The Wild Road

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “You’re not,” he said, and she felt his tension roll over her, hard and hot. “Which is why you’re such a puzzle. In more ways than one.”

  “Ah,” she replied. “You expect screaming.”

  “Pitchforks, at the very least.”

  “Boiling oil? Flame-tipped arrows?”

  “Aimed for my heart.” A faint, grim smile touched his mouth. “Try to match some of my expectations, why don’t you?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “What you see is what you get.”

  Lannes hesitated. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

  The woman could not help herself. She touched him again, pressing her palm flat against his chest, watching her skin shimmer and disappear into his body, as though his shirt was made of nothing but shadows. She felt no wounds, though his skin seemed slightly sticky. She had not cleaned off all the blood, after all.

  Her hand slid down slightly, and encountered the hard leather ridge of the belt. He covered her hand.

  “We should go.”

  “I know,” she said, staring at their hands. “But I’m tired of running.”

  Lannes’ other hand, very carefully, slid against her neck into her tangled hair. His palm seemed to engulf the entire left side of her head. She fought the urge to lean into his touch, but the effort was overwhelming, and she finally gave in, swaying forward, digging her fingers into the invisible belt strapped again around his massive body. Lannes did not move as she pressed her forehead against him, though she felt the rise and fall of his chest, and his scent, though unidentifiable, was musky and warm. He felt so good. Like a wall against the world.

  She fought the urge to press even closer, trying to ignore the parts of her body that wanted to touch him in ways that were totally inappropriate. Jesus, but she was in trouble.

  And it wasn’t just her, she realized. Lannes’ breathing seemed to be just a little faster, and she felt something—an energy from him that seemed to run deep as her mind, and that sank bolts of liquid heat through her limbs. His hand tightened in her hair and she sagged against him, just a little more, her breasts finally rubbing against his torso. She had to bite her bottom lip to keep silent, and was instantly ashamed of herself. There was a dead woman in the other room, four dead men in her past. She had no memories, and there were things in her mind that could not be explained.

  Lannes could not be explained. And here she was, every part of her humming, wanting nothing more than to reach beneath that illusion and…fuck the hell out of him?

  He sucked in a deep ragged breath and began to pull away, but not before she closed the distance between them one last time and felt against her hip the long hard line of his cock pushing against his jeans. She was all instinct in that moment, part of her primitive as some animal lost in heat, and she rubbed against him, briefly, savoring the shock of pure lust that slammed heavy and wet between her legs.

  “Lannes,” she breathed.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he muttered hoarsely. “You have no idea.”

  The woman swallowed hard, trying to control herself. “I know. I’m sorry. I won’t…I won’t touch you again.”

  A short bitter gasp of laughter escaped him. “Trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

  She almost forgot. For a moment, she was so lost inside him, being near him, those words nearly passed over her. But then they hit her like a brick, and all the cold and pain returned with such force that it was all she could do not to sit down on the floor.

  “No,” Lannes said, dismayed, but she tore herself away from him, grabbed the shoe box of Etta’s possessions and staggered from the bathroom.

  He caught up with her in one step, his fingers grazing her arm. She wrenched away, running past Etta’s corpse in the living room—trying not to vomit when she saw it—and headed for the front door.

  Lannes stepped in front of her, blocking the way out. Big as a mountain, all muscle and sinew beneath that illusion of his shirt. Her hands remembered what it felt like to touch him. His power was no fantasy. Not a play of smoke and mirrors. He was as strong as he looked. Probably stronger.

  But it was his eyes she could not look away from. Those damn beautiful eyes. Filled now with a peculiar grief and desperation that made her heart ache.

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly, “and you know it.”

  “Yes,” she told him, clutching the shoe box to her chest. “But there was truth to it. I might hurt you. I already have.”

  “If that’s easier for you to believe.” Lannes took a step toward her, and it was hard not to back away. “You’re not what I wanted in my life. Not what I needed. Not in a million years. But there you were, and here we are, and I don’t care about a little pain. So I won’t leave you. I won’t let you walk away. And I won’t—” He stopped abruptly, looking down at his hands, which curled into massive fists.

  I won’t stop wanting to touch you, she imagined him saying, hearing it so clearly she might have thought he had spoken out loud if her gaze had not been solely on his mouth. Instead his words rang through her head, and she was hard pressed not to respond. With what, she had no idea.

  Lannes finally met her gaze again, and his expression was haunted. No words, though. He stepped aside and opened the front door. The woman hesitated, glancing over her shoulder into the living room. She could not see Etta’s body, but knowing it was there made the pain just as acute.

  “I know,” Lannes said quietly, as if in response to her hesitation. “I hate the idea of leaving her, too. My brother is sending someone to take care of her body, but it still doesn’t seem right.”

  Nothing seemed right, least of all Etta’s death. “We could wait.”

  He hesitated. “Feels like a trap to sit still.”

  “Do you think she was telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know. Did you feel anything? When that…thing…was inside you?”

  “Just anger. I was shut off from everything else.”

  “In a bubble,” he said quietly, gaze distant. “Walls around you.”

