Black Moon

by L. A. Weatherly

  I reached him and sank to my knees. I touched his shoulder – and then, trembling, wrapped my arms around him and pressed close, resting my cheek on his head.

  “Shh,” I murmured, stroking his back. “Ingo…shh…”

  The minutes passed as he cried. A truck drove past outside. At last Ingo straightened a little and pulled away. He massaged his eyes but didn’t look up.

  “Who?” I asked, hugging myself.

  His throat worked. “My father.”

  “What…what happened?”

  Ingo still had his hand over his eyes. “He had cancer. There wasn’t anything they could do.”

  I thought of the photo taken outside their house, his family holding up their wine glasses. Ingo’s father, so like his younger son.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  He let his hand fall. His cheeks were damp.

  “He was asking for me before he died,” he said thickly.

  I hesitated. “How…how do you know?”

  “There was a letter for me when I got Mac and the others out of the city. Lena said to get home if I could – that he was dying – asking for me. The doctor said he couldn’t last more than a few more days.”

  Ingo gave a short, ugly laugh. “The letter was two weeks old when I got it.”

  I gripped his arms tightly. “You couldn’t have made it home in time anyway! Don’t blame yourself.”

  The hangar felt vast, quiet. Finally Ingo said, “When I got back into the city…I knew he must already be gone. But I kept thinking maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was still asking for me. Maybe even while…” He trailed off.

  Even while he’d been having sex with me in Little France. My heart ached. Oh, Ingo. No wonder he’d wanted to forget it had ever happened.

  His jaw was stone. “Then walking to the checkpoint…I just knew. Dad had died and I wasn’t there.”

  “But this is the first you’ve heard for sure?” I cursed the uncertain mail service; the lack of phones.

  “Yes. I was right; he’s been dead for…oh, fuck.” Ingo slammed his fist against the floor. “Fuck,” he whispered again, gripping his head.

  My throat was tight as I wrapped my arms around him again. I pressed my cheek against the side of his head. “Don’t,” I murmured hoarsely, caressing his back. I kissed his hair. “Ingo, please…please, don’t do this to yourself.”

  He went still. I could hear his breathing. Then his muscles turned to steel and he pulled away.

  “Stop, Amity. I don’t need your pity.”

  “This isn’t pity!” I cried. “I’m in love with you!”

  Ingo stared at me, his dark eyes startled. I realized I was crying. “I’m in love with you, you idiot,” I got out. “Don’t you know that?”

  Before he could answer, the sirens split the air again. No!

  “Scramble!” someone shouted from outside. We lunged to our feet. Our footsteps echoed as we raced from the hangar.

  The planes stood in long lines, waiting. An explosion went off nearby, rocking the airfield. Ingo and I sprinted for our Doves.

  They weren’t far from each other. As we started to separate, he clutched my arms. “Be careful!”

  “And you! Forget about everything! Concentrate.” I was terrified that he’d be too distracted to fly well.

  His eyes were still red. “It was the not knowing,” he said. “Now I know.” He hesitated, then squeezed my hand. Our fingers interlocked.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  We took off into a seething sky.

  That battle kicked off three solid days of fighting as Kay Pierce blasted New Manhattan Island. By evening on the second day I’d flown and landed more times than I could remember and it wasn’t over yet.

  When I landed around twilight, Tess grabbed me. “Night-fliers, I need night-fliers!” she gasped. She shoved coordinates into my hand. “We think we’ve found her new airbase.”

  I raced for a fresh plane and took off with a few others. The coordinates were only an hour away.

  We found the base – it was awash with people. My heart gave a fierce leap when I saw half a dozen bombers. I peeled away and went low, strafing the airfield. People had thought the humming noise was from their own planes and now they ran, shouting, or dropped to the ground with their hands over their heads.

  “Get out – leave – it’s your planes we want,” I muttered. The airfield angled as I pulled up. Our own bomber was overhead; I’d barely cleared the field when I saw the missiles tumbling down.

