Black Moon

by L. A. Weatherly

  “Why are you here so early?” she whispered between kisses.

  “Why do you think? You’re not even eating.”

  “I can’t. You know what he’s capable of.” Kay drew away a little, smoothing her carefully-styled curls. “Did you bring my notes?”

  “Stop. Don’t go into Madame President mode.”

  Collis drew her back to him. She didn’t – couldn’t – resist. He smelled of warmth, soap, her own sheets from the night before. He’d joined her as usual after the broadcast. She’d still never let him stay an entire night. His lips pressed against her neck and she shivered.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he murmured. “Trust me. Please, trust me…”

  Kay inhaled sharply at the sound of footsteps. The maid was new, not on her private payroll. She pushed Collis back towards his chair. He went reluctantly, his eyes both questioning and knowing. He kept his hand on her arm until she pulled away.

  She grabbed for the newspaper and stared down at its headline: Status meeting tomorrow; Pierce and Cain expected to discuss ongoing Discordant problem.

  The maid knocked; at Kay’s command she entered. Collis had opened his briefcase, taken out some papers. Both sat impassively while she laid a place setting in front of Collis and poured coffee. She’d brought fresh scrambled eggs; she took away the cold ones.

  When she was gone, Collis helped himself to a large portion of the food.

  The news of Sandford Cain’s plan to poison her several months ago had effectively killed any appetite Kay once had. She couldn’t help wincing as Collis took a large bite of eggs and then a swig of coffee.

  “See?” he said, mouth full. “They’re fine.” He swallowed, then leaned across and squeezed her hand. “He wouldn’t do it this way, darling. Not now. Trust me.”

  Kay pressed a hand to her pounding temples. “I’m thinking of cancelling the meeting tomorrow,” she said at last.

  “You can’t.”

  She looked up at his tone. He shook his head. “Think, sweetheart. He’d know you’re scared. He’d use it against you. I’ll be right there.”

  “And what will you do if it’s an ambush?”

  The status meeting was to be held in the new basement room. The room’s very security – isolated, soundproof – made it dangerous, with Cain and his cronies in it. Kay had cronies of her own, of course. Did they outnumber Cain’s? Had some gone over to his side? She could never be sure.

  Something had flickered in Collis’s eyes at the word ambush. “It won’t be,” he said. “If you die now, the military would never back him up – Keaton knows Cain would get rid of him in a second if he could. Cain may be power-hungry but he’s not stupid.”

  When she didn’t respond, he spooned some eggs onto her plate. The Harmony symbol swirled on an armband over his bicep. “Eat,” he said softly. “Please. You hardly ate yesterday either.”

  Kay shrugged. “You said last night that you love how svelte I am.”

  “You drive me crazy and you know it. Svelte is one thing. Becoming a skeleton is another.”

  Kay gazed past him out the window. One of the main execution points was only four blocks away, near Timmons Square. If she went and looked, she’d see the lamp post they used. Toby Melrose would be hanging from it by now.

  She did not stop at what had to be done, and she would not be daunted by Sandford Cain.

  “All right,” she said quietly. “We’ll go ahead with the meeting.” She began to eat. The eggs tasted delicious; her stomach awoke in a rush. She devoured them quickly, washing her breakfast down with hot coffee.

  “Did you bring my notes?” she asked, dabbing her lips with a napkin.

  Collis reached for the papers he’d taken from his case. “Of course. I’m a perfect employee.”

  “You’re perfect at a lot of things,” she said, and he gave her a sideways smile.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  By Amity Vancour? Kay wondered. There was no jealousy to the thought. Wildcat hadn’t even known Collis. And now Vancour and the Resistance still dealt with him, with no concept of what really made him tick.

  “Good,” Kay murmured, as she read the notes. She started to comment, then paused, watching Collis mark something on his copy.

  He’d worn reading glasses for over a month now. The sight of him in the brown horn-rimmed frames, looking so unwontedly studious, stirred something in her.

  He looked up. As if reading her mind, he leaned close and kissed her, slipping a warm hand behind her neck. “We’re going to have it all, Kay – wait and see,” he said in a low voice.

