Irresistible Forces

by Catherine Ansaro et al

  "Corey," said Kelric, snuggled against his mother.

  Vyrl absorbed Devon's words. Abdication. It would create a far bigger furor than his refusing the marriage. Had he caused this? When he had spoken with Devon, it had seemed everything would be all right. Had her House demanded she abdicate because her betrothal fell through? That made no sense. Devon was a force to reckon with. They couldn't just make her abdicate, besides which, she could arrange another marriage, if not with the Ruby Dynasty, then with a man from another noble House.

  As the amphitheater quieted, Devon resumed her speech. "I do not make this decision lightly. I have considered it for years." Then she held out her hand—to Ty Collier. In front of an audience spread across interstellar space, she asked him, "Will you join me?"

  Ty stared at her with undisguised astonishment. Apparently the news had surprised him as much as everyone else. When Devon gave him an encouraging smile, he visibly shook himself. Then he rose to his feet, his movements uncertain, as if he wasn't sure what to do. But he didn't hesitate; he climbed the dais and went to Devon. Taking her hand, he stood side by side with the general at the podium.

  Devon spoke into the com. "Marriages of nobles and commoners are not unheard of among the Houses, but such has never been permitted for the Matriarch." Dryly, she added, "Especially not Majda." Still holding Ty's hand, she said, "I cannot marry a commoner and retain my title. So I release the title, abdicating to my sister, Corejida Majda."

  Exclamations burst out in the hall, cries, people calling out questions. A rare serenity lightened Devon's face, and Ty stood with her, looking dazed but happy. Vyrl had never heard of such a powerful sovereign giving up her title for love. No doubt holobooks would be written about Devon and Ty, scholarly treatises published, holomovies produced.

  Beneath the din, Althor spoke to Vyrl in a low voice. "You knew, didn't you?"

  Vyrl shook his head. "Not that she intended this. Just about the man. She thought about him a lot."

  The lights suddenly came up in the Hearth Room, jarring and bright. Blinking, Vyrl looked around. His ten-year-old brother, Shannon, had wandered into the room.

  "I'm hungry," Shannon announced.

  Roca made an exasperated noise. "Shannon, where have you been?"

  "With Moonglaze. I missed him."

  Vyrl sat up straighter. "Moonglaze is back?" Lily's family had agreed to bring the lyrine home with them after their stay with Lord Rillia. If Moonglaze had returned…

  He realized everyone was watching him.

  His father smiled. "Go on, son."

  Vyrl jumped up, knocking Althor's arm off the chair. He mumbled an apology, then strode from the room.

  Within moments he was outside, running through the winding streets of Dalvador. His feet pounded the blue cobblestones as he sped along the familiar route. When he was halfway up the last hill, someone came out of a house at the top and ran down toward him, her red-gold hair flying about her body and her blue dress whipping around her legs.

  They collided in the middle of the street. Vyrl threw his arms around her, hugging as hard as he could, until she gasped for breath. He pulled her into a kiss, uncaring of the pedestrians around them. Lily was crying and laughing, trying to talk and kiss him at the same time.

  Eventually they calmed down enough just to hold each other. Vyrl stroked her curls off her tear-stained cheeks. "It's so good to see you."

  She took his face in her hands. "Your father's runner reached us in Rillia. He told us you weren't going with the sky queen."

  "I'll never go away. Never, Lily." For all that he would always wonder what he had given up, he could live with that loss. He couldn't live without Lily.

  He touched her cheek. "My parents say that if we want, we can live with them until we are ready to run our own farm. But they will help us no matter what we decide."

  She ran her hand over his arm as if marveling that he was real. "I don't think I would like to live with parents."

  "I neither." He spoke earnestly. "But even with their help, setting up the farm will be a lot of work. And I must finish my schooling. That was the only way they would let me stay married to you."

  "We can manage." Her mood shone with optimism. "Lord Rillia gave my father three lyrine and many crop cuttings as compensation. My father says you and I can have it all to help us start out."

  Vyrl blinked. "Your father said that?"

  She laughed softly. "Actually, what he said was 'If you intend to stay with the damn fool boy, you better take this, because you'll need as much help as you can get.' "

  Dryly, Vyrl said, "That sounds more like your father."

  "He likes you. Really. He's just worried about us."

  Vyrl pulled her close. "I'll make you a good husband, Lily, I swear." He finally became aware that other pedestrians were watching them. His parents were a few nouses farther along the road, talking with Lily's parents. Taking Lily's hand, Vyrl drew her off the lane into an alley between two houses, where a bubble tree hid them from view. As they brushed the tree, one of its bubbles detached and floated into the air.

  Then Vyrl took his wife into his arms.

  Epilogue

  Light sifted from the hall into the darkened bedroom. Vyrl stood with Lily in the doorway, watching their two youngest children, toddlers of two and three, sleeping on the downy bed.

  "They're so sweet when they're asleep," Lily whispered.

  Vyrl laughed, quietly so he didn't wake the boys. "And terrors when they're awake."

  "They're angels," she admonished. When he didn't look suitably chastised, she tickled him. Vyrl picked her up and swung her away from the door, with Lily struggling not to laugh or make noise. It amazed him how light she felt. He had kept growing after their marriage and his shoulders had broadened even more. Now, at nineteen, he had reached his full height of six feet two.

