To his surprise, Don nodded as though he already knew. He walked behind Asbjorn’s chair and Asbjorn let him, knowing that having his back to this man presented no danger. Warm hands landed on his shoulders. Don’s palms dug into the tight spots and his fingers kneaded the trapezius with an expert touch. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go get it with him. Was it a good hunt?”
“We got our kill.” Asbjorn’s voice was weary. His phrasing was noncommittal double-speak. He had planned this whole thing using Adrian’s and Mark’s information and Ken’s assistance, but he didn’t know how much Don knew. Or, with Don being an officer of the court, how much he wanted to know. It was best if Asbjorn just sat on it and didn’t say anything.
“Have a bath before dinner,” Adrian suggested. “You’ll feel better afterward.”
Sean observed the exchange with puzzlement on his face, and frowned at Asbjorn’s docile nod. “You okay, Asbjorn?” he asked, leaning in close.
Asbjorn didn’t have it in him to meet his eyes. “Just tired I guess.”
LIFE WENT ON MUCH LIKE this for the next six days: Asbjorn ate, went to bed, showered in the morning, and attended classes. He thanked Sean for doing his clothes shopping; he thanked Adrian for finding used bicycles for the two of them.
They both biked from Brookline to Cambridge and back, braving the winter weather Copenhagen-style. They took care of their schoolwork and made sure to help with house chores.
Through all that, Asbjorn didn’t speak much, and when he did open his mouth, his answers were monosyllabic. Sean reached for him every night, and Asbjorn satisfied his sunshine with his hands, with his mouth, kissing him on the neck under his ear with tender passion.
The place where the sword entered.
A vivid image of a splash of red against the pristine snow bore down on him, and Asbjorn pulled back. He flopped on his back and let his mind wander a few years back. A small, heavily armed boat, an earpiece that connected him to the rest of his unit. His opponents, scaling the cargo ship using bamboo climbing poles.
An occasional splash gave them away.
That, and his night vision scope. He recalled the green-cast, lithe, strong figures dressed in just shorts, with submachine guns slung across their backs. He smelled the ocean and a hint of diesel. He felt the boat ride the swells of mild waves. His target was up and still. There was the sound of a code in his ear, and his quick reply, a breath exhaled halfway as the pad of his finger pressed the trigger of his scoped rifle. He waited for the boat to crest the swell before he trued his aim and fired.
He hadn’t been alone back then, and they were all sold on the rightness of their cause. Now he was lying in the dark. Alone. Well, not entirely alone – Sean was next to him, radiating concern and neediness – but Sean didn’t know what happened.
Sean would never find out.
Back then, after disposing of the pirates with such deadly efficiency, his unit got shore leave on a small island. There was food and shelter and swimming in tropical waters. More importantly, there was conversation. It usually took place in the small hours of the night, after the fire was banked and when his unit was settled down and, presumably, asleep.
Or on watch. He could always send out a weather balloon and find out how the rest of the guys felt about being used as nighttime assassins.
It had bothered him to shoot a man in the back several years ago, and now he wondered if felling one with a sword was that much better.
At least the guy drew on him.
At least they’d been face to face.
It was far from the hólmgang knife-fight his ancestors used to settle personal disputes. Those would have been fought face to face while confined to an area the size of a large cowhide. Nothing was as shameful and dishonorable to a Viking as a dirty kill.
That value had always been in the back of Asbjorn’s mind. His fights were always on the level. His kills, though – the stakes were higher. He had his unit depending on him, just as he depended on them. Whole crews had been killed by this particular pirate group. They saved lives that night, but the knowledge somehow failed to remove the stale taste from his mouth. That’s why he had brought a sword instead of a gun. He could have failed. And that’s why he was so relieved Frank Pettel actually drew on him, even though the first move had been Asbjorn’s.
Maybe there was no honor in killing. Only justice. Or only the protection of others. He just wasn’t sure anymore.
