trackers attached, with radio relays as backup. That way no two groups of hunters ever came close to one another, ensuring things stayed as safe as possible. And all monitored from a central location. Long gone were the days of wearing an orange vest and hoping for the best.
I switched the heat to the windshield to keep the snow from freezing to the window, and turned on the wipers. It was a hazy world of white beyond the cones of my truck's headlamps.
I kept my speed a conservative 30 miles per hour and slowly made the twenty mile journey back to my property.
It was a lonely job, but I liked keeping to myself. Especially since Fred died. Even now, almost a decade later, I was content by myself. Maybe I would remarry someday.
Maybe. But probably not. And you know what? That was alright.
It's just the way things were.
I let myself fantasize about the book waiting in the passenger's seat. From the ten seconds scanning the back blurb, I knew it took place in America during the war. I suspected the almond-eyed officer would find a young American girl who melts his icy heart. Maybe he'll have to disobey orders from a superior in order to keep her safe. Some Romeo and Juliet themes, forbidden and desperate, and then he would defect and they would find a quiet farm to retire to.
Yeah. All of that sounded just fine to me.
I was so busy picturing their little secluded cottage that I didn't see the figure in the road until it was too late.
I swerved, much good it did me, hearing the sickening THUMP of a body crashing into the side of my truck. I swerved back to avoid going off the road, slammed on my brakes, and skidded to a stop.
I blinked at the calmness of the falling snow.
My heartbeat was everywhere, in my ears and neck and chest. What was that thing? It looked like a solid beam of light, suspended over the road. Like someone was holding a flashlight and pointing it straight down.
But that thunk wasn't just from light.
Suddenly alarmed, I ripped off my seat belt and bolted from the car. I rounded the bed of the truck and gasped.
The shape of a person lying in the middle of the road. Not moving.
Oh fuck.
I sprinted to him and slid to a stop. It was indeed a man, lying face-down. Snow was already accumulating on his body, clothes that looked faded and baggy. Darkness was pooling underneath him.
Blood, my mind realized a second later.
"Hey! Are you okay?" I knelt to him and touched him gently. His body was warm, incredibly warm, which was unusual becau
se he wasn't wearing a coat. I pulled out my cell phone: no bars out here.
Panic rose up my spine. "Buddy? Can you hear me?"
There was a groaning sound as he rolled over. I caught a glimpse of what looked like his humorous bone sticking through the skin of his arm; I flinched and swallowed the bile crawling up my throat.
"Uhh," the man said.
"Can you stand? Are your legs or back injured?" I seemed to remember you shouldn't move someone with a back or neck injury. Too late; he was already rising into a sitting position.
"Uhh," he said again, touching his head. He looked down at himself with confusion.
"You're gunna need medical attention," I said, helping him up. I took care to avoid touching--or looking at!--the exposed bone. He wobbled as if he didn't know how to walk; I made a mental note that he probably had a concussion. "Do you understand me? My truck is right over there. If you can walk to it I can take you to a hospital..."
"No!" the man suddenly blurted. I couldn't make out his face, but he seemed alarmed. "No... hospital."
"Listen, I just hit you in my truck. I was only going 30, but that's still too--"
"No. Hospital." He grabbed my arm with his left hand, urgent and insistent. I blinked in the darkness as the snow fell all around.
I was too panicked to think about why he wanted to avoid a hospital.
"I'm a vet, sort of, so I've got medical supplies at my place." I did some mental math and convinced myself it was the right thing to do. "Only a few minutes until home, and more like half an hour back to town. We can figure everything out in the morning."
"Yes." His voice was deep with agreement.
I put an arm around him--feeling the thick body underneath, heavy with muscle--and led him back to my truck. The passenger door was indeed dented from the impact, looking more like a cannonball hit it than a person, but I was able to wedge it open and get him inside.
I came around the driver's side and hopped in. If that was bone sticking out of his arm like I thought, then I was going to have to set it myself. Maybe heading back into town was the best idea.
I flicked on the light and said, "Listen. I dunno if--"
I stopped.
There were a couple of things that made my stomach turn. First, his arm was fine. Or at least, seemed fine. I couldn't see any exposed bone, but there was an awful lot of blood staining his brown shirt. There were no wounds to his head, thank goodness, but he still blinked rapidly like he wasn't sure what was going on.
But then there was the other thing.
He had short, raven hair that sat on his head in perfect waves. His skin was nicely tanned, and a perfect amount of dark hair covered his hard jaw. And behind his blinking eyelids were almond eyes with a sharpness that almost seemed artificial.
He was a carbon-copy of the man on the cover of The King's Officer.
"Uhh," I said, grabbing the book from the seat between us. Yep. Not only did he look like the guy, but he even wore the same loose-fitting brown shirt and dark pants. The only thing missing was the aforementioned red coat. Which, again, the lack of coat was an oddity in itself in this weather.
His brown eyes locked onto mine, and his handsome face stared without emotion.
"Thank. You."
"Yeah, uhh, don't mention it," I said, turning off the light. I was the one who hit him, after all, but I sure as hell wasn't going to remind him of it right that second. "Let's get you someplace warm."
Maybe I ought to lower my limit to one beer, I thought as I drove us the rest of the way home.
3
JOANNA
The rest of the drive to my property passed in silence. The man made not a peep, and that was just fine by me. He stayed alive, which was what really mattered. It was still a concern of mine at that point--that he could have internal bleeding or something more critical, and then suddenly fall over dead without another word.
