“My daughter,” her father said at last. “I will come to the real meaning. I need you to be safe, and I can't do that the way things are now. It is just too dangerous and if Never Weres get a hold of you, I'd do anything—anything at all—to get you back. Think about that. You know my position. You know how many hundreds of thousands could die.”
Betty paused and had to admit that with the weapons she knew her father controlled, she had to admit that he was right. He could start another worldwide war, one that would be greater than the Great War and the World War put together. The thought made her shiver. A war like that would have no non-combatants, no age limits, and no sympathy. The war might start and end in a day, but the effects would continue for generations.
Her father continued, “If you agree, I will put a guard on you, someone who won't interfere with your day to day activities, but will be there if you need assistance.”
This was all too similar to the vein that Clarkin's attentions had taken. She frowned. “Why am I so important?”
“You're my daughter. Please. You can grow up, but that's all the further I'm willing to lose you.”
Betty shook her head. “That isn't what I mean. Why am I so important? What does the City Council need?”
“Wave talkers,” said James, as though annoyed with her insistence. “They need wave talkers, and you're perfect.”
She felt a burst of appreciation for James, and one of sadness for her father. Still the manipulator. “So if I accept a guard, I will have to make payment by saying a few lines for the Council?”
Father nodded, though he still glared at his aide. “Just a few words, nothing more. You'll be safe and we can put a stop to the menace.”
“I need to think about it.” Betty knew better than to slap down anything that came from the Council unless she had an escape plan in mind, one that did not include any place that she had been to in the last few months, nor any vehicles she had used in the last year. Leaving Sanctuary was hard enough, but to do so in a flash was nearly impossible.
Father relaxed. “That is all I am asking from you. I knew you were smart enough to see our view.”
Any belief she'd had in what he said was splattered by that last sentence. But he had raised questions. Questions about electric pyros and the mysterious deaths over the last several months, and about what bills were in the council and why they were even there to start with. These questions swirled in her mind as she left.
Outside the Brick Oven, the sun shone bright and warm, cutting through the crisp autumn breeze which tickled leaves and made them dance on their stems. In the clear, invigorating afternoon, there was a rejuvenating quality to the day which made her spirits lift despite the confrontation.
Dressed snugly in winter-weight black tights, her long blush trench coat, and a now-finished burgundy scarf, Betty breathed in the scent of fallen rain and forced the trembling of her hands to settle. She turned to the Library, knowing that a copy of bills was maintained there, stored there every new moon.
Chapter 11
When she arrived, Betty headed down the perfectly-trimmed lawn strewn with sunbathing university students, passed between two columns of squares, and entered through a door which did not appear to be the primary entrance.
Inside, the library was deserted, its musty fences of books blocking out the fluorescent lights put on a ceiling which had not been made high enough, and she milled her way through the hedges of paper until she found herself in what she knew was the south-west corner, then took the stairs to the basement.
Through a door which said AUTHORIZED PERSONAL ONLY, Betty once more sighed, thinking that it would be a warning sign indeed if they ever found a librarian who could spell to run this place. They'd had fewer misplaced books when the dyslexic nun had been in charge.
For five years, the library had been petitioning for a new shelving system for the Congress records, and three years ago, they had given the funding, only to rip it away again as soon as the old shelves were out. As a result, all the records were shoved into cardboard boxed rescued from the grocer's burn pile.
Even though it seemed as though this chaos of dust, files, and dried-up oranges had remained undisturbed for decades, Betty knew better. Her trained eye could perceive drag marks through the unswept floor and freshly clean files in two boxes, while a third had handprints on them. She laid her own palm over the print—a large hand, too big to be Slim's, but about right for her father's. Or Clarkin's. She winced at the thought, but had to acknowledge it to be true.
Though she had planned on spending up until closing down here with the one naked, swaying light bulb, whoever had disturbed these things had already done most of her work for her. She turned her attention to the box which had all the folders replaced neatly. Was one missing? It was hard to say.
An hour or so passed, and she didn't find anything new, though she did confirm what her father had stated: The Council had moved to start Never Were identification cards, citing public security measures, but the topic had continued for weeks, until only one member held the final vote to make or break a two-thirds majority. Aaron Riley.
He seemed to be a man who was often the swing voter, and Betty couldn't make out what it was that made him vote for or against any particular thing. He didn't seem to have an agenda, which meant that he most certainly did.
Betty sat back on her toes, annoyed that she had dusted up her good tights for nothing.
“We always seem to meet in the strangest places.”
Betty sucked in her breath and narrowly withheld a yelp of surprise. She didn't need to look around to recognize the smooth, melodic voice that had made her heart skitter. She wobbled to her feet and turned to find Clarkin standing in the doorway, the stairs bright behind him, an amused smile on his lips. He wore khakis, a black polo, a dark trench coat, and a white and black striped scarf that fell down below his belt.
“It is customary to say hello,” he said. She stared at him, her mouth an open gape.
Betty licked her lips. What was he doing here?
Clarkin jerked his head back up the stairs. “Miss Frissleman asked me to check if there was anyone down here. She's closing up early.”
