“But I have a gut feeling.”
“That the Rift was really angels?”
He nodded. “And that it will happen again. The continued presence of conduits drives the point home.”
Rose took a steadying breath. “So you think…” It was almost too preposterous to say…but not more preposterous than anything else, she supposed. “When it does happen, we should get hell involved.”
He nodded, eyes sparking with approval. “What hope do we have against divine powers? So we open another Rift, and we unleash hell, and we let them fight heaven. Last time, there was no balance. Nothing can be all one-sided. Good needs evil, and vice versa.”
It made a horrible kind of sense. But…
“And you think that’s possible? Opening hell?”
“There are…” He hedged again, face screwing up in a rare show of doubt. Choosing his words, she thought. “Ways of opening portals. Ways of going. Ways of bringing something – or someone – back.”
“Someone?”
He stood and went back to the shelves; she recognized the row where he kept his collection of books about King Arthur. “Did you know,” he said, selecting a tome and paging through it, “that historians give great credence to there actually having been a real King Arthur? Not the medieval figure of myth, but a warlord. Very old. A British king who fought against the Saxon invasion.”
Rose didn’t ask if his interest in the topic stemmed from his own name; she had a feeling that was how it had started, and wasn’t going to reduce him to the trivial.
“One of his knights,” he continued, resuming his seat, “a warrior named Derfel, turned to the cloth afterward. He ended up being sainted.” He turned this book toward her, too, laid it atop the other, replacing her view of the final battle with several photos; one of a painted saint, one of a small, gray stone church in a grassy cemetery, and one of a strange wooden figure of an animal – without a head.
“Thomas Cromwell had Saint Derfel himself removed from the church in Llandderfel, but the stag he sat astride remains there, installed on the church’s porch.
“Every saint has his own supposed miracles.” His voice went smoky. “Saint Derfel is said to be able to fetch damned souls back from hell.”
She shivered when she met his gaze. He was completely serious – and why shouldn’t he be? He’d seen a conduit in the flesh. Twice. One had killed his brother, she’d surmised. He believed that one of King Arthur’s knights had the power to journey into and back out of hell. She’d long since stopped questioning him, so she supposed she believed it, too.
“Anyone in particular you want to fetch?”
He glanced away, and when their gazes broke apart, she realized how much tension had swelled up between them, because it was suddenly gone. “No. No, I–” Grim smile. “I like to think Simon didn’t end up there. Supposing heaven’s better.” He tilted his head back and forth. “But it’s a way – it’s an entry point. I’ve been looking for those for years now. In case…” He closed the book, and set it off to the side. “Anyway,” he said, briskly, and she realized he was self-conscious. “I thought we’d try the shooting range today.”
~*~
Shooting, it turned out, was the easiest skill to master. It took practice, as did everything, but once she’d learned to allow for the recoil, had learned how to use each gun’s sights and account for each individual weapon’s accuracy, it wasn’t hard to shred the center out of a paper target, eject the mag, reload, and do it all over again.
Within two weeks, she’d become proficient with all the handguns in Beck’s arsenal.
“Which do you prefer?” he asked one afternoon, when she’d set the .45 aside and hooked her ear protection down around her neck. He was looking at the array of guns laid out on the table beside her, but lifted his head to fire an intensely curious look toward her. Her answer mattered to him, though she wasn’t sure he’d reveal how much so. “Gun or knife?”
Guns were lightweight, portable, and allowed a person to keep a distance between themselves and their attacker. There was far less risk of getting hit, or grabbed, or stabbed when wielding a gun, and it packed a punch that didn’t rely on a person’s physical strength. A gun was a tactical advantage for someone like Rose, and her answer should have been immediate.
It was immediate – but it wasn’t gun.
“Knife.”
He stilled for one brief moment, breath held, fingers splayed across the table. She watched his pupils expand. Then he nodded and turned away. “May I ask why?” So polite, to cover how delighted he was. She could tell, though. Could feel the glad shiver that wanted to ripple down his back.
Her own breath wanted to hitch and stall, the air shifting, sparking. It continued to amaze her how the atmosphere could change like that, bristle and crackle with tamped-down energy after just a look. The way a question could heighten her awareness of him to a level that was sweetly sharp – and that felt reciprocal.
“A knife…” How to say it. She wet her lips, gaze fixed on his profile, the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheeks. She’d only used a knife on a man once, but the memory lingered, fresh and heated, always ready to leap to the surface of her mind; always present in her fingers, and arms, and a faint, ghostly throbbing in the back of her head. One mention sent her back there, to the man gasping, and the blood splattering hot across her bare feet.
She swallowed and tried again, palms tingling, pulse throbbing. “When I used the knife, I knew that I was the one who’d stopped him. He was going to hurt you – and me. And he – he didn’t even expect it. He looked surprised, when I stabbed him.” She could hear the wonder in her voice, knew it showed on her face.
If he would only look at her…
And then he did, a slow turn of his head, hair falling half-across his face, eyes gleaming through the strands. His mouth was set in a tight line, but it wasn’t displeasure. She couldn’t pin down his emotion, but she knew it wasn’t bad. That he didn’t disapprove of her way of thinking.