But something kept me driving home instead of to town.
It might have been the insistence in his voice, the way he'd reacted when I mentioned hospital. There was a fear there, and more than just a dislike of places full of sick folks. This was more like the fear of... getting caught.
Like a criminal.
I shook away the thought before it could take hold. Let's focus on getting him safe.
But there was another reason I took him home, one I couldn't quite understand. It was as if something were pushing me in that direction, a barrier of air I could just barely not see, requiring me to do what he wanted. Even being aware of it, I didn't stop and turn around. I continued home.
I was probably in shock. I did just hit a guy in my goddamn car.
Nevermind what he looked like.
The property appeared to the left, and I turned down the gravel and dirt road. The snow was falling harder now, drifting through the barren trees like aimless soldiers coming home from war. It was a relief when my cottage appeared in the distance, growing closer as we bumped down the path.
I parked and turned the engine off. We shared a quiet look--he still didn't seem to have anything going on behind his eyes, definitely concussed--and then I sprang into action.
I half-carried him inside, flicking on the lights as I went. Everything was wood: the walls were wood, the floors were hard wood, the furniture and kitchen counters were framed in wood. I only had the one bedroom, so I dragged the strange wounded man over to my couch and dropped him like a sack of potatoes.
Good lord. I'd assumed that in better lighting he would look less like the cover of my book, but somehow he looked more like him. The scruff on his jaw, eyes like caramel...
The eyes locked onto me with greater intensity, and I remembered what I was supposed to be doing.
"You, uhh... dude," I said. "What hurts?"
"Hurts?" he repeated in a deep voice. "Nothing. Nothing hurts."
"I hope that's a joke." I went to his right arm and pulled up the shirt. Blood caked his skin from the bicep down past the elbow, already dark and dry. I turned the arm over carefully, methodically, looking for a wound.
"Where are you injured?"
He didn't respond, so I ran my fingers along the skin. I was hoping to feel a gash or wound that way, but nothing stood out. Even when I went up his bicep toward his shoulder--feeling thick muscle the entire way--there was no source for the blood.
Yet when I pulled the sleeve back down I noticed a dime-sized hole in the fabric, aligned with most of the blood. The sight of him on the road, with pale bone exposed through the skin, returned to me.
I discarded the thought.
"Do you know what day it is?" I asked with calm insistence. "Who the President is?"
The man gave a slight shake of the head. He wasn't focusing on me directly; it was like he stared through me to something else only he could see.
"Do you know your name?"
"Name?" he blurted.
"Yes. Your name. The thing we call you. I'm Jo, which means you are...?" All he did was blink. This was bad. What was I doing? He was clearly concussed, and probably had worse internal bleeding. Bringing him home was stupid.
But before I could say as much, he reached up and grabbed my wrist. His fingers were long and smooth, and his touch as warm as the fireplace.
"Eric's. I am Eric's..."
"Eric's what?" Eric was the mechanic in town. "Eric's employee? Eric's cousin?"
"No." He gently tapped his chest with two extended fingers, a gesture that seemed unique and foreign. "Me."
"You're Eric. Got a last name?" He stared at me like I was speaking French, so I shook it off and said, "You claim you're not injured. You say you're not hurting. I'm not sure what to do for you." I turned to glance at the kitchen. "Are you hungry, Eric?"
He ate an entire bowl of leftover venison stew so fast I ended up reheating another one, which he ate only a fraction slower. While he worked on the second I built a fire in the fireplace, making a note to get more starter logs when I went into town tomorrow. Once the fire was roaring and
he'd finished the second bowl there seemed to be more light in his eyes. Only then did I begin to relax about his condition.
"So you're sure nothing hurts?" I insisted, sitting on the coffee table across from him. God, he was gorgeous. "You don't need to hide it in a vain attempt at manliness. If something's achy I need to know."
He smiled. It was the first time he had, I realized, because I surely would have remembered such a smile before then. It pinched his eyes and flashed white teeth, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe.
"I am good," he said, sounding almost normal. "Thank you, Jo."
My name on his lips was as intoxicating as all the alcohol in Harry's bar.
I set him up with extra pillows and some blankets, and pointed him in the direction of the bathroom in case he needed it. I retired to my bedroom feeling vaguely uncomfortable about the entire thing.
It's not often you hit a man in your truck and brought him home. Like the female equivalent of a caveman hitting a woman on the head and dragging her back to his cave.
Is that what I want? I let the idea swirl around in my head for a few moments, but no longer than that. I couldn't fantasize about Eric. He would probably try to sue me when he came to his senses.
But as I crawled under my covers, I couldn't banish the image I'd seen on the road: a narrow focus of light as bright as any moon beam. It must have been some sort of optical illusion from the snow and headlights--Eric was very clearly made of warm flesh--but the image remained nonetheless.
The thought that I was doing something wrong persisted. But aside from driving him back to town myself, I didn't like my other options. Jerome, who ran the night shift at the town's small clinic, liked to drink away the boredom of his shift. Calling him out here would likely get both him and Eric killed. Leslie was always a backup, but she was off-duty and probably three beers deep at Harry's bar. I certainly didn't want to disturb her. At least not until the morning.
I resolved to talk to Leslie about it tomorrow, and sleep eventually came.
4
ARIX
I did not like this body.