Desires, Known

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Any moment now, the old man kept muttering. Any minute.

  When did people stop using curtained beds? The old fossil would know, but damned if Peter would ask him. It was getting harder and harder to stay calm when the—

  A muffled thud. Peter sighed, digging his head into the pillow. If the bastard was tearing apart one of the rooms again, he could fucking well do it.

  Peter’s hand curled around the chilly, almost glassy hilt. Sleeping with the thing under his pillow was safer than letting it out of his sight for a single moment. If the old man suspected he was carrying it around, there would be…unpleasantness. And quite a bit of it, too.

  A sharp, crinkling shatter-break sound jolted him upright. Peter tilted his mussed head, listening intently. His senses were very good, youth and the family inheritance giving him another advantage. Gym-hardened muscles tensed under his T-shirt. Sometimes the old man patted his arm and said a fine figure of a young man, just the way he might talk about a good horse or dog he’d bred for hunting until such things were no longer primarily a gentleman’s pursuit.

  “Peter!” A bellow from downstairs. “Peter, my boy!”

  It was a damn good thing the staff went home every night. An even bigger blessing was that the old man barred the door to the central gable room when they showed up in the morning. Idiots, he would sneer. In my time, servants knew their place.

  The unpleasantness with that one girl—Juanita? June? What had her name been? Well, anyway. That had been expensive, but not in cash. And now he knew what the old man had done to make his own daughter-in-law scream and claw at herself.

  Memories like that were best kept buried.

  Soon, he’d told himself. Soon, when it’s time.

  Sometimes he even dreamed of it—driving the glittering blade in, the wet, meaty sounds as it pierced ageless flesh and made it vulnerable, the expression of pain and terror on the old man’s face. Would he look like Peter’s father before death came? The resemblance between them had been marked, but not overwhelming. Then again, there were how many generations between him and the old man? He’d done the math once, digging through the complicated genealogy. Just now, though, he couldn’t remember.

  It had been a long day.

  “Peter! Peter!”

  Peter sighed again. Christ. He couldn’t even sleep without the narcissistic old bastard intruding.

  A few minutes later he shuffled down a flight stairs, his slippers making soft secret sounds and his dressing-gown properly tied. Peter stopped, considering the stained glass over the repaired door to the other room the staff was never allowed into. The noise was coming from behind it.

  The study. The books were there, some in temperature-controlled cabinets, others ranged along shelves almost groaning from the weight of knowledge. The two desks were there, too, and a bay window looking out onto the garden. In the middle of the room, the glass case stood.

  When he swept the door open, he saw the old man, capering barefoot on a priceless, threadbare Persian carpet. Bloody footprints swung and splashed drunkenly through shards of broken glass. The old man stopped, and Cavanaugh almost shuddered. Lank dark hair swayed, no ribbon tying it back now, and the scars of childhood smallpox on the old man’s cheeks were glaring because he had flushed with excitement.

  “Look!” the old man crowed, dancing on the broken glitters. “Look! Look!”

  The case was indeed shattered. Glass had exploded outward with some violence. The apparatus inside, dust repelled from its static charge of invisible force, was something a Victorian reader of penny dreadfuls might have recognized—a brass arm, lambskin held flat on a tablet-surface, a quill with an oozing end.

  A spirit-writer. All through Peter’s childhood, a single drop of gall-ink had trembled on the quill’s pointed end, never falling.

  Now the arm moved, a furious scratching as ink splattered, and the map was being drawn. Ink raced in streams, and the outline was recognizably their city.

  The old man arrived next to him and hugged Peter, his wasted arms closing with surprising strength. His battered feet would heal in moments. “Peter, my boy!” Were those tears, in the old man’s eyes? “Oh, my blessed boy, it’s happened! We must send the Appetites! Wake the inner circle!” He took in a long, wheezing breath, and shouted again, in his great-great-however-many-times-great grandson’s ear. “Someone is using the ring!”

