by J. D. Glass
The presence made itself known as a sudden chill that floated across my shoulders.
“Join you for a drink,” the voice asked, low and dry.
“Help yourself,” I answered as I turned with my glass in hand.
He sat down, his movements graceful and quick. “You’re new here,” he observed and stretched back along his seat and lit a cigarette. The smoke rose in lazy waves as he contemplated me.
I returned the cool stare. Black boots. Black pants, fitted at the ankle but blossoming out as they rose. Fingerless black leather gloves. An old marching band jacket that in daylight would be maroon but in the half light of the pub was a bloody red.
“Next you’ll ask what’s a nice girl doing…?” I asked, then sipped, casually, bored.
He laughed. “Nah, that I wouldn’t ask.” He tapped his cigarette on the arm of his chair, let the ashes fall unheeded to the floor. “I’m sure you’ve moments where you’re not that nice.”
I lit one of my own and leaned back in my chair. I stared at him blankly, uncaringly. That seemed to frustrate him and his lip curled into a sneer as he leaned forward. “I know how your father died, Wielder.” His voice hissed dryly even as he seemed to spit the last word. “I’ll live to see you die, too.”
Though the words about my father struck deep, deep into a hurt I didn’t realize could still ache the way it did, and sent an even colder chill through my bones, I’d already been taught well. Those feelings, and the questions that accompanied them, could be dealt with later. Now, though, the enemy stood declared before me. I took a casual drag from my cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I stared back into beetle black eyes, black like the bugs that crawled out from under rocks that lie undisturbed through the winter until they’re budged in spring for fresh planting. Those eyes glittered at me with malice.
He smiled, somehow managing to show all of his teeth as he did so.
“Of course you don’t—I’ll bet you don’t even know how he died—and you think you’re,” and his eyes traveled down my neck to rest pointedly on the ankh that hung just under my throat, “protected. You’re not. And you’re not the first, though you may be the last. You won’t last long.”
I sat back like I didn’t care; he was telling me nothing I hadn’t already learned, and so far nothing I didn’t think I’d eventually find out anyway. “What do you have?” he continued. “Maybe twenty, thirty, forty years before you’re caught, killed, destroyed? Even if you manage to breed and live a mortal life span, I will still be here. But,” and he leaned across the table, his voice lower now, urgent, full of…full of something I’d learn to recognize in time, “you could be one of us. The power sings in your blood, I can taste it in the air—I could…teach you…how to avoid your father’s fate, to use that power, so that you might never sing the black song and you would be immune to human frailty, suffering.” He cut his eyes toward the dance floor where Graham had run away from his duties long enough to whirl around with Hannah and Fran. It was Fran his gaze lingered on. “I can see that you’re…connected. I could ensure that’s permanent, if you so desire, or,” he sat back, a wide smirk on his delicately chiseled face, “I could force you because of it, should you refuse.” He waved his cigarette. “Tell me, is she even more beautiful when she cries?”
That…that got me, and I tried not to let it show, but I could feel the tendons in my neck tighten, the muscles across my chest grow close around my heart, a fear that snapped into anger. I bet I could take him.
And then it hit me: as above, so below. Don’t engage, don’t step out of the Circle. I couldn’t be forced, I had to voluntarily step out of the Circle.
I focused and checked my own barrier—it was fine—and it took less than half a second to extend that to the sense of Fran’s presence.
“You’re not the most pleasant of drinking companions,” I informed him as I stood and slung my gig bag, heavy with the weight of my bass, over my shoulder. “I think I’ve passed my quota on rude for the day. Have a great night.”
He was so quick he’d grabbed my arm before I’d taken the next breath, but I was ready.
“We’re not done…Wielder,” he hissed.
I stared at his hand. “Let go, or lose it.” I focused the energy field where his fingers wrapped around my forearm and he released my sleeve as if burned.
“Je reviens te chercher,” I return to seek you, he whispered.