He continued to stare at her, seeming to enjoy her discomposure; but there was something more to his gaze, something that made hot thrills run down her spine. She took several steps, stopping when he didn't move out of the doorway.
“We seem to run into one another an awful lot.” Her tone was abrupt, and almost accusing, but Clarkin was oblivious to it.
“Small town,” he said.
“Not that small.”
“Then Fate insists on our acquaintance, wouldn't you agree?”
Betty had been ready for him to stammer, not whip up a smooth line like that. Charmer. She hated that she was blushing again and embarrassed about the dirt smudging her otherwise neat appearance.
All the same, she tried to gather her composure. “I'm not one to believe in Fate. The world turns out of cause and effect, action and reaction, motives and results.”
“I had not thought you to be so unbelieving as that, you who sees the evil in the shadows.”
“Shadow is the absence of light. If you believe that light is good, then shadow becomes evil, does it not?” She tried to nudge by him.
Clarkin's expression warmed, and his smile turned soft and musing. “So you are a believer, after all.”
“I said if you believe. The world is cold and hard, and you get out of it what you beat with a club. Now, I believe you said that the library is closing?”
“Precisely, and Tulle La Caffetteria is opening. Maybe we could continue our discussion over supper. It's an older place, but very delectable and it has the best crawfish alfredo you have ever laid eyes upon. All the locals go there, and that's typically a splendid sign.”
“Thanks, but I need to get home.”
“Have you some task that needs finished? Oh, but I forgot, it is late for you, isn't it? I'll go with you.”
> Betty's attempts to pass him had resulted in her being face to face with him in the narrow doorway, and she felt the heat rise off his body, and his soft words strummed through her skin and made her light-headed. She remembered the wagon and how it felt to be in his arms. Now she was nearly in them again, and his presence sapped away the will to resist. He was intoxicating.
“All right,” she said.
Clarkin leaned forward. She closed her eyes. His warm lips kissed her forehead. The ground lurched under her feet, and his hand cupped hers as he led her out of the library.
To Betty's surprise, the streets outside were already glowing in the orange hue of the setting sun, and in the west, the sky was a horizontal painting of pinks, purples, and red clouds. She looped her fingers tight around Clarkin's and grabbed his elbow with her other hand, drawing an affectionate smile from him. A cold wind teased her hair, and Clarkin used their waiting time at a busy street corner to wrap his scarf over her hair to keep it from getting tangled. His fingers brushed her ears and jaw, and Betty shivered at the contact.
They talked about nonsense while they wandered through the streets, comments about building architecture or favorite bawdy jokes, things scattered between kicking up leaf piles and racing up steps. When their path found them at the fountain with four stone lions facing a tiered waterspout, Clarkin said, “Do you know the reason behind these four beasts?”
Betty ran a hand down a carved mane. “They represent directions. North, East, South, West.”
Clarkin held up a hand. “Ah, but they don't face those directions. If anything, they're set on a forty-five degree angle.”
Betty checked the setting sun and mused. “Perhaps more like a thirty-five degree.”
“Come back here with a real compass, and you'll see what it is that I mean.” Clarkin took her hand then swept into a bow, gesturing to the small park they were in. “No, no, my song, these lions are guardians. They are the creatures of forgotten lore, beings that keep the world held together and in balance. Life.” He touched one. “Death.” He brought her to the other side. “Light.” He touched the one facing north-east. “And Darkness.” He swept her around to the last one, resting against it so the darkening sky was behind Betty and she could see the faint traces of light still playing on his face. “Do you know how they keep it all in balance?”
She couldn't keep from laughing. “I couldn't guess! But I suppose that you are going to tell me?”
“Unless you do not wish it.”
She looked at him again, and the brilliant gleam to his eyes was back, and she was enjoying the thrum of his voice. She nodded to make him continue. He stood and crossed his arm over, drawing her into a spin, which she did, coming to a sudden stop as her back hit his chest, one of his arms folded over her body.
Betty sank back against him, letting out a long, slow breath.
Clarkin held her other hand, rocking her, speaking into her ear. “You are aware of a theory, that states that light cannot exist without dark, and vise-versa? And that without death, life cannot exist, and without life, neither can death be? With the existence of life and death, there comes light and dark. And within every being on this earth and further, out into the milky way and the cosmos, there exists a little bit of each element in everyone. Some people are born to the light, some people to the darkness; to life, or death.
“We draw to us other people who are similar, or those who complement our motives. The lions say that no death is permanent, nor is life perpetual, but the same people are born time and again, to be warriors for their causes. Those who are newly made don't know of the ancient war between the light and the dark, they don't know that life is a constant battle to make one side win.
“But the older souls, they know, and so they fight. They fight with hands, with words, and with chemicals. Others fight with medicine, with a smile, and with encouragement. So the lions here, they are here to remind us all that Death is temporary and dawn breaks after the night. They are here to say that love endures when all else is gone.”
She shuddered, his words stirring strange emotions in her. “That's haunting. And poetic.”