SEAN STIRRED AGAIN. The silence stretched like a cold and lonely road, like it would never end. He wanted to reciprocate Asbjorn’s tender attentions, but more than that, he wanted to know what was wrong. Because it was entirely obvious to his observant eye that his lover and friend just wasn’t the same.
He leaned over and let his fingers ghost over Asbjorn’s T-shirt. He felt his abs tense under the thin cotton. Sean bit back a sigh and let his hand wander farther south. Just like before, he was gently redirected to tender embraces and feather-light kisses.
Asbjorn’s words were the same as before too.
“I’m sorry.”
“Just tired, I guess.”
“Just a bit worn down, I guess.”
“Maybe I’m coming down with something.”
And Sean would have accepted his reasons and his excuses had Asbjorn not taken long showers morning and night every day, and had he not disappeared to their room right after dinner. Sean, Don, and Adrian were watching the news while Asbjorn was sequestered in their bedroom.
The day passed in the rhythm of classes and meals. The snow was still on the ground, the cold wind blew brine-scented air off the harbor, and the darkness fell too early for comfort. Sean reflected that spring couldn’t come fast enough.
He walked in quietly, thinking Asbjorn might have gone to sleep early. He saw the taller man sitting on his knees, seiza-style, on the carpeted floor. The sword Tiger had left in his bequest was on a towel before him, and it was entirely taken apart.
The sword’s brass furniture was removed from the hilt, and the silk cord wrapping was undone, the woven length of expensive blue ribbon heaped like spilled guts by Asbjorn’s knees.
Two symmetrical, wooden pieces of wood that comprised the hilt laid open up like a broken clam shell, white with shark skin on the outside. The blade was bare and unadorned, with its long tang dirty and oxidized, and the blade itself reflecting the light of a small reading lamp. Sean could make out two old kanji characters, accentuated by the black never-polished steel of the tang.
That would have been the maker’s signature, and under ordinary circumstances, Sean would have asked to see it. Now, however, the air around Asbjorn felt like fragile ice.
The world felt just a bit askew as Sean broke the silence. “What are you doing, Bjorn?”
“Cleaning my sword.” Asbjorn’s voice was barely audible and his eyes were downcast. There was no joy in the task, but perhaps there would be a measure of peace. Sean backed out of the room and closed the door with a quiet click. He made sure not to disturb Asbjorn during sword-cleaning anymore.
Another day passed, and another night found Sean on his back next to Asbjorn. Thought after thought raced through his mind, not allowing him respite.
He felt pushed away. But why? If Asbjorn didn’t want to get married, he should have said so. There were good, practical reasons for tying the knot. Sean felt his gut churn and his shoulder blades tighten once again as he recalled crossing the bridge to get to class, biking on the sidewalk and mindful of snow remnants that might make him skid. Road conditions detracted from his sense of awareness. If he glued his eyes to the pavement, he couldn’t look around and see if he was being followed. The target was painted on his back once again, but this time, there were no helpful aikido or karate students to walk by his side so he was never alone. Living off-campus had definite drawbacks.
And Asbjorn.... It was as though Asbjorn forgot about Frank Pettel and the imminent danger entirely. Sean didn’t know whether he was having a delayed reaction to the firebombing
, or whether their relationship was skidding out of control. It was hard to tell, with Asbjorn being unable or unwilling to say a word unless he was asked a direct question, and even then his answers were irritated and terse.
Sean took a deep breath in an effort to calm his mind. The scent of Asbjorn’s shampoo lacked its soothing quality this time around, and the warmth of the body next to him felt leagues away. His thoughts raced some more, like a gerbil on a wheel.
Maybe he could talk to someone.
But who?
Definitely not family. Not Nell – Sean didn’t know her well enough to confide in her. Don or Adrian – no. They had their own history with Asbjorn. Suppose they wanted him again? A shiver of uncertainty passed through Sean’s prone form, and he tried to count his breaths. His family and his home dojo in California were far, but the man next to him felt further still.
He didn’t remember falling asleep.