“I knife is intimate,” he said, voice low. “A gun is a useful and necessary tool. But when you use a knife, you get blood on your hands. A kill can’t be clean with a knife.”
She held his gaze, and nodded.
He grinned, teeth sharp. “That’s my girl.”
She started to step toward him–
And he turned away. Went to fetch more targets from the wall-mounted cabinet. “Have another turn with the Colt,” he said, voice back to normal, his back to her. “I’ve tinkered with the sights, and I think it’s stopped pulling so hard to the right.”
“Okay.” Inwardly, her joy dimmed. Her pulse and her breathing and the fizzing excitement of a moment ago settled back down – the way it should. Beck wasn’t interested in her being his girl like that.
She knew that, and told herself so repeatedly, but, still – it always stung a little to be reminded.
FIFTEEN
Kay had asked, in the early days, when her birthday was – it had been a conversation between the three of them over dinner one night, Kay expressing concern that, should Tabitha’s body be found, paperwork pertaining to her fostering of Rose might be found also.
Beck hadn’t been worried: “The documents are forged, anyway. How old are you, Rose?”
Eighteen. And her birthday, she’d revealed, when Kay asked, was November 22nd.
She lost track of time, living with Beck and Kay. Without school to attend, without a typical work schedule for any of the three of them, rainy day bled into rainy day; delicious dinners bled into cozy days in the library; conversations about ancient history melted into conversations about the Rift, and the city’s organized crime rings. Rose studied, and gobbled novels; learned to cook, looked to shoot, and honed her body into something sleek, strong, and weaponized.
She paused one morning as she climbed out of the shower, startled by a glimpse of her own reflection in the half-fogged mirror. The changes to her physique had come on gradually, she knew, but it hit he
r all at once: the subtle curves of muscle in her arms and legs, her tight stomach; the brightness in her eyes, and the color in her cheeks, and the fullness of her hair, even wet. She looked healthy. She looked like a woman, and not the frightened girl Beck had coaxed out of the pie safe all those months ago.
Six months, she realized with a start. She’d been here with them for six months. In some ways it felt like only a blink, and in others like this was the only life she’d ever known, safe, and cared-for, and allowed – encouraged – to be herself. She’d blossomed, in ways she’d never expected.
The 22nd of November dawned as any other day, marked by a silvered light and a drizzling rain. She showered, and dressed, and went down to breakfast gathering her thoughts about the reading she’d done last night about the post-Rift economic collapse. She had a few questions to ask Beck, points she wanted him to clarify; and today was going to be a chore day. Kay had mentioned changing the linen on all the beds yesterday, and she was sure Beck’s study needed a looking-to…
She halted just inside the kitchen doorway, mind going blank.
Beck and Kay stood on the far side of the island, a plate in front of them. A plate stacked high with pancakes – set with a whole mess of lit, blue candles.
As she stared, Kay reached under the counter, and came out with a conical paper hat that she strapped to her head. A little paper noisemaker that unrolled and shrieked when she blew on it.
“Did you forget it was your birthday?” she asked, laughing.
Beck gave her a small, warm smile. “Happy birthday, Rosie.”
She had forgotten it was her birthday.
But they hadn’t. And Kay had a hat. And Beck had made pancakes with candles in them.
The little flames blurred as she started at them, struck silent and stupid, and she didn’t realize she was crying until Beck appeared beside her, and he put an arm across her shoulders and drew her into a hug.
She pressed her face into his chest – the much-washed softness of his sweater – and breathed and blinked, struggling to get her emotions under control.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, rubbing her back in slow, up-and-down sweeps. “We wanted to surprise you.”
She sniffed. “Mission accomplished.”
He chuckled. “A good surprise, I hope.”
“The best.”
When she could, she drew back, offered him a shaky smile – his own was the warmest and softest she’d ever seen it, affection clear – and wiped her eyes with a few quick swipes of her fingers.
Kay still stood at the counter; the candles still burned, and blue wax had run down and puddled on the topmost pancake. “I’d blow ‘em out myself,” she said with a wink, “but then your wish wouldn’t come true.”
Rose didn’t tell them that she’d never had anything like a birthday cake before; that no one had ever lit candles for her and invited her to make a wish. She sensed they already knew that.
She crossed to the counter and stared down at the wavering flames. What did you wish for when you already had more than you’d ever imagined?
She wracked her brain, and finally formed a wish that seemed too wild, too big, too impossible. She cradled it in her mind as she would cradle a soap bubble with careful hands, took a breath, and extinguished every candle with a single blow.
~*~
There were presents. She protested, told them they shouldn’t have, but once she’d lifted the first flap on the first package, she couldn’t resist ripping the paper, relishing the sharp crackle of it, which made Kay laugh.
All of them were from both of them, they said, no tags, though she knew Beck had paid for them with his matte black credit card. It didn’t matter; them going to the effort was the greatest gift of all. She opened two new sweaters, a pair of silver hoop earrings; a sketch pad of heavy art paper and a set of pencils. And, best of all, a whole box of books.