  She’d encountered little optimism in her life. Her instinct was to find it naïve…but under no definition of the word could Collis Reed be called that. Kay thought of the Black Moon chart and gave a small smile.

  “That’s my plan,” she said. “As long as I survive Cain.”

  Collis squeezed her fingers, his eyes intent. “Trust me,” he said. “It’s all working out the way we want. Remember what I told you? We’ll get rid of Cain – very soon now. I promise.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  September, 1942

  At Mabel and Ernest’s, the warm air stirred through the room, moved by the ceiling fan’s lazy swirls. I sat on the sofa with a drink in my hands. Whiskey, no ice. There was never enough ice when all of us were here.

  Mabel and Ernest had gone out for the night, leaving their home to us. The living room with its hanging beads and pretty ornaments felt crowded; all the group leaders had come for a final briefing. Still, there was barely a dozen of us.

  This was it. The core army against Kay Pierce. I took a sip of my drink, trying not to think of the odds against us.

  By now, the explosives would be in place.

  A muted atmosphere hung over the room. People stood in small groups, talking. A telio sat on a circular, polished table. On its screen, Kay Pierce was shaking someone’s hand, dimpling widely.

  I gazed at her image and thought about her dying the next day. I probably wasn’t a very good person any more. All I could feel was anticipation.

  Sephy came over and sat beside me. On the telio, the newsreel’s narrator was exulting, “Only twenty years old, and yet she rules with charity and grace…”

  “Who are Charity and Grace?” muttered Sephy. Her hair was up; somehow she looked cool and elegant despite the heat. “I swear, those two broads must be just as bad as Pierce.”

  I snorted out a laugh. “Is Hal okay?” I said after a pause.

  Sephy nodded. “He’s finishing a few last-minute charts, just in case.”

  Hal wasn’t privy to the inner workings of the plan, though Mac had briefed him on the basics, so he’d know when to escape if need be. But Hal had begged to help somehow…and against what Mac claimed was his better judgement, he’d finally allowed it. Hal would be with me and Dwight tomorrow.

  “Maybe we were wrong to try to shield him,” Mac had said heavily to me. “Hell, he’s already seen more than anyone twice his age should ever have to.”

  It scared me to think of my brother taking part, but Mac had a point – and I hardly felt objective enough to argue. I left the decision up to him.

  When I tried to speak to Hal about the poster we’d seen, he’d shut me down. “I don’t want to talk about it, Amity.”

  I’d hesitated, studying his bowed head as he worked. Finally I sat down beside him. “Look…I know that after I shot Gunnison, I wasn’t really there for you. I’m trying to be now, okay?”

  “Well, that’s great, but I still don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Hal…”

  “Can you leave it, for crying out loud?” His grip on his pencil tightened, though he kept drawing the spiky astrological symbols. He spoke deliberately, enunciating every word: “Dad was a traitor. The poster’s right. What else is there to say?”

  I tensely watched the movement of his hand. “It doesn’t have to define us.”

  “Yeah, like it hasn’t defined you,”
he muttered. “Wildcat.”

  I couldn’t reply at first. He was right. I liked to think that I’d be here doing the noble thing and fighting against Kay Pierce anyway…but would I really be, after Harmony Five?

  It was all tangled up with Dad. Everything I’d done for years was tangled up with Dad.

  “Well, it’ll be over soon, with luck,” I said stiffly.

  Hal looked up then. He studied me, rolling his pencil between his fingers.

  “Mac says he’s the one who decided not to let me in on the plan,” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  My brother’s gaze was challenging. “Did you argue for me?”

  “No,” I said at last. I saw the hurt in his eyes and stood up then, shoving my chair back. “None of us wanted you involved in planning it,” I said shortly. “And I still wish you weren’t taking part now.”

  Mac came over and glanced at his watch. “We’ll wait a little longer for Ingo,” he said, and my stomach pinched. Ingo was never late. I knew he’d been replenishing a few of our old caches in the tunnels in case they were needed. Had he run into trouble?