“Much like this place,” Clarkin said, then pulled Betty towards the path. “It's getting late.”
When they were out of sight of the lions, Betty asked, “What brought you to the library? Folklore studies?”
“Ah, no. I don't like the library so much. Books, yes, but that place is too...shall we call it too still for me? I went to return a title for my friend, who is away and doesn't wish for an overdue charge. What of yourself, do you often go there?”
“Only for research.”
“Then Fate brought us together today,” Clarkin said, sounding rather pleased with himself.
Betty wished he wouldn't hold her like he did, as though she were something treasured and precious. It went straight to her heart, and it was hard enough trying to push him away.
“I told you I don't believe in Fate.”
“Then what do you call coincidence?”
“Manipulation.”
Clarkin gave her a long, sad smile and shook his head. “Being around you makes me feel young and vibrant, but when you speak with such bitterness, I want to find the cause and set it right.” He paused, thinking. “I feel like I've known you before. Have we met before?”
Betty frowned. “Not to my memory.”
“Ah, well. I might have seen you when you went to see your father one day. You wouldn't have told me apart from the rest of the black-suits.”
Betty hesitated. “I never went to see him.”
“Never?”
“Not once.”
“Are you so certain about your stance on Fate?”
But then they were at a gate to the park, and it was locked. This was the nearest exit to Betty's street, but Clarkin did not look in the least bit disturbed by it. He squatted by the lowest part, locked his hands together, and said, “I'll give you a boost.”
Betty giggled. “I'm in a skirt.”
“Does that mean 'no'?”
“That means 'no.'”
“Ah,” Clarkin said, standing upright and thinking. “Then that means either a longer walk with me, or...”
He pulled a wire from his pocket and set to the lock. In a couple of minutes, he had the gate unlocked, and opened it for her chivalrously. As they continued on their way, Clarkin pulled Betty closer, and she sensed something in the night, something that made her skin crawl and her back tingle. Was her father watching her?
She didn't see anyone from the short stretch to the silo, then down her street. In no time, they were once more on her porch, standing beside the swing while she found her keys, fitted them into the lock. She lingered there, not ready to say farewell yet.
Betty found herself caught up in his amber eyes. They were mesmerizing, enchanting, almost orange in this light. He felt so much bigger than he actually was, the several inches feeling like a full foot taller.
Excitement coursed through her, a wild chaos of emotions that made her pulse skip and her cheeks flush with heat despite the cold of the night. Then his hand slid up from her fingers, skimming along her sleeve, arcing over her shoulder and coming to a stop by her jaw. He toyed with the lobe of her ear.
Fierce yearning ached through her, and she let him pull her body flush with his, watched with bated breath as he dipped his head down. He rubbed his face to hers, cheek-to-cheek, an embrace as intimate as any kiss she'd ever had. They didn't speak, and Betty felt the keys warm in her hand.
“You should go sleep,” Clarkin murmured as he drew away. Betty nodded, but for a few more minutes, they stood there, her head on his chest, him stroking her hair. Then his thumb traced the line of her jaw. “You should go.”
He turned the keys in the knob and nudged open the door. While she stepped, dazed, into the house he took her hand and kissed it.
“Good-bye, Betty Cratchet,” he whispered, wrenching his gaze to the ground, then turning on his heel before she could reply. She
watched as he shut the gate with the stiff sullenness of a man who does not wish to reveal how upset he really was.
Chapter 12
Next day at the station Betty was distracted to say the least, utterly unable to focus on a single line of text. She knew the meaning of Clarkin's departure only too well: He was repeating the treatment she had given him. He was saying that yes, however fond the two of them were, their union would only bring dissatisfaction. The appeal was that their relationship was forbidden. Had it been sanctioned, there would be no appeal on either side for the other.
They needed to end their interlude now, before it could go any further. She had said as much before, but now it was she who was weak. It was Betty who yearned for someone, anyone, to pay her gentle affections, and it just happened to be Clarkin who was at hand to provide it.
“You look rough,” Liza said after Betty finished her show. In a half-hour, the day-shifters would come into the booth to do their hosting. Liza waved a cable at her. “Better hurry it up and tell me, gal. Incubus will have my hide if I say you look horrible but don't give a reason for it. Was it your pappa?”
Betty stifled a laugh which would all too easily turn into a sob if she let it. “He was as I thought he'd be. No..I... Liza, what do you know of a man named Hannah?”
Liza stopped her work, glanced at the door, and spoke with a lowered voice. “Clarkin? He's a decapitaria. Bounty hunter, but for the Secret Forces only. Any mission, he was up for it, but he specialized in the tough stuff—getting close to the people hard to get near, the ones who other people had failed. Generals. Spies. Women in particular. No one is more cautious than a wary woman.”
Betty swallowed a tight lump in her throat. “How?”
“How what? How'd he get close? Only he knows that, but they say that he was slick on the information, too, a real lady's man whose left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. He knows all the tricks in the book; and more. I daresay he wrote the books. Why? You his scrawny feathers round your coup?”
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