They’d come from a secondhand shop, she could tell, like most physical books these days. Paperbacks with yellowed edges and foxed corners, smelling of old ink and cracked bindings. They were all romances.
“Not study material,” Beck said with a wink. “Just for fun.”
Her face heated. “Thank you both. So much. I can’t – thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Kay said, easily, “but don’t think you’re getting out of laundry duty just because it’s your birthday.”
Beck groaned.
Rose grinned, giddy inside, high on sugar – and joy.
~*~
“I know better than to ask,” Kay said, already grinning wryly as they finished washing up after dinner. It had been steaks and broccoli, and Beck had produced a chocolate, raspberry cheesecake from the back of the fridge, decorated with dark chocolate curls and fresh raspberries. There had been more candles, and Kay and Beck had sung, and Rose was honestly proud she hadn’t cried again. “But there’s a Rocky marathon on tonight, if you’re interested.”
She knew that it would be a kindness to spend more evenings in Kay’s room watching TV and keeping her company. Despite her dismissive remarks and nonchalance, she knew Kay got lonely up there on the third floor, more so now that Beck and Rose had grown closer over training and lessons.
But it was her birthday, and her mouth still tasted of chocolate and the glass of champagne Beck had poured her, and she wanted to be selfish tonight. She made a face. “I would, but I have all these new books…”
Kay chuckled, unbothered. “I figured as much. Go enjoy.”
“There’s plenty if you’d like to read, too.”
“Oh, honey, no. My eyesight’s so bad these days that it gives me a headache after ten minutes.” To Rose’s surprise, she reached out and hugged her. “Happy birthday, kiddo. Here’s to many more.”
“Thank you, Kay.”
Rose checked the back door, flipped off the lights, and toted her box of new books to the library.
Which was inhabited.
Only half the lamps burned, and a fire roared in the hearth, its heat pressing back the chill of the late-autumn evening which had wormed its way through window sashes and under doors. Beck sat in his usual chair, legs crossed, a glass of whiskey glowing in one hand. He stared at the flames, sharp profile gilded, hair soft on his shoulders. Beautiful as a portrait, and the sight of him brought her up short; she took a moment to stare openly, to appreciate the sight of him – and to ache with suppressed longing.
He turned to face her, and the ache became a sharp pain, right under her ribs.
He looked at her a moment, and sipped his whiskey. She wanted to ask why he was drinking – he hadn’t been out hunting. Hadn’t bloodied his knife and his knuckles tonight. Hadn’t done anything to get his blood up. But he brought the glass to his lips again, and again, firelight turning his eyes gold. He wrestled with something, she knew, but couldn’t guess what.
Finally, he set the glass aside, and unfolded himself gracefully from his chair. Crossed to the table where they studied and beckoned her to join him with a quick flicker of his fingers.
She went to stand beside him, and found that the table had been cleared of books, a black velvet drape spread out in their place. She set her own books down in the seat of a chair and wiped suddenly damp palms down the legs of her jeans. “What is it?”
“A birthday present. One just from me.” He took one corner of the cloth in his hand, and folded it all the way back.
Firelight rippled on steel. Knives. An array of them, slender stilettos, and hooked utility knives; a switchblade, half-folded out, and a hip knife with a jagged, glinting serrated edge that could saw through rope as well as it cut through flesh. She counted twelve; the tiniest was no longer than her finger, a little stabber to fit in a boot, or a sleeve. The hip knife was big enough that it would slap at her thigh as she walked; big enough to wear on her back, between her shoulder blades. All had handles of smooth, beautiful striated wood inlaid with white metal. Carved with…
Beck placed one in her hands, a wicked, s
leek blade made for stabbing, and she saw that the hilt was engraved with a small, simple flower. A rose.
She traced it with her fingertip, shocked speechless.
When Beck spoke, it was in a low murmur, voice uncharacteristically rough – uncertain. “I had them commissioned. There’s a craftsman – very discreet. Trustworthy. He takes the cash and doesn’t ask any questions.” She heard him swallow, as she turned the knife over slowly in her hand, sliding her fingers down the cool, glass-slick flat of the blade. “I thought – I thought that having your own would be – and I had the hilts made to fit your hands. It won’t be exact, obviously, because I didn’t have your hand there with me, but I’ve measured it against my own, and–”
She looked up at him, and he cut off, lips pressing thin, eyes large and full of doubt. He’d worried about this, and that knowledge touched her, warmed her.
He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “The roses are just a bit of whimsy. I thought you might…”
It was a revelation, seeing him like this, awkward and fumbling and blushing. He would have blamed it on the whiskey or the heat of the fire, but she knew the color on his cheeks was about this gift, and her reaction to it.
He cleared his throat. “Do you like them?”
“They’re beautiful.”
His head turned, finally. Expression still guarded.
“Beck, I love them.” She cradled the knife to her chest, carefully. “How could you even worry?”
He let out an explosive breath, face going blank with shock, and how could he be shocked? How could he think she wouldn’t see these for the beautiful works of art they were? How could he think she wouldn’t love the special care he’d taken – for her, always for her, and the ache in her chest was like a wound.
King Among the Dead (Hell Theory Book 1) Page 14