  A chill raced through her. “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” he said, but she did not believe him. She would have said so, but her stomach growled. Lannes’ mouth softened with faint amusement.

  “We need to eat,” he said.

  “Seems wrong to admit I’m hungry. I shouldn’t have an appetite.”

  “You have a good survival instinct. Nothing wrong with that.”

  They left the front light off and went outside, in the dark, to the Impala. There was a small pile of garbage bags by the back wheel. Lannes popped the trunk, threw them inside, and then pulled out a flannel blanket.

  The woman did not ask why it was in there. She took it from him, and spread a blanket over the grisly front seat. The blood had dried, but the interior still smelled. They both rolled down the front windows and sat there for a moment, staring at the house.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” the woman said.

  “You’ll have to,” Lannes replied, and started the engine.

  She watched him drive, wondering what to believe. Not so long ago, he had been the one slumped in the passenger seat leaking buckets of blood. Now he looked the same as he ever had, sitting straight and tall behind the wheel of his car.

  But everything was different now. Everything.

  It was three in the morning. Lannes found a Denny’s. The young woman felt like a fugitive walking in. There weren’t many people in there: some college students with their books out, a few grizzled men hunched over empty plates and cups of coffee. Not much talking was going on. Frank Sinatra crooned.

  The waitress gave Lannes and his companion a booth in the corner, away from the windows, where they sat facing the front door. There was a good view of everyone coming and going. It was hard for the woman to relax. She was afraid someone would come in shooting. She still held the shoe box and put it on the chair beside her.

  Lannes seemed uncomfortable, too. He looked so much
larger than the seat and table, as though he might break both with one wrong move. She wondered about his claustrophobia. His nightmares.

  His wings.

  “We can go someplace else if you want,” she said. “Or wait until morning when the drive-up windows open.”

  Lannes hesitated, surprise flickering through his eyes. “No. But…thank you. I appreciate the thought.”

  The woman shrugged, flipping open the menu, afraid to look at him again.

  She ordered a burger and fries with a strawberry milkshake. Lannes got two club sandwiches, a side order of onion rings, and as an afterthought, a Philly melt and lemonade. The waitress took it all in stride, all smiles for him. She winked at them both, actually.

  After the waitress left, Lannes and the woman sat in awkward silence. He started playing with his fork. She tore her napkin into bits.

  “Remind me,” she finally said, slowly, “is the rest of the world as strange as we are, or are we just…unique?”

  Lannes looked amused. “I guess that depends on what your definition of strange is. Because I see some things on television that make me feel positively normal.”

  She bit back a smile. “I’m serious.”

  “I know,” he said, his own smile fading. “But I don’t like the answer.”

  She nodded slowly. “Six billion humans in this world. How many of you?”

  He seemed taken aback by her question, but after a tense moment, relaxed. “A handful in comparison. Hardly a wink of the eye.”

  “And you survive by…hiding your appearance?”

  Again, tension. But this time she seemed to feel his anxiety in her mind as if there were a link between them. It was not intrusive, but it was distinct, as though her brain contained a separate room, a place where odd notions and power lived. And the door was creaking open.

  She took a long drink of water, trying to hide her unease. But Lannes was looking at her with a curious consideration that made her feel like he could see right through her.

  “Some of us mask our appearances,” he said slowly, still searching her face. “Others just…hide. Big world. There are still places where people don’t go.”

  She closed her eyes. “I didn’t expect this. The hotel room and amnesia were enough.”

  “I would never have told you,” he said quietly. “I would never have taken the risk.”

  She understood. She did not know what he was, but she understood his fear on a gut level. “Then why did you help me?”

  He looked down at his hands. “I still don’t understand why you’re so calm about all this.”

  “Why, Lannes? Why did you do it?”

  He hesitated, still not looking at her. “I wish you wouldn’t ask.”

  She did not give him the easy way out. Lannes rolled his shoulders and took a drink of water. “I helped you because I was hurt once. Not like you, but similar. My life was…stolen from me.” He stopped, finally meeting her gaze, and the weight of it was like being punched.

  “I understood you,” he said. “That’s all. I understood.”

  Her fingers dug into the seat. The waitress approached with their plates and set them down. When she walked away, Lannes said, “You need a name.”

  “Do I?” she said weakly. “I don’t know if I feel comfortable giving myself a name not my own.”

  “I have to call you something.”

  She grabbed some French fries, then dropped them to pick up the ketchup. Squirting some on the rim of her plate, she offered him the bottle. He shook his head. “Thanks.”

  And then, “A name.”

  She grumbled under her breath, rolling some fries in ketchup and cramming them into her mouth. She sat back, chewing, then repeated the process—efficient, no-nonsense, all business.

  “Jane,” she said. “See Jane run.”

  “No,” he replied. “Let’s not.”

  Her mouth twitched. “Becky.”

  “Only if you plan on wearing pigtails.”

  “Ashley.”

  “I’ll leave you at the side of the road, Valley girl.”

  “Aretha.”

  “Blasphemy.”

