by Godwin, Pam
“Jaysus’ bloody bitch-bag.” Roark’s roar jerked me awake the next morning. He was in the shower.
I snorted as I rolled out of bed. Bet that mouth had earned him hours of penance.
“Everything okay in there?” I asked through the door.
“Out of water,” he hollered back then opened the door and kissed my cheek. “Sorry I woke ye.”
I followed him to the clothing rack. What would he do if I tugged the towel hanging on his narrow hips? Oh so tempting…
“Pipe must be crocked,” he said. “I have to go up.”
“Crocked? Like broke?”
“Aye,” he said, distracted.
I fixed breakfast while he dressed. After we ate, he checked the pipes running through the bunker. I gathered my weapons. I could look for more clothes. Replenish the mags for the carbine. Maybe rummage through a library. Look for Jesse.
He caught up with me in the kitchen and snatched the pistol from the island. “Quit your running around like a blue-arsed fly. You’re not going.”
“Hell if I’m not. Give me back my gun.”
He flipped it over. “Where’s the safety?”
Duh. Big lever on the side. “In the trigger. Now give it.” I held out my hand and curled my fingers back and forth.
He crouched in front of me, flicked the strap on my thigh holster and seated the gun. Then he rose, his green eyes as still and deep as a Scottish loch and fixed on me. He murmured from inches away, “I’ll feel better if ye den’ go.”
“And I’ll feel better if you stop thinking of me as a weak little bitch.”
“I den’—” A muscle jumped in his cheek. He leaned in and caressed my lips with his Irish lilt. “I think you’re the only lass left in the world and not worth risking on a water errand I can do alone.”
I resisted the urge to step back. “Too bad. Oh, and while we’re out, we’re swinging by a library. And shopping. I need clothes.”
He scowled.
Oh my, that didn’t look right on his gorgeous face. Still, “You can’t keep me here.”
He gripped my jaw. “I know it, ye obstinate woman.” He lightened his grip. Swayed close. Closer. Deliberate and watchful, he kissed the corners of my mouth.
My heart picked up its pace. His lips parted over mine.
I stepped back. Affection without making it about shagging? Did he part his lips when he kissed his mother? Who was he kidding? I didn’t run, but I didn’t linger. Besides, I had blades to sharpen and ammo to don.
Twenty minutes later, I waited for him by the oval exit in the workout room. I traced the blood stains on the fur sleeve of my cloak. Blood from a chest wound that would’ve been fatal if Jesse hadn’t arrived when he did. Why did he follow me across the Atlantic? Had he followed me to the bunker as well? Could he still be up there?
I blew out a breath. I’d been hidden down there for a month. How stupid to think he waited.
Roark’s boots echoed in the passageway. A gasp escaped me when his unsheathed sword glinted in the doorway. Clad in full cassock, rosary and collar, he read the amusement on my face and grinned. Then he raised the sword. “Hello. Me name is Inigo Montoya. Ye killed me father. Prepare to die.”
I laughed with pangs in my side at hearing the Princess Bride quote inflected with his accent. He sheathed the blade and approached me while he elided, “El bonny lass-ocho, ye muy beautiful temptresta. Ye put fire-ito in me burrito and make me feel like elwanker-ito.”
Between fits of laughter, I said, “I don’t know Spanish, but I’m pretty sure you won’t find wanker-ito in the dictionary.”
When he stepped toe-to-toe with me, his repartee came in hot breaths on my neck. “I may have muchocabeza and uno wee heart-ito but te amo mija.”
“Te amo mija?”
He spun the wheel on the door and led me into the alcove.
“Roark?”
I waited in silence while he installed his wee explosive. When he stood and faced me, his expression was fierce. “Ye be dog wide up there.”
Dog wide? “Seriously, man. I don’t understand half of what comes out of your mouth.”
He grabbed my wrist and hauled me down the tunnel. “Keep your backside safe, lass.”
The midday sun did nothing for the bitter chill that slapped my face. I squinted watery eyes to shield them from the glare. Add to that the wind speed from the bike. We found out just how fast the Harley could go as we left the neighborhood. Aphids fringed the street as if they lay waiting for our emersion.