  Finally, looking at his watch again with a frown, Mac stood up and shoved a hand through his rumpled brown hair. “Okay, everyone. Let’s go over it one last time…”

  He described again how, at the moment of the attack, various groups of us were to take over key points of the city. Jimmy had supplied pistols, though I prayed no one would have to use them.

  Meanwhile, Mac and others, also armed, would get President Weir out of house arrest and escort him through the streets on their way to the capitol building, shouting that Pierce’s reign was over and Weir was back in charge. By the time they got there, we hoped for a crowd of thousands supporting us.

  We all knew our roles. Hal, Dwight and I would watch for Collie’s signal from the palace, then join the group storming the telio station. I could have recited the plan in my sleep. At times I almost had, lying awake and chanting it to myself like a bedtime story.

  “All right?” Mac was saying. “And remember, if it all goes haywire, try to reach the rendezvous point in the tunnels, then get the hell out of the city. Don’t be a hero.”

  I glanced at the clock and bit my lip. A quarter past ten.

  Sephy put her hand on my arm and I started. She whispered, “Don’t worry, I’m sure—”

  Everyone froze as three soft knocks came at the door. Pause. Two more. Mac relaxed and opened it.

  Ingo came in. I exhaled softly.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, pulling off the fedora that partly hid his scar. His shoes were dirty; he’d clearly come straight from the tunnels. “There were some Guns on the prowl – I had to come back a different way.”

  “No problem, buddy. Glad you’re okay.” Mac clapped his arm. “Where were they? Nowhere near the Park Line, I hope?”

  Ingo shook his head. “Over in the old Delancey sewers. We should be fine, with luck.”

  The meeting was basically over by then. Mac went to have a word with Jimmy. Others stood in small groups, chatting, as if no one quite wanted to leave yet. It was the Resistance’s last night to ever meet this way…we hoped.

  Ingo glanced around the room. Our eyes met. He hesitated, then came and sat beside me. Something both loosened and tightened in my chest.

  I looked down at the remnants of my drink, swirling the amber liquid. “I was starting to worry about you,” I said. “I was wondering if I should be planning another funeral.”

  “You can still plan it, if you like.”

  I smiled slightly. “Only if you plan mine too.”

  “Yes, what fun, a new hobby…no, on second thoughts, let’s not. It’s a bit morbid.”

  “Practical, isn’t it? With what’s happening tomorrow?”

  “Even so.” Ingo nodded at my drink. “Is there any more of that?”

  The bottle was nearby. I poured more into my glass and handed it to him. Sephy had risen and gone over to Mac.

  “Thanks.” Ingo took a swig, then leaned his head against the back of the sofa. “It’s always so strange, being here after days underground,” he murmured. He’d hardly been out of the tunnels since I’d seen him; he’d been busy getting things ready.

  He looked so tired. My gaze lingered on the long, angular lines of his face.

  I cleared my throat. “So you got the people out safely a few days ago?” We hadn’t discussed it when we’d buried Nate together.

  Ingo straightened and rested his forearms on his knees. He wore grey trousers, a worn blue shirt with its sleeves partly rolled up. “Yes. A pair of schoolteachers and an old man with his two grandsons.”

  “Good,” I said softly. There’d been discussion as to whether we should keep getting people out of the city at this point. Ingo had refused to stop, and Mac had agreed. I didn’t blame him. If we failed tomorrow, those were five more people who wouldn’t die.

  “Are you going to drink all of that?” I asked after a pause.

  “Possibly.” Ingo took another sip and handed it back. “Shall I get my own tumbler?”

  “No, that’s okay. We’ve shared a lot more than this.” I spoke without thinking, then caught myself. The words seemed to imply more than just using the same spoon while on the run.

  In the slightly awkward pause that followed, I looked down and rolled the tumbler between my hands. “Have you heard anything more from your family?”

  Ingo’s voice was quiet. “No. I’d have told you. You?”

  “No. And the same.”

  I remembered Ma’s letter again. Her plea to keep Hal safe made me feel hollow, given what we were planning.

  If I died tomorrow, what would I regret?

  I kept my gaze on my glass. I felt as if I were standing on a cliff edge. “I suppose…I suppose that if we succeed tomorrow, you’ll be catching the first ship home.”

