His Touch of Ice

by Kody Boye

  Edging the blanket up over my hips, Guy straddled me and braced his knees along my thighs. “You might feel cold,” he said. “Tell me when you want me to stop.”

  Nodding, I closed my eyes and waited for him to begin.

  His touch was like fire.

  It was unlike anything I’d ever felt. A pinprick upon my flesh, a never-ending pressure within my spine, a supernova inside my body who in its rage consumed everything within its path—the urge to scream was so great that I nearly cried out at the top of my lungs, but Guy’s lips at the curve of my shoulders brought calm to the wildfire brewing within my mind, as if his body were the temple through which the fires could not burn.

  “Shh,” he whispered, lips close to my ear. “It’s all right. I told you it might hurt.”

  “No you… didn’t,” I gasped.Biting my lip, I stuck through the pain and kept my silence.

  There was no need to speak.

  I trusted him.

  He knew what he was doing.

  The radiating sensation of pain dissipated and was replaced by luxury. Spiraling outward, seeping into the fabric of my person, weaving through my muscles to sew an undeniable euphoria of space—from the tips of Guy’s fingers came an unbridled passion that brought peace upon my damaged body through its undeniable chill.

  The sharp bursts of breath that passed into my lungs threatened to make me pass out.

  Breathe, a voice said. Breathe.

  I wasn’t sure if it was Guy’s voice. So lost to utopia, I could barely make sense of where I was. My head was filled with pleasure, my lungs the tang of air. My body shivered as from the base of my neck to the curve of the collarbone ran a chill that subdued any action and quelled every thought.

  My cock lengthened within my boxers.

  My nipples hardened to diamond points.

  My eyes, already closed but occasionally opening to view the threshold of the physical world, rolled up into my head as something in my lower back gave way.

  I moaned.

  Guy’s lips touched my neck.

  Unlike his hand, I felt breathtaking chill upon his lips.

  In a moment, it was over.

  When Guy’s hand came free of my back, I lay there only long enough to recover from the overwhelming numbing sensation before pushing myself upright and planting myself on him.

  “God,” I gasped, pressing my lips to his face, my hand running through the thin sheen of blonde hair on his chest. “I can’t believe what you just did.”

  “You need to rest,” Guy said, turning his head the other way.

  “Fuck,” I moaned. “I’m so turned on.”

  “All the reason to lie down and go to sleep. Screwing around isn’t going to help your back again.”

  “Come on.”

  Guy shook his head and pressed his hand to my face. “Lay down,” he said.

  I looked him straight in the eyes, the desire to fight him overcome by the urge to do as he said. It felt no different than breathing—watching him, waiting for a further response. Only when he took hold of my shoulder and eased me onto the bed did I cave to his requests.

  Once firmly settled on the bed, he turned the lamp off and drew up alongside me.

  His hand fell across my ribcage.

  “There,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the back of my neck.

  My eyes fluttered shut.

  It wasn’t long after that I nodded off.

  I slept deeper than I had in the past few months. Lying completely prone on my stomach, the knots of tension free from my shoulders, my neck devoid of the familiar ache that had come from years of looking over textbooks—I opened my eyes to find the room lit in a fine gray twilight and Guy’s eyes watching me from between finely-veiled slits.

  “Hey,” Guy said. “Feeling any better?”

  “Better than ever,” I yawned, arching my back to release the kinks from a night’s worth of sleep. “Why?”

  “Do you remember anything that happened?”

  Flashes of the previous night entered my head. “Yeah,” I said, playfully batting his hand away as he reached for me. “You owe me a handjob.”

  “You have my word,” Guy said, leaning over to kiss my brow. He sat up and ran his hands along the side of his head, shivering in the breeze imparted by an untended air conditioning unit. I pressed a hand to his back and marveled at the muscles beneath my touch.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said, haphazardly pushing myself into an upright position.

  “Shoot.”

  “How old were you when you… uh… became a Kaldr?”

  “I’ve always been one. Supposedly that’s special.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Guy shook his head. “It’s nothing important,” he said. “At least, not to me.”

  I didn’t bother to push it. It didn’t seem like he had much to hide. His biggest secret was already revealed. What more could he be keeping from me?

  Though I was most likely jinxing myself by questioning that, I shook the idea of unnecessary secrets from my head and scooted up beside him, my arm instinctively wrapping around the free space between his ribcage.

  “Thank you for last night,” I said.

  “It hurt to see you in pain.”

  “You’re sweet.” I kissed his stubbly cheek. “We should probably shower. We might still be able to catch breakfast.”

  “Lead the way?” Guy asked.

  He took hold of my hand after we crawled out of bed and headed toward the bathroom.

  “Earlier this morning, police reported breaking news in regards to the possible identity of the Lady Bird Lake Killer,” an anchorwoman said as Guy and I ate strawberry waffles with a side of eggs.

  A picture of Guy, likely pulled from the public records and taken at the DMV, appeared onscreen.

  “That sure didn’t take ‘em long,” Guy said.

  “What the hell are we going to do?” I asked.

  “Hang low, sneak out after dark, and get the hell out of here. Which reminds me… how do you feel about being my hostage?”