“Lanky wasters,” Roark shouted as he yawed the bike in and out of mutant strikes. I sighted the pistol on the closest ones as we passed. One…two…three down. Their buzzing surged through me. Along with a rush of energy. A quirk pulled my lips.
The bike slowed to round the corner. The wave inside me lurched into a rhythm. Up ahead, a single aphid stood in the street, rooted to the pavement. It turned its head. Our eyes locked. Then its wide body quivered in tempo with mine.
Drrrrrrrrone penetrated my chest. Not my ears.
Roark zigzagged the bike through lawns as we passed it. I looked over my shoulder. The mutant didn’t budge. Not even when the spasm of aphids parted around it.
Drone-drone-drone vibrated through me. Still, it didn’t move. Its eyes bored into mine. A knowing rammed my chest. A calling pulled me to it. I had to go back.
Would Roark stop the bike? Not a chance. I released my hold on his waist, tucked my chin and arms, and rolled off.
“Evieeee. Bloody hellllll.”
My shoulder hit the pavement. Ow. Fuck.
Tires screeched behind me.
“Evie. I’ll feckin’ kill ye myself.”
I tumbled to my feet and ran toward the fray.
Every conquering temptation represents a new fund of moral energy.
Every trial endured and weathered in the right spirit
makes a soul nobler and stronger than it was before.
William Butler Yeats
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: A COWARD HAS NO SCAR
The furor of aphids sprang toward me, but my focus narrowed on the one who stood still. I braced my wrist and deflected an oncoming claw with my forearm. Then I swapped out the pistol for a knife in midstride.
Roark’s sword clanged behind me. I moved through the horde, slicing and piercing any in my way. Bodies thudded on the road and I spun free of the fight.
The wind blinded me. Blood and drivel clumped my eyelashes. Yet through the haze, I met the rage burning in Roark’s eyes. So what? He didn’t have to follow me into battle. He could’ve left my ass. But there he was, pissed and fighting, instead of dodging and hiding. I’d deal with that complication later.
I turned back to my target, its posture inert. The churning in my chest drew me closer, the knife’s hilt warm in my hand. The aphid’s pearlescent orbs were as unwavering as its body. An invisible current writhed between us. I raised the knife and let its gaze consume me.
Fffffound you marched through my veins.
“Me?” I asked aloud and felt foolish doing so.
Foooound.
The aphid blurred to the side and disappeared between two houses.
Behind me, the last head thumped to the pavement. Roark panted. I could feel his eyes burning a hole in my back.
“Evie.”
I turned around. He leaned on his sword. The death that clung to him matched the glare he aimed at me. I squared my shoulders and walked forward, stepping over the headless bodies encircling him. He didn’t move as I brushed back the bloodied hair that matted his forehead.
“I might consider forgiving your daft theatrics”—he waved his hand to the bike sprawled on its side—“if ye tell me wha’ you’re about.”
I just had a conversation with an aphid. He wouldn’t understand what was going on with me. I didn’t even understand it. “I don’t know.”
He ground his teeth and sheathed his sword. “We fix the banjaxed pipe then back to the gaff straightaway.”
“No.” My chin thrust out,
as did my chest. “I need books.” I nodded to the carnage. “Insect books.”
Fury seared his every syllable. “I had a canary when ye leapt off the bike. So you’ll tell me wha’ ye were doing with that messenger bug.”
“What? How do you know it was a messenger?”
“They den’ fight. They gawk.”
“And you know this how?”
“Lloyd.” A heavy sigh. “He heard a rake of stories from the minks passing through.”
“If that was a messenger, was it here to deliver a message?” From who? A human? Another aphid?
“They collect information and take it back to their hives.”
“Hives? Dammit, we’ve been together for months. Why am I just hearing about this?”
His whiskered chin tipped to the sky, an exhale pushing through his flared nostrils. Then he dropped his head and leveled his glare at me. “I’m not withholding anything from ye. I told ye they were evolving. The messengers, the hives, I den’ know what it means.”