  Good Zing

  Staggering out Gloria’s front door and heading for Twelfth Street had not been her brightest idea. That made twice now she’d almost tripped over a pile of little bastards out harvesting free candy from every sucker in sight. Her work shoes weren’t much better than the platform boots, but she should have taken the time to sit down at the party and put them on. Now she was faced with the prospect of sitting on the curb to do it, and probably getting something nasty smeared on her dress in the bargain. It was a one-time deal of a dress, but still.

  May wouldn’t care, but May could look good smeared with dirt.

  Em suspected there was little chance of catching a cab around here, too. She was beginning to further suspect that if she did find somewhere to sit, she might still be there when dawn came, because her legs were doing a shaky-weird thing and the alcohol, having left her stomach alone, was filling her head with fumes, random thoughts, and a spinning sensation that made navigation difficult, if not impossible.

  “Hey!” Running footsteps behind her. Em braced herself, grabbing at a huge plastic garbage can as she half-turned, peering down the dark sidewalk alive with kids, harried parents, and the occasional staggering partygoer just like herself.

  The one jogging toward her looked familiar, and she blinked at its misshapen head before she realized it was a ten-gallon hat. It belonged Ontario Cowboy, in fact—she just hadn’t recognized him with the white T-shirt on instead of the fringed vest he’d done all the dancing in. He was coming at a good clip, and that much muscle was probably hard to stop.

  He almost overbalanced, as a matter of fact, and bent over to catch his breath while Emily regarded him curiously. “You really should quit smoking,” she said, and the look he darted her might have been sarcastic if not for his deep, hacking sounds.

  She waited, studying him, kind of glad the garbage can was there to hold onto. I don’t think I forgot anything. Why is he chasing me?

  He really was kind of cute. Those shoulders were dreamy, and she’d bet girls liked to rest their heads on that broad chest and agree with anything he said.

  “Hey.” He straightened, his pecs filling out the T-shirt nicely. “Look, I just…did you see that guy? He was following you.”

  “What, like you were?” All the same, a chill went down her back. There were a few things that could make a woman insta-sober, and that was one of them. She glared again at the sidewalk behind him, straining to see anything out of place.

  “Not like me.” Ontario Cowboy gasped again, got his breath back. He swiped the hat off, and under it he was all sandy-haired and earnest, with a cleft in the middle of his chin. “Look, just come back to the party, all right? Wait for a cab, or one of us can take you home. You were weaving pretty bad, and that guy—”

  “What guy?” It wasn’t any use. She couldn’t see anyone who looked suspicious, and her legs fucking ached. A faint trace of steam rose off Ontario’s muscled forearms. He was stacked, no question about it, and he wasn’t doing the old you’re in danger, get in my car routine. What he was proposing was logical, and safe, and even sound. Or at least as logical as her inebriated head could wrap itself around.

  “Guy in a suit, sort of. Steampunk, maybe. He was following you pretty close. It looked wrong.”

  Well, wasn’t this cowboy the white knight. Em blinked several times, shuffled through all her priorities, and decided on one. “Why were you following me?”

  “Your friend in the blonde wig got worried.”

  Oh, May. “Christ. She should just have a good time.” It wasn’t like her to even notice Em had slipped away. Maybe she w
as growing some responsibility?

  Oh, please. That’ll be the day. Still, the thought was a little unpleasant. Em didn’t have much except responsible to recommend her, and if May took that over too, what the hell would happen to her?

  It was the sort of clarifying, hideous thought you had when you were too smart to express it kindly or lie to yourself, and she was just glad it hadn’t bolted straight out her mouth.

  “Come on. Can I at least call you a cab?” The cowboy worked at his hatbrim with both hands, like a kid afraid of getting in trouble.

  She was about to inform him that she could call her own damn cab, but her left ankle buckled and she swayed, even though she was clutching the trash bin. Maybe three Solo cups of jungle juice was a bit too much.

  He grabbed her arm and hauled her upright; she spilled against his very broad—and very hard—chest. Bro, do you even lift? The giggles started. Here she was, clutching a garbage can and falling on a stripper.

  It was the closest she’d come to May’s idea of fun in years.