  I slugged his arm and cast a glance over my shoulder at the clerk—who, as usual, was completely enraptured in his cell phone and whatever happened to be on it. “What about him?” I asked, jutting my chin out to the side.

  “What about him?”

  “How much of your love juice did you shoot into him?”

  “Love juice?” Guy smirked.

  “You know what I mean!”

  “Only one I’m going to be shooting in is you, if I have it my way.”

  “Guy,” I growled.

  He chuckled. “Relax, babe. I hit him hard yesterday. I’m surprised if he even remembers who ‘Gordon Johnson’ is.”

  Sighing, I pushed the remains of my half-eaten waffle across the table and raised an eyebrow. “You want that?”

  Guy dug in without question.

  We knew we would have to leave sooner rather than later. With the knowledge that cops could come busting down our door at any moment, Guy decreed that it would be best if someone went out and got us a day’s worth of supplies in preparation for our likely hike to the park—particularly me, since my picture had yet to hit the news stream.

  You’ll be fine, Guy said as I walked out the door to our room, quick to console my ever-worrisome conscience. Besides—what’s the worst that could happen?

  I didn’t bother to elaborate.

  Instead, I bid him goodbye, said I’d bring back something for lunch, and headed downstairs, all the while hoping, praying and swearing to God up and down that nothing would go wrong.

  My search landed me at the nearest convenience store, located no more than one or two blocks at the corner down the road. Inside, I ignored the speculation and stares of people taking notice of my arm. I’d decided to forego a T-shirt in lieu of the weather and instead wore a tank that fully exposed the ornate, tattoo-like scar running down from my left shoulder. Most were quick to compliment it and say nothing else, while fewer were interested
in even approaching me. It was the dichotomy of interest—like asking a larger woman how far along she was when she didn’t happen to be pregnant at all.

  I thought I was out of the clear until I was approached by a young woman who couldn’t have been out of her teens.

  “Woah,” she said, instantly startling me but simultaneously getting my attention. “That’s wicked cool, dude. Who’s your artist?”

  “Sorry?” I frowned.

  “Your henna. Who did it?”

  “Oh. That.” I bowed my head by reflex, but also to avoid making direct eye contact with her. “No one. It’s a scar. I got struck by lightning when I was a kid.”

  “Shit,” she said, fingers flushing, eyes wide and filled with either awe or overwhelming effects of marijuana. “And you’re cool? Nothing more than a scar?”

  “Nothing more,” I smiled, biting the inside of my cheek when she reached forward, as if to touch me. I shrugged away from her advance and took a step back, adjusting the basket in my hand. “Sorry—I gotta get going.”

  “No worries,” she said. “Nice meeting you.”

  “You too,” I said.

  I turned and watched her leave through the reflection in the sunglass rack mirror before I stepped into the store to peruse their wares.

  That had been close—really close. Any further contact might’ve resulted in a lasting impression, something neither Guy nor myself needed.

  With the knowledge that my lack of foresight might draw attention, I quickened my pace throughout the aisles and tried to pick out the nonperishables I thought would be most useful. Bags of potato chips, pretzels, satchels of nuts and chocolates that likely contained less nutrients than advertised but would still offer the necessary sugars, peanut butter for protein, homemade tortillas that appeared to have gone through Hell and back—I even bought a backpack, and while I initially thought buying a first-aid kit at a different location might have been the safest, I realized they would find me wherever I went.

  Security cameras were everywhere. There was no escaping that.

  I kept my head down right up until I hit the front of the checkout line.

  “Going camping?” the clerk asked, showing little interest as she scanned the items in my cart, her head bobbing to the music playing in her one ear bud.

  “Something like that,” I replied.

  “Better be careful. People’ve been getting spooked off the sites because of something that’s been up there.”

  “Pardon?”

  She finished bagging my items and snatched the receipt off the roller. “Have a nice day,” she said.

  The burning question on the tip of my tongue was extinguished as another customer came forward.

  After taking my bag and walking out the door, I turned and was just about to start down the road when I caught sight of the woman who’d been so interested in my scar directly across the road.

  “Lemme go!” she said, kicking up as a female officer attempted to wrestle her into cuffs. “I didn’t do nothing!”

  “Now now, Missy Sue,” the officer said, as if she’d dealt with this woman before. “Let’s not do this the hard way.”

  “But I was just talkin’ to him!” she moaned. “Come on, Officer Maria. Cut me some slack!”

  The lull in traffic that had provided such a natural scapegoat ended when the light turned green and the cars began to roll down the road.

  The girl’s head shot across the street, eyes centering on me. “Hey!” she cried. “Hey!”

  “Missy Sue,” the Hispanic officer said. “I thought I said we had to be quiet or else—”

  “That’s him! That’s the guy with the funny tattoo!”

  The policewoman’s eyes centered directly on me.

  I swallowed, her hawkish gaze freezing me in place.

  She merely shook her head, finished securing the young girl into the cuffs, and dragged her toward the cruiser where another man was speaking into a radio and looking directly at me.

  I turned and started back toward the bed and breakfast.

  There was no denying it.

  I’d just been noticed—and by someone who would remember me.