  As people raced from the field, their bombers began to burst into flames. Yes. The exhilaration felt hard within me. The tarmac leaped and buckled, then went dark as the airbase lights went out in a sweeping fizzle.

  I tore my gaze from the treacherous night sky and looked only at my control panel. Compass point thirty-two degrees east. Altitude fifteen thousand.

  “Trust the instruments,” I murmured. It was what Russ always used to say. He was the best team leader I’d ever had, even if he had turned out to be taking bribes.

  When I got back, I tumbled into bed exhausted. Four hours later, it was dawn and I was back in a plane again.

  Around three o’clock that afternoon, we hit a lull.

  I returned to my room and slept. When I woke up, it was after six. I lay without moving for a minute, gazing out at the sunset against the New Manhattan skyline. I felt tense with anticipation.

  Finally I got up and took a shower. I put on the same black strapless dress that I’d worn when I’d gone out with Harlan and Vera.

  It hugged me in all the right places, then flared out down to my knees. I swallowed, studying myself in the mirror. My hair fell sleekly to my shoulders. I pinned some of it up, creating two waves that softly framed my face. I stroked on some lipstick.

  When I went down to the hotel bar, it was busy but not heaving for a change. A lot of the pilots had wanted to get away from the airfield. I’d heard a group talking about taking the subway up to Harlemtown.

  I was glad.

  I sat at a table to one side. The singer wasn’t there that night, but a small band was playing. When the waiter came over I ordered a glass of wine and then sat fiddling with it.

  I looked up just as Ingo walked in.

  I went still, the wine glass forgotten. He was wearing grey trousers, a green-flecked sports jacket. His eyes met mine across the crowd and he headed over, weaving his way through the room.

  When he reached my table neither of us had taken our eyes from the other. The expression on his half-scarred face was serious, unsmiling.

  He held out a hand. “Dance with me?” he asked softly.

  I was already rising.

  We’d danced once before, a lifetime ago. Then, moving with him on the dance floor had just felt comfortable, no tensions between us. Now I shivered as he drew me close, his left hand holding my right. I rested my head on his shoulder, my heart beating hard.

  His own head was slightly bowed, his cheek against my hair. We moved to the music: a low, hypnotic tune with horns and clarinets that I didn’t know the name of but knew I’d never forget. I closed my eyes.

  Ingo’s lips moved against my ear. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” I murmured back. “I should have given you time. I should have known something was wrong.”

  “I was being an ass; how could you?”

  “Because I know you.” I pulled back a little and studied him. “I’m sorry too,” I said. “I forgot that I do. I thought…” It was hard to say. I rubbed my thumb across his shoulder, my throat tight.

  “I confused you with Collie,” I said.

  The lights had dimmed. As we moved to the music, other couples were dark, intimate shapes around us. Ingo held our clasped hands tightly against his chest.

  “I couldn’t tell you then,” he said finally. “I could hardly think about it without going crazy. I hated myself that morning for…for having been with you, for enjoying it, when Dad…”

  “Stop.” I put my hand over his
lips.

  He exhaled. As he pulled me close again the music changed to a slow tango.

  We kept dancing the same steps as before. I wrapped my arms around his neck. I could feel his heart pounding, and the warmth of his skin through his shirt, and I felt short of breath.

  Ingo was caressing my side, his hand moving slowly up and down. “I’ve been trying to figure it out, you know,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “Why I didn’t realize the moment we met how beautiful you are. I must have been spectacularly stupid.”

  “Me too,” I got out.

  He pulled back. His good eyebrow rose. “I don’t need a platitude, my friend,” he said quietly.

  “It isn’t one.”

  “Amity, when we met, I still looked normal. It wasn’t unheard of for women to find me attractive. I didn’t make small children cry.”

  “Then, you were just…some guy. Now you’re…” I trailed off. I touched his scar, gently exploring the ruined skin. “Everything,” I whispered.