  “Thanks.” She tried to untangle herself, but ended up with her palms flat on his chest. The heat of him through the T-shirt was enough to short-circuit a thought or two. “You’re right. These shoes are killing me.”

  “But they look great.” His teeth were very white, and that smile had probably pleasantly devastated a few housewives. “I could carry you back. It’s not far.”

  “You Tarzan. Me drunk.” She shook her head, but that was bad too, because it made the whole world whirl. “No, no thanks. You could let me lean on you, though.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Good Lord. Even Canadian cowboys say ma’am.

  She managed to step aside and grab his arm as another flood of kids streamed past. A little girl with an LED-flashing wand and a pink princess dress pointed the wand at them. “COWBOY!” she screamed, and shook the thing furiously.

  “You have a new fan.” The thought was deliciously hilarious, and laughter bubbled in Em’s throat. Her ankle threatened to turn again, treacherous on the uneven sidewalk, and the cowboy put his arm over her shoulder.

  “Grab my belt.”

  “If I had a nickel for every time…” She swallowed the rest of it—not appropriate for children. “Good God, you have a huge buckle.” It had rhinestones, too.

  “Part of the costume.” A chuckle hit him halfway through the words, and that set her off. She shook with hiccupping laughter as he hauled her down the sidewalk, gaining a few disapproving glances from parents shepherding along groups of little freeloading spawn.

  It took half a block for the laughter died in fits and starts, and her head was really whirling now. “God, why can’t I just be home?”

  “Tap your fabulous heels three times.” He lifted her over a rise in the pavement, one she would certainly have tripped over. “Worked for Dorothy.”

  “I didn’t know they watched movies in Canada.”

  “We just don’t shoot people in the theaters.”

  “Oh, ouch.” It was a good zing, and she supposed he was pretty spiffy. In fact, she supposed May had not sent him out of concern. “How much are you paid for this?”

  “Helping a really hot drunk girl down the sidewalk? That’s sort of its own reward, ma’am.”

  No, I mean how much did May pay you to cozy up to me? “Drunk is never hot.”

  “I’m sure you’re fun when you’re sober, too.”

  “What was your name again?”

  “Jake.”

  “Well, thank you, Jake. I happen to be too old for you, but I appreciate you making an effort.” Her tongue was too big for her mouth, and Emily supposed she should just quit talking. Her filter was pretty much gone for the night, and the idea of telling everyone she met exactly what she thought of them, while highly amusing in her current state, was probably not what you’d call a Good Life Choice.

  Jesus, even when I’m drunk, I’m boring.

  “Yeah, well, I’m too old for this and this is my first night stripping, so we’re even. I go back home in six months with my degree and a bunch of wild stories to tell.”

  So, he’d popped his stripper cherry tonight? She decided not to ask how he’d gotten roped into it. Roped into it, a good pun, it made her giggle again, breathlessly. She hadn’t laughed this hard in months.

  When the spasm passed, she had her next line ready. “A degree? Fancy.” Gloria’s house was getting closer. She could hear the music thumping out, and a yell of Trick or treat rode over the bass. Gloria was at the door, done up in full gypsy-fortuneteller, tossing candy by the handful into pillowcases pressed into service for the night.

  Emily stopped, let go of the cowboy, and grabbed Gloria’s front fence instead. Wrought-iron, older than pretty much anyone there, it was reassuringly solid. And cold. “Your very first time. Well, you looked like a pro. Good luck with all your stories. I’m going to stand right here and wait for a cab.”

  “You, uh, might want to call one. Or you could be waiting all night.”

  She was already fishing for her phone. “Good idea. Christ.” She took a deep breath, a wave of shivers passing through her from shoulders to hips as she realized just how chilly it was, and she was out here without even a coat.

  “I’d offer you a ride, but—”

  “But I wouldn’t take it.” Her fingers finally found her phone. She had forgotten something, she realized. Her peacoat was inside Gloria’s house, but she’d had the presence of mind to stuff her purse into her work bag and haul them both with her during her quest for freedom. “Not safe.”