I caught his eyes, those glittering black pools, with mine. Funny. He wasn’t as tall as he’d seemed moments ago and he seemed somehow…familiar. “Good luck with that,” I said before I turned my back on him and made my way to the bar.
Fran met me there barely a moment later. “Hey, are you okay?” she asked with a concern I felt even before she cupped my shoulder. “I saw that that guy—was he bothering you? He seemed like a real creep.”
“He was,” I answered shortly, not knowing if or how to explain. “But yeah, I’m okay.” I put my hand on the small of her back and tried to smile reassuringly before I caught Kenny’s eye. He nodded back at me when I finally did, then sent two pints over. I handed one to Fran and she watched me as I sipped.
The heightened awareness that invaded me—the proximity of Fran’s body, the thoughts and feelings that swirled heavy in the air, thick as the cigarette smoke that surrounded us, filled with the unmistakable sense of hunger, lust—overloaded me, left me feeling heavy and edgy.
She put her mug down and caressed my cheek with her fingertips. She studied my eyes, then leaned in, her lips next to my ear. “Let’s go.”
“Do you want to?” I asked her in return. All things aside, the weight of minds, the none-too-subtle threat from the…whatever…I didn’t want her to worry, wanted her to enjoy herself, the pub, the company I normally kept.
Still, the press of her body and the light whisper of her breath over my face served to remind me of the night before and how we’d spent our day, making my skin tingle with the memory.
Fran curled her hands into the collar of my jacket and tugged me closer. I rubbed my cheek against hers. “Yes.”
I kissed the spot I’d just pressed my face to. “All right, then. We’ll go.”
“Hey, I see Old Ralph Jones made a try at you.” Hannah’s voice cut through the surround sound atmosphere.
“Jones?” I asked her as Fran threaded her arms under my jacket and around my waist.
“Yeah. Jonesy, our local dealer.” Hannah pointed over her shoulder with her thumb and my eyes followed.
There he was still, the brass buttons on his band jacket winking in the stage lights, and sensing my attention, he looked my way and saluted me with his drink. He emanated cold waves in every direction.
I wondered if Cort was aware of him as I cut the contact and returned my attention to Hannah, who’d just swiped my pint.
“It always tastes better from someone else’s cup,” she said, smirking at my raised eyebrow. Not that it was a big deal, it was now a running gag among us, since everyone’s cups, cans, and pints got mixed up in the studio.
“What do you mean, dealer?” I asked as she sipped.
“You know, the usual stuff,” Hannah answered after she swallowed. “Soft stuff, pot, acid, that sort of thing, coke if you’re into it, some of the more…exotics. If you want it and it’s out there, Old Jones will find it.”
“For a price, of course,” Fran interjected.
“There’s always that,” Hannah agreed, “and some pay more than others. Ask Graham—I hear they’ve had some nasty run-ins. Back when he was a girl, I think.”
Fran’s hold tightened about my waist and I pulled her closer as I shifted, taking her out of Jonesy’s line of sight. If he wanted to look, he could stare at my back, but if he wanted Fran? He’d have to go through it.
“Really?” I said to Hannah over Fran’s head. “Do you know what it was about?”
I wondered, as I held Fran in my arms and against my body
then rubbed my cheek against her hair, what it was Graham and that…thing…had discussed. Had he been threatened or extorted similarly? There was something about Old Ralph Jones. He surely wasn’t a hound, he radiated something different, definitely a more…commanding presence, a different sort of energy…and there was a familiarity about him I couldn’t quite place.
“Well, not that directly. Graham doesn’t talk about much, so you’ll have to ask her, uh, him,” Hannah returned, slipping pronouns for the first time since we’d met. The thought flickered through my mind that perhaps there was a connection between the subject and her slip as I nodded at her.
“Maybe I will sometime. Hey, we’re gonna run off,” I told Hannah, who rewarded me with yet another smirk.
“So…I suppose we’ll see you in the studio Sunday, then? You’re welcome to come as well,” Hannah told Fran with the same smile.