  Ingo’s throat moved. He put his hand over mine. “I love you too,” he said. His voice was rough. “You know that, don’t you? I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

  “I know.” I was trembling, electricity sweeping through me. We danced in silence, holding each other close. The music and the electricity built and built, until I couldn’t stand it any more.

  “Come to my room,” I murmured in his ear.

  His lips were against my cheek. “Mine is closer,” he whispered huskily.

  “Mine’s more private.”

  “Yours,” he said.

  He put his arm around my shoulders. We left the dance floor, weaving through the still-moving couples. Behind us, the plaintive, dramatic chords of the tango wailed.

  We started kissing in the elevator as the small chamber hummed upwards. One of the pins in my hair came out as Ingo stroked his hands through it, our mouths moving together, the two of us pressed tightly up against the wall. When the door slid open I almost didn’t notice. Then I stepped away, dazed, and grabbed his hand.

  “Hurry,” I said.

  My room was at the end of the hallway. The room next door was always empty; the pilot billeted there lived with his girlfriend. Ingo kissed my neck as I fumbled in my clutch purse for my key. I found it and tried to put it in the lock. I gasped as his lips slid across my skin.

  “You were faster as a lock-picker,” Ingo muttered.

  “It’s your own fault…holy hell, why isn’t this working?”

  “Give me that.” He was smiling. He plucked the key from my hands and opened the door; we got inside.

  I snapped on the light. In the silence that followed I swallowed, gazing at him. I moved close and gently pushed the jacket from his shoulders. Ingo shrugged out of it and tossed it onto the armchair. Then he took the other pins from my hair, easing them out one by one and putting them on the dresser.

  I stood motionless, taking in the familiar angles of his face. His left jaw was freshly shaved. His eyes looked very dark.

  Ingo pulled the last pin free. I rose on my tiptoes and slipped my hand behind his neck. He pulled me to him as we kissed lightly, our lips sipping at each other, then more deeply. I played with his crisp curls, teasing my fingers through them.

  “I’m better prepared this time,” Ingo whispered against my mouth.

  I grinned. “Me too.”

  I could feel him grinning as well. His hands glided down my spine.

  “Let’s try going slowly for a change,” he said.

  I stood at my window gazing at the dawn. New Manhattan lay spread out below me, its buildings tipped with rose and gold. In the distance I could see the river – a thin, gleaming cord.

  It all looked so beautiful.

  A rustle came from the bed. I shivered, smiling, as Ingo slipped his arms around me from behind. I pressed against his bare chest’s wiry warmth and he kissed my temple.

  “I didn’t think you were awake yet,” I said.

  His muscles flexed as he yawned. “You left. I felt bereft.”

  I smiled. I turned in his arms and leaned back, studying him.

  Ingo’s mouth twisted. “You look happy,” he said softly. He touched my face.

  “There’s a reason for that.” I turned my head and kissed his hand. “Don’t go back to your room.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “No…I mean, stay here in mine from now on.”

  He smiled. “Am I allowed to go and get my clothes?”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Yes, but not yet. And I don’t want you wearing them very often.”

  Ingo tickled my cheek with a strand of hair. “How nice it is when two people want the same thing.”

  “Isn’t it?” I said.

  PART THREE

  APRIL 1943 – AUGUST 1943

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  April, 1943

  As Collis drove, the dirt road seemed to dim. The jeep lurched violently and he started, hands clenching the wheel. Pothole – hadn’t even seen it. He grimaced and grabbed the flask on the empty passenger seat. Keeping his eyes on the road, he unscrewed it and took a swig of lukewarm coffee.

  Stay on your toes, Reed, he ordered himself, shifting gears as he started up a hill. He’d been up for over thirty hours. It would be just his stupid luck to get so close to the place and then die by crashing the jeep.

  He’d been out in the Yukon for several weeks this time, touring the factories that Kay still held and inspecting the defences against World United – who now controlled Alaska and part of the western Yukon and had spent the winter consolidating their forces just as Kay had. Even after so many months of journeys to the region, it had taken this long to ditch his driver without suspicion and arrange his schedule so that three free days had been secretly built into it.