ON THE SIXTH DAY AFTER dinner, Sean walked out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. The place smelled of lemon detergent and tomato sauce and isolation. Asbjorn wasn’t sitting on the sofa with Adrian and Don, and Sean didn’t feel like settling down. He just leaned against the door jamb, kitchen towel in his hands, curious to see what was on the news.
The newscasters were frantic with excitement at the sensational, terrible, and grotesque floater that had washed up with the tide.
The special report said that the dead man had spent almost a week in the water, and after such a long time, nature’s scavengers would not allow him to go to waste. It was impossible to tell what he looked like alive, with the skin and most of his flesh eaten off by crabs in the tidal zone, but a forensic reconstruction of his face yielded a clay model with narrow eyes set close together and a broad, flat nose. The floater was killed on dry land, as indicated by the absence of seawater in his lungs.
The extent of his wounds and exact nature of the murder weapon was difficult to determine due to decay of flesh and predation of wildlife on the dead body, but his trunk was severed on a diagonal that stretched from his left clavicle to the floating ribs of his opposite side. His spine was left intact. His right hand was missing, with both the tibia and the ulna severed with clinical precision two inches above the wrist. Evidence pointed to a cut, or cuts, executed by a long, sharp blade.
Both the wildlife and the elements had spared his left hand, which had been dipped into several layers of red latex paint before he was dumped into the Atlantic. Even though the floater’s soft tissue had been eaten beyond recognition, the latex paint preserved two fingerprints. Somebody cared enough for the world could identify the body, and the method was consistent with the newly emergent hierarchy of the Boston underworld.
The floater was identified as Frank Pettel, a key participant in the infamous Christmas Jailbreak.
Sean’s breath hitched as he processed the information.
He was gone, the perp was dead.
The boogeyman no longer lived under his bed and the target between Sean’s shoulder blades was fading with every moment. It could be a mistake. Maybe he shouldn’t relax just yet – lots of people floated in on the tide as the Boston underworld shifted its ethnic hierarchies. He looked at Adrian and Don. They were both staring at him, as though they were savoring his reaction.
“Feels pretty good, doesn’t it,” Don murmured. His expression was deadpan and at odds with his words.
“Let’s confirm all that with the police. I’ll call Mark,” Adrian said as he stood and reached for his phone.
Sean inhaled. The air tasted clean and free and plentiful as his diaphragm expanded, letting him savor every molecule. His exhale washed away all kinds of worry and tension and grief.
“Nope, he isn’t picking up,” Adrian said, fired off a quick text, and put his phone back on the table. “I’ll go put up some tea.” Sean saw him vibrate with nervous energy, as though a cloud propelled him to do something, anything, keep his hands and his mind busy until he received an official verification of Pettel’s death.
The news was too big, and Sean just couldn’t contain himself. He knocked on the door of the guest room and walked in. His eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. Asbjorn was sitting on the floor, the way he had been sitting for the last several nights. The sword was in his hands, disassembled as before, and Asbjorn was worrying at something small on its wicked-sharp blade.
“Asbjorn?” He put extra urgency into his voice.
The cotton rag Asbjorn used to stroke the smooth steel of his sword halted, and he straightened and turned his head to the side, not quite looking at Sean but attending to him.
“Bjorn! It was on the news! Frank Pettel is dead!” Sean felt the way his eyes widened with excitement. His whole being hummed with relief and excitement. “Asbjorn, we don’t have to worry anymore! Frank Pettel....”
Asbjorn twisted around and looked at him. The silver triskelion pendant glinted from the gap in the top of his shirt. Perhaps it was just the low lighting of the spare bedroom, but his blue eyes seemed almost gray and flat as he met Sean’s gaze for the first time that week.
“...is dead. I know.”
CHAPTER 10
It was still dark at 7:00 a.m., but a faint fragrance of coffee slipped under their door. Sean cracked his eyes open. He didn’t have to wake up early today, but Asbjorn had a 9:00 a.m. astrophysics class. Sean watched him retrieve some clothing from their room, trying to slink his way in and out of the bathroom like a shadow.
“Bjorn? You’re going?”
