by Kaplan, EM
"No," she said. "It’s not battle fury. It’s passion. Let it go. You can't hurt me. I can be as strong as you.” And when he froze again, she goaded him, "Do it."
She wouldn't let him shove her away. He struggled a minute longer to rein himself in and when he thought he was starting to get himself under control, she pushed him again. She arched above him, and he groaned, his body straining to get at her.
He panted. His eyes drank her in. With her hands on his shoulders, she leaned toward him and saw herself reflected in his eyes. She saw her eyes bright with unmitigated desire.
Almost quicker than she could follow, he lifted her off him and shifted them both in the chair so he loomed over her larger than the light behind him, larger than life, filling her vision and her mind. The chair groaned beneath them. He struggled with his balance, trying to hold his weight over her, and he swore as he fumbled. The chair creaked again and the back collapsed halfway to the floor. They froze, but only for a split second.
He kissed her roughly, his eyes unfocused and glazed over with what she now recognized as his fury. Pleasurable tension swept over her and turned off all thought. She felt only joy, happiness, and love. He leaned down again and, this time, pressed her lips gently, his eyes clear and catching firelight.
Epilogue
By the time spring arrived that year, the displaced people were more than ready to leave the big house and to return to their homes, although a few stayed to work on construction. Some had discovered they had skill in building and approached it with great enthusiasm. Col Rob's old suite was demolished and converted for other purposes—a study room for one, and they were changing the rooms on the opposite side of the hall into rooms for Rob and Jenny and the children; the mute girl Amber, the sole girl among the six of the children, already needed a place to get away from the boys.
Mel picked her way through the new spaces, avoiding debris, and tried to imagine what it would look like after it was complete. The amount of summer sunlight filtering down into the rooms was going to be wondrous. Seeing new things being built made her wonder if Cillary Keep would be restored one day. Would there ever be another season at the Keep?
She had met with Bookman and Rav earlier to continue working on their project recording what they knew of the history of the trogs. They'd only begun to delve into the stories that Bookman knew, and now that he could speak with his transformed human throat, it was going a lot quicker. Luckily. Because their baby, already late, was going to arrive any time and soon they wouldn't be able to work this quickly. The name Bookman had stuck with the poor man, though most people shortened it to Book. She still wasn’t used to the way he looked now, with his pale skin and dark sweep of hair, but his eyes held the same intelligence as before and he had a solemn way of speaking that encouraged trust.
For now, Mel had other things on her mind. Earlier that morning, a trio of trogs had arrived at the doorstep of the great house. They were unarmed and non-threatening and they'd asked through hand signals to be taken in and converted into their human forms. As agreed by earlier decree, Rob let them enter.
Now trogs who wished to be cleansed were housed in the now-vacant great hall where Mel saw them daily. She had a partitioned corner of the room where she worked on them one at a time, cleansing them. The first two conversions had gone well, and they both had emerged from the treatment looking pale-skinned, tall, and striking, with throats that croaked in hoarse, hesitant voices. The third was more problematic.
At first, he seemed nervous and had gestured for the two others to go through the process before him. Now he was pacing the floor of the meeting room, its fine polished wood floor incongruous under his thick-hided feet. Mel was used to their odor now. She hardly even noticed it and suspected that it was on her clothes at the end of the day. Ott never complained.
But this trog in front now of her was clearly unsettled. "It's all right," she said soothingly. "The process won't injure you." At least, it wouldn't hurt. She still wasn't exactly sure if harm was something she'd care to quantify in changing a trog into a human. She still wasn't sure if it was the correct thing to do . . . the ones who wanted to be changed did it by choice. It wasn't a requirement of the trogs if they chose to live aboveground at the big house. All that Rob required was an oath of fealty, and that could be given in either form, human or trog. Defend the house. Defend the people and their right to live. That was all he required.