  “A bit greasy,” Guy said, licking sauce off his fingers as the barbecue dripped out of the sandwich and onto his hand. “Where’d you say you get these again?”

  “Someplace down the road,” I replied. “Sorry if you don’t like it. I was in a hurry.”

  “They’re fine.” He finished chewing what was in his mouth. “Wait. Why were you in a hurry? Did something happen?”

  “Some girl took an interest in my arm and wouldn’t leave me alone,” I said, tucking my fingers into my armpits. “And when I came out of the store after she left, I saw her being arrested.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Really, it’s no big deal. I got spooked. That’s all.”

  “Did either of the cops see you?”

  I had no means to reply.

  “Shit,” Guy said, shoving a fry into his mouth.

  “I’m sorry. It was stupid to go out like that. I thought we’d be safe here.”

  “I’m not mad at you. Really. It’s cool.”

  I sighed and settled into the seat across from him. “Besides,” I said, lifting my eyes from my food. “I was more concerned with what the checkout clerk in the convenience store told me than anything Missy Sue said.”

  Guy froze. “What’d you just say?” he asked.

  “I said I was more concerned—”

  “No. Her name. What was it?”

  “Missy Sue.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  I described her: short, scraggly blonde hair, pretty in a very natural way and very much a flower child of the seventies. I then repeated what the clerk had said about something spooking the campers off at the nearby sites, only to turn my head and find Guy’s hands cupping the sides of his head.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “There’s something more you’re not telling me.”

  “Missy Sue,” Guy said, “is a regular escapee from the Fredericksburg Home for Girls. She’s known for having a knack of getting out of the tightest situations… especially during the full moon.” He lifted his head. “She’s a Wolf, Jason—a werewolf.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How wouldn’t I know?” he laughed. “She’s practically been terrorizing the countryside since that bitch Pierre turned her a few months back.”

  “How has she been getting away with it for so long?”

  “She hasn’t really killed anyone… that they know of… and her simple-mindedness tends to grant her immunity in situations where otherwise there’d be a lot of speculation. She can walk the streets naked and just be taken home. It’s that simple.”

  “Does she pose a threat to us?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she caught my scent on you and got distracted by your scar. Maybe she doesn’t even run with Mardulf anymore. All I know is: if people have still been avoiding campsites because of some big animal, it means she’s still running wild. And if she’s running where I think she’s been, she’s in his territory.”

  I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Guy,” I said. “If what I know about Werewolves is true… they turn on the full moon, right?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  I pointed to the nearby calendar.

  Nestled directly beneath today’s date were the words Beginning of Full Moon Phase.

  Guy and I looked at each other. “It’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “We’ll be fine.”

  Somehow, I had reason to think otherwise.

  That night, a knock came at the door just as we were about to get ready for bed.

  There was no immediate sound that followed—no declaration of intent, no mistaken request for room service, no drunk man or woman trying to find their disgruntled partner behind a door number which they couldn’t remember. The complete and utter silence struck within me a primordial sense of fear I imagined hadn’t been experienced since
the Stone Age.

  I glanced at Guy, masked by the shadow near the far side of the room.

  The knock came again. “Excuse me,” a voice which was not that of the clerk manager whom we’d frequently heard over the past few days. “Mr. Johnson? May we have a word with you?”

  The shuffle of Guy’s footsteps whispered across the carpet as he disappeared from view. I didn’t bother to keep track. I merely stared at the door.

  A third time. “Mr. Johnson?” the voice asked. “We’re sorry to disturb you, but my name is Detective Daniel Morgan. I’m with the Fredericksburg Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your whereabouts over the past few days.”

  “Shit,” I whispered.

  Guy’s hand slid around my mouth from behind, making me jump back into him.

  “Quiet,” he whispered. “Start backing around the bed.”

  “Mr. Johnson,” the detective said, his voice pure authority as I snatched the backpack from the foot of the bed. “I won’t ask you again. Open the door and I won’t be forced to break entry.”

  The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs signaled a second presence.

  Guy pulled his hand away from my mouth before reaching back and cracking the sliding-glass door.

  Outside, a cold gust tore around the building and into the room.

  My foot landed on cold stone the moment the door clicked into place.

  “Break it down,” the detective said.

  The crunch of thick wood splintering beneath a battering ram entered my ears.

  I turned to look over my shoulder.

  Two stories below stood a courtyard looking out into beautiful west Texas, a tiered water foundation its main centerpiece.

  “Jason,” Guy said, locking both arms around my waist. “You’re going to have to trust me on this.”

  “What’re you—”

  I couldn’t finish.

  He flung us over the railing.

  We fell.

  Even though it wasn’t an incredible distance from the second-floor balcony, it felt like we were falling forever. Lost, together in embrace, where death would do us part as by the laws of physics we would collide—the poetry of such a situation couldn’t have been done better by Shakespeare himself, even if he were still alive. The world around us moved into a blur. Distant headlights stopped moving. Water drops whispered by our heads like fairies making their way back to the Fairyworld. And the fountain—oh, how it wished to greet us, with its stone façade and its striking, two-tiered semblance. It didn’t matter if it was filled with water—it was shallow. We’d die before we even struck.