“I understand them. I swear I felt it say ‘Found you.’ Felt being the operative word, Roark.” After it chanted Drone through my veins. The hairs on my neck rose. “Something’s not right with me, and to understand what’s going on, I need to understand them.” If I could get my hands on an entomology tome or maybe layman’s texts on natural selection and DNA mutation…“I need a fucking library.”
He squinted at his curled fingers. I followed suit with impatience. What, did he need manicure?
When he raised his gaze to mine, my stomach dropped. My theatrics had put shadows in those deep green eyes. Oh, my fickle priest. What had I done?
He watched me, seemed to be debating something. Then he straightened his back, decision made. “I must be a gobshite.” His tone was on the hurtful side of contemptuous.
He stalked to the bike. “There’s a university a few kilometers north.”
Roark found and repaired the break in the pipe without incident. A couple hours later, we stood in the cathedral style foyer of the college library. The mustiness of unused books stagnated the stuffy space. A high window streamed a golden bar of sunlight across the brick floor and illuminated the cloud of dust stirred up by our boots.
A whisper of jade peered from under his lowered lashes as he stepped before me. “We den’ know if we’ve been followed. Root quickly and den’ put the heart crossways in me again.”
“Hold on to your canaries. I’ll steer clear of trouble.”
Even bleak in spirit, his beautiful lips turned up. I rose on tiptoes and tilted a closed mouth over his. He met me with a tentative caress of lips. Too soon, he pulled back.
Head down, he nodded to the right. “Science and Nature is that way.”
We secured the building then separated in the closed off corner of the library. Three stories of stained glass windows veneered the west wall and soaked up the last hour of sun. I scuffed down the aisles, loading my arms with every primer I found on bugs, evolution and genetics.
Honey-tinged curls flashed between the books one aisle over. I leaned on the shelf that separated us. He pretended to ignore me, keeping his eyes on the text he cradled.
I pushed a few books out of the way. “You must be in the 1000 Ways To Pleasure a Woman section?”
His lips teased a smile. “Actually, this is Temptress for Dummies, but”—he glanced up—“I’m on me way to the How To Make Her Bugger Off aisle.”
Dusty hardbacks framed his sculptured face. As we stared at each other through the opening, something crept from the green lagoons of his eyes. That something spiraled through me, reaching places I couldn’t reach myself. The way he looked at me, I felt attractive, admired, and secure. My body went rigid. I squeezed the books in my arms, thankful for the bookshelf between us.
He nodded toward the end of the aisle and disappeared in that direction. I followed. Snapshots of his heated expression flickered between the books as we advanced.
My mouth went dry. I planted my feet. What would I find at the end of the aisle? A neglected vow? If his control wavered, could I be strong enough for both of us? An irresistible impulse hummed through my body.
Listen to the song.
I lingered in the too quiet stillness, longing to go to him, arousal pumping my pulse.
The scuff of boot treads sent a bird flapping to the rafters. A soft thump up ahead. Another. Then Roark’s shout. “Run—”
My body jerked forward, my feet stumbling to catch up. Toward his voice and around the corner. The books plummeted out of my arms.
He was on his knees. A shotgun barrel pressed against his temple. The man behind the gun eyed me up and down. Twice. Deep pockmarks pitted his face. The curved beak that was his nose angled to the side, the misshaped cartilage toughened and old. His boot pinned Roark’s sword to the floor and out of reach.
A fist wrapped around my hair. “I don’t believe it,” a second man whispered, his pierced lips hovering inches from my face. Faded tattoos sleeved his arm, which aimed a sawed-off shotgun at Roark. “Are you real?” Rot wafted from his gaping jaw. His too-large head bobbled on a pencil neck as if it might fall off if he moved too quickly.
The daggers itched on my forearms. I could maim Pencil Neck next to me, but I wouldn’t be fast enough to stop Broken Nose from pulling the trigger. I needed one or both of them distracted. So I improvised. “I’m a demon sent by God in his scorn for man’s sins to entice thee with”—I cringed—“a voodoo vagina.”
Roark’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead.
“Release this soldier of Christ and God will show mercy.”
Silence blanketed the library.