Mel speculated that the trog with her now was at odds about his identity. If he chose to transition to human form, would he still be himself? Trogs were nearly impossible for her to read, so she was guessing entirely. She stood still, and then patiently gestured for him to follow her behind the partition. She sat on the cot and patted the place next to her so he would sit. She'd stopped using a translator with the trogs, even the newly arrived trogs. Her signing repertoire was getting better, though she was far from fluent. Nonetheless, she began signing to him that he might lie down on the cot to make himself comfortable and to try to relax.
She carefully avoided standing as she shifted herself to a nearby chair. She didn't want to threaten him or make him feel submissive, though he was much larger than she was. When he was prone, she began telling him the basic ideas of what she would be doing, moving the agamite out of his body—gently—and what he might feel during the process. Some of the men, after they were able to speak a little, had reported feeling a little dizziness during the process. Some felt a heated flush throughout the body. Most felt the overwhelming urge to sleep after the process was complete, as Mel often felt herself. She still could attend to only a few of them per day and had to retire to her room to go to bed afterward. Ott always knew when she would be seeing a trog and came to check on her later.
"So when you're ready and if you feel comfortable with this," Mel began in her healer’s voice, but the trog suddenly shot up into a sitting position and held up a giant hand telling her to stop. She waited, eyes wide in surprise, watching him. He rubbed his hand across his forehead in a very human gesture, and then peeked at her from under the hand.
She saw a glint of blue. Blue?
The eyes flashed blue, and then the lines of the trog's face wavered. The body shrank and grew shorter. More adjustments. The skin softened, and white hair feathered out from the top of the head. Then Jenks stood up from the cot in front of her.
Mel gave a gasp and flung herself at him, hugging him in a tight embrace. His body stiffened in surprise, and then he hugged her back. He chuckled and cleared his throat, which sounded raspy from lack of use.
"You might have been surprised had you looked inside me and found no agamite to push," he said, trying to lighten the mood.
She didn't care that he had cheated their system of justice using his Mask-given talents to shift and to hide among the trogs. All she cared was that she had been given one more chance to embrace someone of her blood, someone who had loved her mother and father as much as she had. She didn't know if she loved him by choice, or if biology and her nature required her to do so, but she did love him. And she knew that love itself is what she had in common with him, the ability to feel—and to feel deeply.
She couldn't speak, as overwhelmed as she was. He held her tightly and said softly, "So, you missed me." After she nodded, he said, "I know you have questions. You know I can't stay, but I can return again." She gathered herself enough to release him and step back just a small step. He smiled. She loved his sparkling blue eyes.
"I'm so glad you came," she said when she was finally able to say anything, to find the words to welcome her father.
His smile broadened. "The next time I come, I'll have a lot to tell you. I'm learning . . . so much." He shook his head in disbelief. "After all these years, I've become a scholar. And a scribe. I'll bring you notes," he promised. "I can write, though my hand is shakier when it's so big, but when I'm in that form, I hear so many different things. And I'll write it all down." He brushed her hair out of her eyes as they stood eye-to-eye.
&n
bsp; "I have to go back," he said. And she nodded again, drinking him in through tear-blurred eyes. He kissed her on the forehead and hugged her one last time. Then he shifted. In trog form, he nodded. She turned around to watch him walk away and found Ott standing at the edge of the partition, his mouth slightly agape at what he’d seen.
Mel brushed away tears and waved her hand at his concerned look. She laughed, scrubbing a hand across her eyes. "You're always in the right place at the right time," she said. "How do you do that?"
She felt his gaze on her, though she wasn't ready to meet his eyes. She saw his feet come into view as she stared at the floor. The scent of him enveloped her. That heady, familiar scent would always intoxicate her. That unshakeable foundation of her being would keep her feet planted on the ground no matter what happened next.
Ott shrugged. He said with a smile, "I’m just lucky, I guess."
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EM Kaplan has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Arizona. She lives in Illinois with her family and her dog.
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Josie Tucker Mysteries by EM Kaplan:
The Bride Wore Dead
Dim Sum, Dead Some