  “Well, Clyde’s not drunk, but—”

  “Not getting into a car with a bunch of guys while I’m intoxicated, thanks.” It came out intoxshicated, and the wavering weird feeling in her head meant she was pretty close to passing out. “’Specially a man named Clyde.” Oh, man. This isn’t good.

  She was no doubt incredibly amusing, because he grinned again. “Cautious. I can understand that. I, uh…”

  “Whatever.” Her phone had somehow gotten tangled in the white cotton panties she’d worn to work. She pulled the whole damn wad of fabric and phone out; the mad idea of just flinging her knickers at the cowboy and telling him to go the fuck back to Ontario was so attractive she immediately clapped a lid on it. “God. I wish I was home already.”

  She must’ve had more than she’d thought, or the liquor had finally hit, or something, because between one second and the next, all the lights winked out, and there was a rushing noise.

  Oh crap. Emily squeezed her eyes shut. Please don’t let me pass out holding my panties in one hand and my—

  Too late.

  Not Too Demanding

  A woman. A thin black dress of some slippery material, not as pleasing as silk, and dark, curling hair piled atop her head. Hal held the slight weight in his arms and turned in a full circle, slowly, his heeled shoes crushing strange carpeting and his head ringing slightly from his first service to his new bearer. It hadn’t even required a great deal of power, just a simple jump from here to there. Keeping a mortal insulated from the ill effects of such an act required more care than the transition itself.

  The ring was on her third left finger, its baleful eye glowing at him. It did not match her delicate hand—so soft and graceful, though the nails were extremely short. So she was a lady. Perhaps this servitude would be full of frivolity, and when he was ready, a woman would be easy to persuade into a fatal misstep.

  It should have troubled him to consider it so calmly, but after so long chained, even the mildest of dogs might grow vicious. This place was not lit with that strange golden light, so his pupils swelled, adapting swiftly.

  So this was her home. Soft, comfortable-looking furniture. A flimsy door led to a bedroom full of the scent of a healthy female, and some other heavenly odor he could not identify. Perfume? A flowering plant? There was a kitchen, a room with a tiled floor that looked strangely like a private bath and privy all in one, and shelves full of objects he longed to examine
.

  Hal carried her into the bedroom. Her bed was much larger than a maiden’s cot. Perhaps she was married? But then, what husband would let his wife roam in this manner, and speak so freely to other men? The one he had spirited her away from was obviously a stranger. Their conversation had filled his head with new words, but he had little in the way of scaffolding to frame them correctly.

  Soon enough.

  He arranged her on the bed. All was luxury, from the heavy blankets to the carpeting, a window of very fine glass, scattered clothing in strange forms. Her shoes were held on by an ingenious little system of very small interlocking teeth arranged in a row, and they opened as he drew a metal tab down.

  She made a soft sound of relief as he drew the first shoe away, her hot little foot relaxing. Hal froze, but she didn’t stir, and her breathing was deep and steady. Perhaps she was a spoiled noblewoman, but what father or brother would let her behave in this manner? The world must have changed indeed while he was trapped in the castle, waiting for a call.

  The second shoe came away just as easily. She rolled over, curling around her large leather bag and burying her face in soft pillows. Her ankle was remarkably dainty, her calf a beautiful soft curve…ah, the temptation. His first female bearer. Perhaps she would require a soft service or two. Cavanaugh had once or twice allowed him to wench alongside him, and despite the release, that had not been as enjoyable as he expected.

  He retreated from the bower on silent feet and set out to find what fuel they used in their lamps. Once he had solved that mystery, there were two bookshelves ready to be plundered. And, he suspected, a great deal of history to digest before the bearer woke in the morning and began making demands of him.

  Hal paused, something nagging at him. What was it?

  Finally, reluctantly, he stepped back into the bedroom. The ring would not loosen until he had performed a direct, commanded Work for her, but he did not consider sliding from her hand. Such a thing was impossible anyway—had he tried, the punishment would have been instant, and she would not feel a thing. The fetter itself would act.