  “I thought this was supposed to be my name, and not yours.”

  He half grinned. “I’ll be the one saying it.”

  She made a face and went after her hamburger, using her palm to flatten it against the plate until it was little more than a bread-and-meat pancake. Amnesiac, maybe, but she had some definite habits.

  “Who named you?” she asked abruptly.

  Lannes swallowed. “My mother. She brought the name with her from Europe. France, maybe.”

  “Jean Lannes,” she said. “One of Napoleon’s generals.”

  “Ah. Well, I don’t think I’m named for—” He stopped. “I’m amazed at the things you seem to remember.”

  She shrugged and ate more of her burger. “It’s random. What was your mother’s name?”

  “Chloe,” he said, after a moment. “She and my father live in northern Canada, up around Hudson Bay.”

  “You?”

  “Maine. With my brothers.”

  “How many?”

  Again, he hesitated. “Four. I’m the second oldest.”

  “No sisters?” When he shook his head, she added, “You’ll be missed, won’t you? You can’t keep gallivanting around with me.”

  “You already know I work from home.” Lannes hunched lower into the seat. “This was supposed to be a vacation.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess that means you don’t have a family. Kids and a wife.”

  It was hard to say those words, surprisingly so. Nor did it help that Lannes took a long time to answer. He bit into his sandwich, as though mulling over his words.

  “No,” he finally said, avoiding her gaze. “No one.”

  And then, “Isn’t there any name that resonates with you?”

  She shook her head, stabbing some more fries into the ketchup—also keeping her gaze down, afraid he might see relief in her eyes. “You might as well call me after this restaurant. Nothing strikes a bell.”

  “Denny,” he said. “You want to answer to that?”

  She rolled it around in her mouth. “Not really. But I will if I have to.”

  “Denny,” he tried again, looking into her eyes. “No. That’s not right. Maybe something symbolic. Like…Lethe.”

  “Lethe,” she echoed. “That’s a loaded name.”

  “Means forgetfulness in Greek.”

  “It’s also a river in Hades. Those who drink from it forget everything.”

  “But only so they can be reincarnated without the burden of past lives.” Lannes smiled. “Appropriate, I think.”

  “I would rather remember my past, bad or good.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  Something in his voice made her heart hurt. “You don’t think I’m going to get my memories back.”

  Lannes poked his sandwich. “I think it would be…prudent to prepare for the possibility.”

  “Prudent,” she echoed, going cold. “You know something, don’t you?”

  “No,” he said, but it was too late. Words and moments fell into place, little pieces adding up into the larger puzzle, and she had an insight that filled her with dread, even while it seemed impossible. Impossible, relatively speaking.

  “You can read my mind,” she said. “Oh, God.”

  “It’s not like that,” he told her.

  “Bullshit. You can hear my thoughts.”

  “No,” Lannes muttered sharply. “Not all the time anyway.”

  The woman threw up her hands. “Thanks a lot.”

  Exasperation filled his face, and he tore apart his sandwich, tossing it in pieces on his plate. “The big stuff happens only when we’re touching. Strengthens the link. And I had no choice the first time. I had to make certain you weren’t a threat to Frederick.”

  “The first time. First of many, I assume.”

  “You have a loud mind,” he growled.

  “Fantast
ic.” She looked away from him, suffering an odd panic and humiliation. Lannes had been in her mind, what little was left of it. She’d had some rather embarrassing thoughts. Not to mention she had enough people in her mind. Mucking around, screwing up her life.

  Enough. No time for this. Suck it up.

  Just like everything else. The woman forced herself to breathe, and rested her elbows on the table. “Fine. You read minds, you heal yourself and others, you only look human, and you have some goddamn wings. Am I forgetting anything?”

  “I’m handy with leather,” he replied dryly.

  “Boy Scout,” she muttered. “You’re not telling me everything.”

  “Should I?” He leaned in—a giant, powerful. “I’m trying to protect you.”

  “And if you’re not around?” she asked. He started to protest and she held up her hand, stopping him. “Please. Please, Lannes. The truth.”

  “Truth,” he said softly. “The truth is in your mind. Your mind, which has been…tampered with. Your memories were ripped out. I could feel it when we first met.”

  She no longer felt hungry, and shoved away her plate. “I can get them back.”

  Lannes shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way.”

  “I guess you’re the expert.”

  “Expert enough. But not like some.”

  “Then don’t…,” she began, and stopped, swallowing hard. “Don’t tell me things like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But you could have a family. Children. A husband.”

  She closed her eyes. “Don’t say that.”

  “You have to consider it.”

  “I have,” she said sharply. “I can’t take it. I can’t handle the idea that there might be people out there who know and love me, when I can’t remember their faces.”

  It frightened her, to be honest—almost as much as the idea that she might not be capable of loving such people again, even if she found them. This very thought had been plaguing her.

  Face it. No matter how much you want to have a past, it would be easier if you didn’t. Easier if you were never found.

  Horrible. But she felt an odd relief at the possibility. A lifting of tension she had not known she carried. No past. Nothing to hold her back. Nothing to be afraid of.