  The spring day was cold and drizzly, the barren mountains lost in the haze. Collis knew from the map that he must be in their territory by now, though there’d been no marker in the desolate landscape.

  Finally he reached a chain-link fence stretching across the road. A sign read: No admittance. The pair of soldiers guarding it had heard him coming. They waited, wearing blue uniforms and holding rifles.

  Collis stopped the jeep. He steeled himself and then swung open the door. He approached the soldiers with his hands over his head.

  “I’m Collis Reed,” he said. “I surrender.”

  They questioned him for over five hours. Collis was desperately aware of the clock – it had taken him over a day to get here, and he needed almost the same time again to get to his next meeting and not be suspected. Over and over, he repeated his story to the two World United officials.

  “Let’s have it again, Mr Reed,” said one, a woman named Sergeant DeBacca. Her pointed face reminded him disconcertingly of Kay. “I’m not sure I’m quite grasping your story yet.”

  Collis rubbed his eyes. “I’m with the Resistance,” he said, his voice scratchy with tiredness. “I helped organize the assassination attempt that killed Sandford Cain. I have information that’s vital for you, if you want to take Atomic Harmony Devices. And you need to, as soon as you can. She’s still making nukes.”

  “Are you trying to sell us this information, Mr Reed?” sneered the man – Foster, thin and rangy. “My, I’m sure your wife would be distressed.”

  The mention of Kay brought a confusing mix of emotions. Collis’s tone stayed level. “No. I’m giving it to you.”

  “How do we know the info’s good? This could be a trap.”

  The conversation had been circling for hours. Collis longed for a drink. “Look, someone in the WU must know who Mac Jones is. He was a double agent under Gunnison. In the Resistance he went by Vince Griffin. If you can just—”

  “I’ve never heard of Mac Jones,” broke in DeBacca flatly.

  “His man Grady was the one who delivered the photos of nuclear weapons to the EA in the first place! Get in touch with Grady. He knows I’m R
esistance.”

  After another hour of this, DeBacca and Foster withdrew. Through the glass door of the office where they’d been questioning him, Collis saw them talking. Finally DeBacca picked up a phone and started to dial.

  There followed several phone conversations that he couldn’t hear. DeBacca wrote something down. More silent discussions. Another phone call. To Collis’s surprise, he dozed a little, his head slumped on his arms on the desk. He awoke with a start: someone jostling his shoulder.

  “Here,” said Sergeant DeBacca curtly, handing him a phone.

  His thoughts still bleary, Collis took the receiver. “Hello?”

  There was a pause. “Hello, Collis,” said Mac’s voice finally.

  Collis sat bolt upright, his heart hammering. “Mac! Oh, holy hell, I’m glad they got hold of you. Listen—”

  “Cut it.” Mac’s voice was cold. “I want you to tell me in two sentences why you betrayed us, and don’t try to bullshit me and tell me you didn’t. Then you can explain exactly why the WU shouldn’t take you hostage and use you as leverage against Pierce, which they’re thinking about – though I doubt she cares if you live or die.”

  That’s not true, Collis thought automatically. He squeezed the bridge of his nose.

  “I can tell you in one sentence,” he said.

  After he’d realized back in July that he was starting to care for Kay, Collis had been desperate to arrange the assassination attempt while he still felt capable of doing it.

  Even as it was, he’d felt like the lowest kind of shit. Kay was as harsh a dictator as Gunnison, yet on a personal level – the two of them alone together – Collis liked her. In an odd way, he could be himself around her. She was his lover and he was plotting to kill her, and what did that make him?

  Around that time, a conversation with Kay had revealed that, on some level, she believed in astrology. Collis had always assumed that she thought it was garbage, that she only used it for her own ends. But lying in his arms one night, talking through their days, she’d mentioned drowsily that she’d cast a chart for herself that afternoon.