Desires, Known

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Just don’t get in any trouble, she’d told him before entering this small coffeehouse. She said she would pay to retrieve her car when she was done, and his immediate offer to make such a thing unnecessary had been politely but firmly declined.

  She said please. And thank you. And I am asking you. No commands. Simple requests.

  Why?

  Breeches of some soft clinging fabric, a black shirt that clung to her as well, and the only thing saving him from considering striking every mortal man who passed blind was the length of her woolen coat. Her blue knitted scarf made her skin look even softer in comparison, and though more than one man glanced at her, none of them outright stared.

  That was good, for Hal was not certain he…

  What was he thinking? What his bearers wore was of no concern.

  He watched, hungrily, as the redheaded mortal woman leaned forward, twisting her napkin into a rope for emphasis. At first Hal had thought his bearer was weeping; the urge to sweep into the coffee shop and discover the source of her agitation had almost overwhelmed him.

  But no. She laughed. Her eyes outright danced, her curls bounced, and Hal found himself queerly breathless. At least, he felt breathless, though he was incorporeal at the moment. What had amused her so? He could drift inside and listen, could he not?

  But perhaps she would not wish him to?

  His hesitation was new. How had the world changed so much? Had he really thought everything would continue in the same well-worn groove while he was trapped in the castle? Wonders rode the air here, from the giant silvery birds carrying mortals in their bellies far above to the glowing screens they watched and tiny devices they spoke or tapped into to communicate. His own abilities did not exactly pale in comparison, and yet he was suddenly, irrationally afraid they might.

  At least, for her. She did not seem eager to command. Had humanity changed so much? By now her head should be spinning with possibilities; she should be drunk with sudden capability. Perhaps he had simply not shown her enough.

  The—what do you call them? Her forehead had furrowed before she shook her head to forestall his reply. Appetites. Right. The Appetites were certainly an eyeful, Hal.

  That was a problem. If the Fratres were still robust enough to send such things after his ringbearer, they were more than able to send other hunters. How far would they go to regain possession of his fetter? Could he make it unprofitable enough to dissuade them? And, of course, keep her mostly unaware at the same time. Her reaction last night had been…troubling.

  Here he was, actively seeking to keep his fetter on a bearer’s finger. A woman, of all things. One who had less use for him than she did for her tiny handheld telephone, another wonder of the modern world. He almost wanted to smash the devices, or cripple the soundless waves they depended on.

  Now the redhead was talking very rapidly, and his bearer was listening. Did the other woman not see the faint pained expression on Emily’s face? Did she not suspect his bearer’s shoulders were tight with strain, and she only toyed with the small, exquisite little pastry before her? Small sips of her drink—he should be there to test it for poison. Cavanaugh’s fellow Fratres had more than once tried to dislodge him with venom.

  He needed to know their dimensions now, their new methods. Perhaps they had changed with the times as well. If he took his attention elsewhere, though, there might be another attack, and his bearer unprotected during it.

  At least if one of them held his fetter, they would know how to use him. He could settle back into the half-malicious watchfulness, obeying the letter of the commands and leaving the spirit untouched as it pleased him. He would not feel this…uncertain.

  Finally, the redhead chattered herself to a standstill, exchanged air-kisses with his bearer, and hurried out as if she had another appointment. Hal spread his insubstantial self across the pavement in front of the window, but she turned the other way, tipping her plastic spectacles with darkened lenses down over her eyes. She bounced along, as if relieved of a heavy weight.

  Emily was left to clean the remains of the pastries from the table, and dropped her nearly untouched drink into the dustbin. The sheer amount of rubbish they produced nowadays was only rivaled by the receptacles they had engineered to hold it. His bearer even took a few fresh paper scraps and wiped the table they had been at, despite the fact that it was obviously the job of the coffeehouse workers. She did not look sad, merely thoughtful, her dark curls tumbling every which way though she had made more than one attempt to hold them back during the conversation. There were shadows under her large dark eyes, and Hal resolved out of invisibility, resting his boots against the cracked concrete and deciding not to press his nose to the glass, no matter how fine of a quality it was.

  If he simply appeared next to her as she exited, it might…frighten her.

  Why do you care? What are you doing?

  Perhaps his long sojourn in the castle had disturbed some crucial balance, and he was slightly mad. There was no way of telling, especially when you held such power. When you could warp the very fabric of what mortals called reality, what was to stop you from growing…strange?

  The small bell on the door jingled as his mistress stepped outside. She shivered a little, pulling her jacket more closely about her, and saw him. Her expression didn’t change much, but her shoulders tensed still further, as if taking on another burden.

  Ah. Much about her now became clear. He would wager his soul, did he have such a thing left after the operation to bind him to the ring, that she had listened to her friend’s troubles and volunteered none of her own.

  “Hey.” She moved out of the doorway, tilting her chin up to look at him. “Were you there the whole time? It’s cold out here.”

  “I do not feel it.” And you should not, either.

  Before he could add that remark, though, she shook her head and smiled wearily. The kindness in the expression, however, threatened to still his breath. “Well, May’s all right now. So we can talk about you.”

  What? “What?”