The fact that Asbjorn had spent yet another night on the sofa made his stomach twist. He felt short of breath, and a wave of disorientation threatened to pass over him. If he tried to stand, the ground would disappear from under his feet. Just like on the Vertigo in Copenhagen, except a lot less fun. On the Vertigo, he and Asbjorn sat next to each other and faced the dizzying ride together. Here and now, Sean was alone.
“Early class,” Asbjorn whispered. “Gotta run. See you later.”
No pounce, no kiss good-morning. The little gestures that used to be routine for them had just about dissipated since Sean’s ill-fated text. Asbjorn had fallen asleep over his textbook once again, and Sean wondered if Asbjorn would ever spend a night with him again, if he would ever feel the touch of his large, warm hands over his toned abs, or feel his breath over his ear. It wasn’t just the little things he missed. They used to feel a lot more together, finishing each other’s sentences. Now there were no sentences to finish.
And damn Jeff and his stupid ideas. He should have never even mentioned the possibility of marriage to Asbjorn. Never. Asbjorn’s standoffish behavior was a clear signal that he felt uncomfortable to even consider such long-term plans. Their situation turned difficult; they were sharing physical space in an uneasy dance, with neither one having another place to go. The school didn’t have any open rooms this late in the year, and apartments near campus were hard to find – unless you counted the infamous, awful, and overpriced student slum called Brighton.
Screw his classes. Sean decided to study at home and get ahead on his reading. The house was empty, and with time alone being a precious commodity in Don and Adrian’s house, he e-mailed in sick and settled on the sofa. The spot still smelled like his wayward boyfriend.
Hours passed. Sean had thought he would make a dent into his reading. He was sure it would have been as good, if not better, than going to class, but he spent a lot of time staring off into space instead. Or staring at the text in his lap, with the dry rustle of turning pages the only sound in the room. His eyes danced over words and equations, but he couldn’t begin to absorb their content. His mind was elsewhere.
Breakup.
The writing was on the wall. Asbjorn was not into anything permanent, maybe not even into anything long-term. Either that, or Asbjorn was in a world of pain over losing all he had left from Tiger in the fire – yet Asbjorn had been the one to point out that it was “just stuff.” Either way, Sean screwed up somehow, and it really didn’t matter whether i
t was a timing issue, or whether he had just brought up a wrong topic of discussion.
The realization hurt. Sean found he was fingering his amber disc again. Europe felt like it happened years, decades ago, for all it mattered. The drama of Frank Pettel no longer bound them, and they were free to do as they pleased.
Someone had offed Pettel. A fellow gangster, probably. Someone sent him to sleep with the fishes in the traditional manner of the Boston underworld.
Only now, in the silent living room, did Sean realize how grateful he was at the man’s demise. If his stomach churned, it was not because he felt his next trip outside could be his last. True, he still startled at slammed doors or unexpected noised, but this would pass over time. He adopted the practice of always sitting with his back to the wall. Even with his unpleasant jumpiness, since the floater was found, he felt he could finally, truly relax.
He no longer needed an escort from one place to another.
He no longer felt like he had a target painted on his back.
He wondered whether Asbjorn felt a similar sense of relief. No, he decided. Asbjorn was too absorbed in avoiding him, avoiding even a balanced and rational discussion about the pros and the cons of a long-term commitment. The hurt ran deeper than Sean realized, and he was surprised when his vision blurred and a fat droplet fell on a page of his Material Science of Transition Metals textbook.
It was over.
ONCE THE WATER STARTED running cold, Sean turned it off and got out of the shower. The hot water made him feel better, and it was also a good, private place to cry. He had just a towel wrapped around his hips as he walked into the empty kitchen and put up water for tea. Tea always helped, especially if he let it steep as he was getting dressed.
Asbjorn used to make tea for him, and... and the thought of Asbjorn sent his eyes leaking again. He ripped off several sheets of paper towel with an angry yank and leaned against the kitchen counter. Get a hold of yourself, he thought as he rubbed his eyes dry and blew his nose.
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