Broken Nose’s saucer eyes didn’t blink. “I thought women…I never thought I’d see one again. But here you are. In the flesh.” He thumbed his ill-fitted nostrils. “Let’s see the voodoo vagina.”
Damn. Not the usual god-fearers. Plan B. “Listen fuckers. I’m a hybrid nymph. And I’m hungry enough to dine on your low grade sap.”
Pencil Neck yanked back my head and wedged the gun barrel in my mouth, prying it open, gagging me. “No mutated bits in there. Aw God, her throat is perfect.” He shut my jaw and turned the gun back to Roark. “She’s going to take my cock in that sweet throat”—he thrust his enlarged groin against my hip—“while her soldier of Christ watches. If he behaves, he can have a go at her ass while we take turns filling her cunt. And I can see the weapons under that coat. Those come off first.”
I met Roark’s eyes. I’d seen that torment before. In my father’s basement.
“No, Evie.”
I rubbed my wrists. I failed Joel. I wouldn’t fail Roark. I removed the weapons and cloak. Roark didn’t lower his eyes from mine when I shed my shirt. The frigid air trailed cold fingers along my scar. Would its hideousness be enough of a diversion? I puffed out my chest.
Broken Nose made a choking sound. “Holy fuck.”
Wide-eyed, Pencil Neck lowered his barrel to bend down for a closer look. I shot my shin up and out, cracking his jaw. Then I kicked again, knocking the shotgun from his grasp and catching it before it dropped.
Broken Nose fired as Roark dove. Confetti of books showered the far side of the room. I flipped the shotgun and reached for the trigger.
“Den’ shoot.” Roark fisted the sword, angled like a hatchet over Broken Nose’s bowed head.
“Fuck that.” I shoved the shotgun against the other man’s trembling chest.
“If we kill them, we’re no different than they are.”
“You have no idea what kind of monster I am.” I put pressure on the trigger.
“Look at them. Look close. What do ye see?”
I looked into the eyes of the man who was willing to take turns raping me. A wet sheen rose over his gaze and broke free in one pathetic plop on his sunken cheek.
“Fear,” I said, “follows evil, and its punishment.”
“It also follows suffering. It weakens a man, makes him desperate. They’re scared, lass. Just like ye. And me.”
My trigger finger wobbled, strengthened. “If we don’t kill them, they’ll come after us.”
“No more blood, Evie. We’ll tie them up, find another way.”
Something moved near Roark’s boot. Broken Nose’s hand twitched over the hem of his bunched up pant leg. Then a flash of metal. Another goddamn gun.
I swung my aim and fired. His broken nose burst in bits of bone and flesh. A pitted flap of skin hung from his chin, quivering on his neck. His body toppled to the floor.
Pencil Neck launched, barreled into me. His hand wrestled mine for the aim of the shot gun. He was stronger, had more leverage. The barrel rose up, up, up until I was staring into the dark hollow tubes.
The sword whistled behind me. The shotgun dropped, followed by Pencil Neck’s too-large head.
Adrenaline drained from my shaking limbs as I scooted away from the headless corpse. I dressed and strapped on my weapons, fearful of meeting Roark’s eyes.
He was crouched over the bodies, murmuring what I presumed to be Last Rites. When he stood, I approached his back and leaned my forehead against it. His body stilled.
“I’m sorry.” For jumping off his bike. For the blood on his sword. For hiding my scar.
He stepped away and scooped up my abandoned books. “We’re leaving.”
I stepped out of the bathroom. The sweatshirt and cotton pants did little to calm my shivering from the ice cold shower. Roark sat on the edge of the bed, already showered and in his wool robe.
His gaze swiveled to mine. “Come here.”
When I sat next to him, he gripped me in a painful hug.
“Roark—”
“We have scads to discuss.” He released me. “But right now, I can’t get past the scar.” His fingers yanked through his wet curls. “Tell me that’s not the wee cut ye were stitching the night we met?”
I lowered my eyes.
“Bloody hell. Why?” He knelt before me. “I was right here. I could’ve helped ye. I should’ve helped ye.”
“Well”—I shrugged—“I was still trying to get over the fact that some bastard wanted to give me a mastectomy. I wasn’t really in a trusting mood.”