  “About you. What makes you comfortable, how we’re going to get you free.”

  “Free?” The sensation of the world slipping away from underneath his feet troubled him. Had he gone incorporeal with shock?

  “Isn’t that what every genie wants? You’re basically a slave, and that’s not right, dammit. There’s no reason you should have to do just what any goddamn yahoo who picks up the ring tells you.” She brushed past him, and somehow her arm threaded through his. “You have rights. This is America.”

  Hal found himself walking quite naturally with his bearer, her arm through his, and stopped. “That is not right.” A moment’s worth of concentration and he was on her other side, remembering that a gentleman walked nearest the street to save his companion from peril—and, not so incidentally, from mud that would foul her skirts. Though she wore those strange blue trousers, which hid nothing of her long legs or her…her hindquarters. “There, better.”

  “Why did you—”

  “A gentleman walks to the street, Emily. And I do not mind working my bearer’s will.” At least, I do not mind working yours.

  She glanced at him, her forehead wrinkling as if his statement troubled her. “But when I get the ring off, or when I—”

  “You will not take the ring off.” He did not mean it to sound so declarative. I am walking. With a mortal woman. Who knows what I am. A pleasant thrill ran down his nerves. “Yet there is something…are you familiar with history?”

  “I went to college,” she replied, somewhat stiffly. The brisk damp breeze brought color to her cheeks, and made her curls move gently.

  “Do you think, Mistress Emily, that you could solve a mystery for me?”

  Her expression eased. Interest, and relief. “What mystery’s that?”

  “My…former bearer.” He congratulated himself for redirecting her so neatly. She liked to help. Her mortal friends probably inundated her with requests for advice, and she probably let them. �
�I am…curious, as to what happened to him.”

  She thought this over, glancing down at her shoes as if she trusted him to steer her safely. “Did you like him?”

  “No.” He did not bother lying. It was pleasant, to feel her corporeal weight against his. And very pleasant to think an onlooker would see a man walking with his… He brought his attention back to the matter at hand. “But something troubles me about last night’s visitors.”

  “You think they might be—wait a second. Do you…maybe he’s still alive? If he wished for, you know, immortality?”

  “He desired the closest thing I could grant to that, yes.” Next, he thought, she would enquire further as to the mechanics of that gift.

  “And he gave up the ring, maybe?” She glanced down, at her left hand. His fetter gleamed, and he wondered if he dared to seal it to her flesh, to make certain she could not take it off until he willed as much. “So it’s possible.”

  “That is what troubles me.” Among other things. “It is perhaps possible but not very likely.”

  “So maybe he was…killed? While you weren’t around to stop it?”

  “He was an exceedingly cautious individual.” As well as an exceedingly vicious one.

  “Even cautious people can end up dead.” She sucked in her lips, another thoughtful expression, and Hal frowned. The crowd on the sidewalk was a little difficult to navigate, unless he moved them slightly aside. He did not wish to be jostled. Did she shudder, and lean a little more upon his arm?

  Not you, my bearer. “Indeed. There is much I can learn just from absorption, but I wish to know precisely what happened to him. Do you think it possible?”

  Silence for a long moment. Did she notice they walked in their own slice of space, people turning a few fractions aside ahead to give plenty of room?

  If she did, she made no mention of it. “Well, it’s worth a try. If we figure out how he got the ring off, there might be hope yet.”

  Are you so ready to be rid of me? What more did she want? “Do I displease you, Mistress Emily?”

  That brought her chin up and her gaze to rest on his face. Or his profile, since he watched the sidewalk before them, smoothing any stray irregularity that could trip her. “Of course not. You’re a little weird, but I think you’re a nice guy. And I was wondering…”

  “What?” So there was something she would ask for, after all. Something in Hal’s chest felt strange.

  “Well, there’s that guy from Ontario. I met him the night you…well, Halloween.” Her eyes had begun to sparkle.

  His stomach tightened. “Yes?” Would she ask him to ensnare a lover for her? All mortals were the same, selfish and short-sighted, greedy and ungracious.

  “And it strikes me that he and my friend May might need a little help.”

  What? His own feet almost tangled. “Help?”

  “Tell me, Hal my man.” Now it was not merely her eyes; her entire face had lit up, flushed with interest and something approaching happiness. And if his physical form had not a deep and abiding need to breathe, he might have lost said breath entirely and never regained it. “How are you at playing matchmaker?”

  Early Enough For Church

  “A woman.” The old man shook his head, the bulb at the end of his nose twitching again. “Inconceivable.”

  It was the third time he’d said it, and the urge to say I don’t think that means what you think it means almost choked Peter each time. Nobody here would get the reference, though, and it was a lot safer to keep his mouth shut until he was sure he could speak without laughing nervously. The gas insert fire danced merrily, and the lights were dimmed for the old man’s vanity. Electric bulbs tended to be too bright for a man who had grown up with candles.

  “I felt it quite clearly.” Bruce Vance was pale, but holding up admirably. His facility for such work was outstanding, and thought-provoking, since it flew in the face of the old man’s considered opinion that talent sprang from good breeding.