“Maybe,” Fran said nonchalantly, “or maybe I’ll take the opportunity to start Christmas shopping.”
Hannah and I both stared at her. “But…it’s only just October!” Hannah observed with obvious surprise. “There’s plenty of time.”
Fran shrugged, a gesture that brushed the curve of her breast against mine and reminded me that there was more than one reason to be leaving. “It’s the only time Ann won’t be with me, and I need to find just the right thing. But,” she said and lifted her eyes to mine, “I’d be happy to meet you there later.”
The half smile that curved her lips got one in return from me and I inclined my head to—
“Right then, Sunday it is. Good, very good.” Hannah’s voice sounded more than slightly amused, though it only showed in the sparkle of her eyes when I glanced back at her.
“Yep,” I agreed. “So, we’re off—tell Graham I wish him luck tonight?” I asked Hannah.
“Sure,” she agreed, and returned to my pint, “you too.”
I waved to Kenny, who nodded back as we pushed through the crowd to the door.
Once outside, the cool night air made my head feel better even as it raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
For the first time, Fran and I walked back to the apartment with her arm around my waist and mine around her shoulder. I was hyperaware of the sound of our footfalls, the calls of passersby to each other on the streets, and the unique sensation of watching eyes prickled along my spine. I was so alert I was almost twitching and Old Ralph Jones, “Jonesy,” as Hannah had called him—his words, his voiced threat to Fran, God, that he could even think to picture, to speak, such a thing—had me ready to slug anyone that came too near, even though I knew that if his threat were to become more than that, it would more than likely manifest on another level first.
Adrenaline, fear, love all flowed and fought through me and combined with the memories of the sendings I’d endured on the Astral, to blend with tonight’s threat.
Once I’d closed and locked the door to the street behind us, Fran waited for me in the circle of light that came from the curtained glass of the door above, the only light in the darkened stairwell and I was relieved, so damned relieved to lock that door. I slid my case off my shoulder and leaned it safely into the corner, then gathered her in my arms to hold her close and breathe.
Jones had scared me, not for myself, not at all—my life was what it was and what it would be, probably brief but fierce and I had no qualms with it—but knowing that Fran’s proximity, her closeness to me, brought her into danger, a danger she hadn’t asked for, shouldn’t be a part of, for no reason other than the fact that it would hurt me, that had me terrified. It translated itself into the way I held her, the kisses I laid on her face, and the way I took her mouth with mine.
“Sammy, you’re shaking,” she murmured into my neck as my hands reached frantically under her coat, her sweater and shirt, to feel the reality, the warm vitality of her skin, the lush fullness of her breasts and the way the tips hardened under my hands, only to drag my fingers down her sides when her back was firmly against the wall.
“It’s just adrenaline,” I temporized against the fierce pulse in her neck because it was partially true. Oh, I knew we had to speak, knew I’d have to let her go just to keep her safe, even if it meant she thought I didn’t care, but now, right now, she was everything I wanted her to be: safe, whole, alive, and if I could just know it, I was desperate to know it. “I…yes…” My breath caught hard and fast in my chest when her fingers touched me, palms hard, rough against my skin as they rolled over my now-sensitive breasts.
“Please, Frankie,” I begged with my lips against hers, “I need to touch you.” I slipped the fingers of one hand under her waistband and used the other to open her pants. “Please.”
She answered me by gently circling my wrist and guided my hand past the firm muscle of her stomach. “Hannah asked me,” she breathed as my fingers edged over the curve that announced I was almost where we both wanted me to be, “if I was your lover.”
“What did you say—God, that’s so damned beautiful,” I groaned as I felt how wet and hard she was under my fingertips.
“Oh,” she sighed and rested back against the wall as she released me, “right there.” That same hand rounded my ass and pressed hard against me, set up a rhythm that matched the one I played and I leaned heavily against her.
“What’d you tell her?” I asked her again as she spread her thighs just that much more for me so I could enter her.