  I glanced up and saw Ingo studying me, frowning a little.

  “Yes, most likely,” he said.

  I took another quick sip. “Well, I was thinking…if we succeed, Hal and I will be going to Nova Scotia to see Ma. You could maybe come with us. And then maybe…” I trailed off.

  The half-formed plan had seemed like something a friend might suggest until I’d started saying it. Now it felt momentous, if the hammering of my heart was anything to go by.

  Ingo’s posture stayed relaxed, but his eyes had taken on that slightly veiled look that I’d seen sometimes since that night on the roof. “And then maybe what?”

  My voice came out almost curt. “Then…maybe I could go to the EA with you. If you wanted. Meet your family.”

  In the silence that followed, I started to take a swig of my drink and then realized my glass was empty. Ingo bent down and stretched to snag the bottle off the floor.

  “Not too much,” I said as he poured more into the tumbler. “Busy day tomorrow, you know.”

  The dark humour fell flat. Why wasn’t he answering?

  Ingo slowly stoppered the lid. His voice was low. “Amity…what exactly are you saying?”

  The telio was playing a fast-paced rumba that reminded me of dancing with Collie, his hands on my hips as we moved. I was glad when someone snapped it off.

  I shrugged and started to say something hedging. Something like, I’ll miss you a lot when you leave, that’s all, or, You’ve told me so much about them; I’d love to meet them.

  I looked down at the drink again. I didn’t take a sip. “Ingo…that night up on the roof…”

  I’m not sure if he heard. We both looked up suddenly as Anton appeared in front of us, holding a guitar. He handed it to Ingo. “Your nimble fingers are needed, Manfred.”

  Ingo had taken the guitar automatically. “My nimble fingers are tired,” he said.

  “Tired? On what could be your last night ever? Impossible.” Anton grinned. He had longish brown hair, green eyes. “Besides, I got you something. Happy belated birthday, you ugly scheisskopf.” He took a bottle from a paper bag and handed it over.


  When Ingo saw what it was, he laughed with real pleasure. The label pictured a peach; I saw the word schnapps.

  “From Montemurlo, near my home village,” he said to me, smiling and turning it over in his hands. “Anton and I were talking about it. Danke,” he said to him.

  “It’s your birthday?” I said in surprise.

  “Last month. August 19th.”

  Of course – Ingo was a Leo. Once I’d had no concept of astrology. Gunnison and Pierce had taken care of that.

  “Twenty-two,” I said softly.

  “Yes. An old man.”

  “Not so old.”

  Ingo’s gaze stayed on me. His slight smile was quizzical, as if thinking of what we’d just been talking about. Anton brought out a set of bongos and started to tap out a low beat, sitting on the floor in front of us.

  After a pause, Ingo looked down and began tuning the guitar, plucking at the strings. “Try it,” he said to me, nodding at the schnapps.

  “You have to say the right toast though,” said Anton.

  “Which is?” Despite having been interrupted, I was smiling too.

  “Prost,” said Ingo.

  I opened the bottle; the smell of summer and ripe fruit floated out. I glanced around for a non-existent spare glass.

  Ingo started to play, his long fingers coaxing out a jazzy tune. “Just swig it,” he said. “We’ve no pride here.”

  I toasted him with the bottle. “Prost,” I said, and took a sip. The schnapps was sweet and strong.

  “Prost,” Ingo echoed. Our eyes met. Impulsively, I leaned over and put the bottle to his lips as he played. He took a swig, hardly missing a chord.

  “Even better than I remembered,” he said to Anton with a grin.

  “Anything forty proof usually is, pal,” said Anton.

  One of the other women started singing in a low, dreamy voice. Someone else kept time, lightly slapping their hand on the table. Mac and Sephy began to dance. She rested her head against his shoulder as he held her close.

  The sudden hope in the room felt both exuberant and almost unbearable.

  Please, I thought. Let us succeed tomorrow.

  Ingo didn’t look up from his playing. After a while, in an undertone, he said, “I’d dance with you, if that wouldn’t put an end to the music.”