  Vance was also, Peter thought, grateful to be given a chance or two. Which made him very useful indeed. The talented among the lower classes were always hungry to obey. Vance had made an attempt to get his suits tailored, and it showed. Perhaps Peter should give him some advice.

  The small parlor at Peakes End was paneled in oak and very cozy, but it smelled like it had been closed for a while. Which it had been. After all, Vance was a plebeian, and it was beyond the old man to let such an insect into the large parlor. This one, with its thick red carpet and almost-modern sideboard—though there would be no good booze in it, just the cheap sort—was far more fitting for the occasion.

  “Women cannot…” The old man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his unmutilated right hand. “Well, the world has degenerated. I don’t know why I am surprised.”

  Rich Greene and Grosvenor the mayor’s helper were at home, nursing the peculiar almost-hangover that came with working with the invisible. Maggs, Moss, and Sampson, dead-eyed and hollowed out, had shuffled away when the old man dismissed them. Each of them looked thinner, less…substantial. Maggs’s spray tan turned him orange as Cheeto dust, because he was so pale underneath it. Their wives and families might notice something was off, but would probably chalk it up to overwork. Except in Dick Sampson’s case—he was divorced, which was a surprise to exactly nobody who had seen him and the missus together in public. She was in an entirely different pay grade, and sometimes Peter had thought about following up on some of the long, speculative looks he had pretended not to notice her throwing in his direction.

  Maybe later, once the rest of this affair was dealt with. The hilt pressing into his lower back was a comforting reminder that it wouldn’t be long. He took care to keep his tone even. “She may not know what she has.”

  “Or she thinks she’s going insane.” Vance’s gaze was direct, forthright, and altogether a little disturbing. “And she doesn’t know what she has.”

  “I would not put it past that lying sprite to mislead a woman.” The old man’s left hand turned into a fist, the stump of his index finger jutting out obscenely. His thronelike leather chair, pulled close to the fire, was subtly turned to exclude both Peter and Bruce. The lord of the manor, at once deigning to speak and retaining control of the conversation. “And now he will be on his guard.” He glanced at Peter. “What do we do when an opponent is on his guard?”

  The old answer was strike where he does not expect, but Peter was tired of parroting the old lines. “Redirect. Move into the blind spot. Adapt.” The world has changed, Great-great-however many grandfather. And you haven’t. Much.

  Although the old man had probably been a pretty effective bastard in his day. Now he was a liability, and a snake-dangerous one.

  The bulb on the old man’s nose broadened and twitched once as his thin lips stretched into a grin that did not reach his eyes. New answers were sometimes greeted with disdain, or worse, punishment. Since the old man was counting on Peter to bring replacement members into the fold, though, a little bit of pushing was acceptable.

  If the old bastard got his hands on that ring, the story would change, quickly.

  “Exactly.” The old man’s tone was avuncular, kind, and extremely dangerous. He shook out his damaged hand, and Peter found himself wondering if the missing finger hurt sometimes. Phantom pain was a bitch for amputees. “Mister Vance, you have performed well indeed. Go home, get some rest.”

  “Sir.” Vance glanced at Peter again as he rose, a brief, inscrutable look. He even closed the door softly on his way out. It was pretty likely he knew this was the smaller parlor, and that he knew why it had been chosen.

  He might have been a plebe, but no moss grew on him. And Peter had taken care to appear his ally, as well as the one man in the inner circle who didn’t snub him in the general meetings.

  “Well, Peter, my boy.” The old man sighed. “Let us retire for the evening. Tomorrow is early enough for church.”

  Church? The floor, perfectly steady, threatened to shift
under his feet. “You’re going to use them?”

  “Who better?” Damn the asshole, he even looked pleased. At least, his eyes had begun to sparkle. But he still rubbed at his mutilated left hand, thoughtfully and with a slightly obscene milking motion. “Oh, my boy. You never disappoint. Let’s have a nightcap before bed, shall we?”

  If Someone Makes You

  “Hello?” He sounded a little breathless. “Don’t hang up, I’m here, please don’t hang up.”

  Em had plastered a wide, fake smile to her face. It was habit, when you had to talk on the phone to clients or anyone you wanted to fool. She plugged her other ear with a fingertip, and hoped he could hear her. “Well, hello there. Is this Toronto’s most famous cowboy stripper?”

  “By night, yes.” At least he was light on his feet. He had a nice mellow tenor, too. “By day I’m a penniless student, but thanks for asking.”

  “Man of many talents. So you know who this is.” If you don’t I’m going to feel a little silly.

  “Sort of. You’re the disappearing lady.”

  Em winced. Just what did he remember? And what would the genie do about it if she told him she suspected a stripper suspected?

  Of course, the stripper probably didn’t suspect. “One of my many talents.” She examined the genie’s blue-clad shoulder, pressing into her free ear more firmly so she wouldn’t yell into the receiver. The rain was holding off and there wasn’t much of a breeze, but right outside the Metropolitan Library wasn’t the best place for peace and quiet; it would be obvious that she was outside. “I just had coffee with a certain redheaded lady who solved the mystery of how you got my digits.”

  “Yeah. Look, about that…”