“I said…I said that,” she gasped, then swallowed as I pressed into her, followed the lift of her hips, felt the rush of blood to my clit at the muffled “mph” that escaped her when she lowered them again, settled fully on me with her cunt as tight as my heart as it beat in my chest, as amazingly wonderful as it had been the first time and the ones that followed it, “that we love…each other.”
“That’s true,” I told her, breath tearing past my throat, because the combined sensations of her slick and hot on my fingers, hers that pinched and tugged at the so-hard very tip of my nipple while the others played my clit through my pants, made it so very hard to think of anything other than how very much I needed her. “It’s very true.”
I had it in my head that somehow, some way, it would be okay, it would all be okay if only we could be together as we were at this moment, the pulse, the proof of her life flowing on my fingers, pushing back against my thumb, the frantic beat of her heart against mine as I swallowed her breath. It would be okay, she would be okay, it had to be okay because I wasn’t going to lose someone else, not my Frankie, not like that, not—
“I’ve got to touch you.” Her voice was as hot as the breath that flew past my ear while her fingers released my breast and left me aching, cold, only to pull at the button of my jeans.
“You are,” I assured her and kissed her deeply because I loved the taste, the feel of her mouth on my tongue, soft and slick like her cunt on my hand, and I pressed harder, curled my fingers deeper within. “You are -touching me.”
But I didn’t stop her or protest when her fingers eased my zipper down and I was grateful for the wall behind her because the slip of her thumb against the almost painful throb of my clit, the momentary almost-stinging sharpness that disappeared into the intense rush of the sudden fullness in my cunt as she took me, made my knees give.
I had the briefest flash of the friend we both missed, of Nina’s face on the day she’d come to school beaten, bruised, and my mind replaced it with Fran’s. “No,” I said to the picture even as it appeared, “please no.” I let myself surrender to the blood that pounded through me, the frantic push of our bodies, the constant give that was the sweet pull of her cunt on my fingers, the pressure of hers as the hand that had held my ass pushed her firmly within.
“Oh, Frankie,” I groaned, her name precious in my mouth, and I whispered it again into the delicate skin of her throat, a litany, a petition, a prayer from my lips to whatever would hear against whatever lay out there.
“Let it go,” she breathed against my lips, “Sammer, let it go…give it to m
e.”
I didn’t have to ask what she meant, because I knew, knew she had felt it, seen it within me and she moved that much harder in my cunt, pulled me that much closer, deeper, as the crushing weight of the veil between us lifted…
“Like that,” she said, a throaty whisper that churned my blood with the same ferocity she filled me with. “Give me that, all of it, Sam—everything.”
Her touch, her words, the honest desire that surrounded me combined with the unalloyed sincerity of the very real love that washed through us both as we thrust and pushed and kissed against that wall and each other, heedless of the discomfort or the possibility that someone would investigate why the front door had opened but the upstairs one hadn’t. The raw black wave of aching roaring empty that threatened to overtake me when I thought for even a second that any harm could come to her…this, this between us, the reality of her body against mine, of my fingers inside her, the fit of hers within me. “Everything, Frankie,” I promised as I came, so intense, so good, gasping, crying, the sounds choked in my throat, and she was full and real and deep inside me when I buried my face against her neck, and my fingers inside her.
“Stay,” I managed to tell her when her hands shifted, “come inside me.”
“Yeah?” she asked, the word strangled as it blew across my lips.
“Please,” I asked again as I felt the now-familiar pulse that told me soon, so soon, her cunt would give me, give us, the bare flash of her, “I want that.”
“I’m glad,” she said, then caught her breath while I caught her on me, in me, as she pressed her mouth to my shoulder and her body arched against mine.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured into her hair as I put my free arm around her shoulders, brushed the hair away from her neck, kissed her head as I let the wall hold us both. “I’ve got you,” I told her again as I withdrew carefully to clutch at her hip, missing her instantly when she did the same, her lips so wonderfully tender as she kissed my neck. “I’ve got you.”