  He set her down outside their daughter's bedroom, and they peered in at the four-year-old snuggled under her quilt. Then, as quiet as mumble-mice, they walked into the living room of the farmhouse their families had helped them build. Rugs warmed the floor, hangings brightened the walls, and bubble plants in pots added touches of color.

  Lily tugged Vyrl toward their bedroom, but he shook his head. "I need to study." He suddenly felt heavy. Sometimes the weight of his responsibilities seemed to sink into him. He was so often tired, working the farm, raising the children, and keeping up his studies. Even having delayed his entrance into Parthonia University until this year, he didn't feel ready. If their families hadn't helped so much, he didn't know how he and Lily would have managed.

  She laid her hand on his arm. "Don't worry. Everything will be fine."

  Vyrl smiled at her. Don't worry. "How often you've said that to me. And how often you've been right." She made him want to dance.

  He had less time to work out now, but he managed to keep up his training with Rahkil. That he and Lily had two sets of parents happy to spend time with their grandchildren meant more than he knew how to say. It gave Lily time to learn more about the farm while Vyrl studied. It astonished him that Lily was so good at running the farm. She could do sums faster in her head than he could on his palmtop. But as much as he worried about his university work, he liked the challenge. Lily settled him, and now that he could pursue his own interests in agriculture and biology, it was easier to concentrate on the subjects he dreaded. And no matter how much the children exhausted him, he loved them so much that sometimes he thought he would burst with it. Perhaps someday, many years down the road, he could think of dancing beyond Lyshriol, but until then this was more than enough.

  Vyrl pulled Lily into his arms. "Dance with me."

  "Always," she murmured.

  They twirled around the living room, moving to music they heard in their minds, and Vyrl's heart filled with the stained glass colors of joy.

  Skin Deep by Deb Stover

  1

  After two years, Nick Riley still wasn't used to the clean, white, fluffy kingdom. Sure,
the Pearly Gates and golden thrones were nice, but he was a third-class resident, stuck on the lower levels of Heaven until he proved himself.

  "How the hell am I supposed to prove myself?"

  "Your language is more like a trucker's than a lawyer's—though I'd rather deal with a trucker than a lawyer any day."

  Nick looked around for his ever-vigilant watchdog, Séamus—a former New York City cop, overblown with self-importance as Chief of the Mortal Watch Division.

  Séamus crossed his arms over his chest and wore a stern expression on his not-so-angelic face. "Two years and still can't mind your tongue?"

  "My father was a marine before he was a real estate tycoon. I probably learned to cuss before I learned to walk." Nick shrugged and pointed at the monitor. "I saw Margo again. She doesn't look any happier."

  Séamus sighed dramatically. "Of course she isn't."

  Nick didn't argue! How could he? "She didn't love me, but I made her think she did."

  "You were too busy trying to win at everything," Séamus said, his tone filled with disapproval. "Well, you won Margo."

  "Yeah."

  "And now she's alone down there and you're up here, though I still can't figure out how you slipped through the Gates."

  "I wish I could go back and fix things for her." Nick meant every word. He regretted his selfish, shortsighted lifestyle. And short-lived.

  "Maybe you can."

  He glowered at his superior. "Chief, don't…"

  "Believe me, it wasn't my idea." Séamus looked upward for emphasis. "A higher authority wants you to go back and help Margo get on with her life."

  Nick's thoughts exploded with possibilities. Return to fast cars, expensive vacations, and—

  Séamus cleared his throat.

  "I keep forgetting you can read my mind," Nick said sheepishly and glanced at the monitor again. "Tell me more. When?"

  "Now, but only to help Margo."

  "What will she think? I mean… seeing me?"

  Séamus grinned. A mischievous twinkle glittered in his eyes. "She won't see you. You'll have a different appearance."

  Now that had possibilities. He'd always wanted to be taller. "I'm ready. What are we waiting for?"

  "Close your eyes."

  Nick obeyed, but he saw images anyway, similar to when he'd died. First there'd been the car crashing into the brick retaining wall… pain… blackness. Then bright lights, a tunnel, and images of people and places he'd known. After the pain, it had all been rather pleasant until he saw Margo's misery.

  Soon he'd see her in person, could tell her he was sorry…

  A chorus of male voices greeted Nick's arrival in the sauna at his favorite health club. At least Séamus had seen fit to send him somewhere he'd enjoyed when he was alive. But he didn't feel right. Something was different. Missing. And… new.

  Nick glanced down at what he thought was his body, but it couldn't be. Séamus wouldn't have…

  "Did you catch the playoffs last week?" A gruff male voice interrupted Nick's thoughts.

  Blinking in the steamy environment, Nick tried to discern the identity of the other occupants. The last thing he needed was for someone to recognize Nick Riley with boobs.

  Nick pulled the towel up from his waist to cover his chest, an area of his anatomy he'd never seen a need to conceal before. "Séamus, if you weren't already dead, I'd kill you myself," he muttered. Is that my voice? That silken drawl couldn't be his.

  "Who—what?" A familiar voice sliced through the steam. "Hey, this is the men's sauna."

  Nick tried to make out the face through the steam. That had to be his former law partner's voice. "Warren, is that you?" There's that weird voice again.

  Whistling filled the small tiled area. "Hey, Warren," one man yelled, "does your wife know about her?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," Warren growled. "Lady, you should go to the women's sauna before you cause any more trouble."

  "Uh, right," Nick agreed in his new timbre. A woman—Séamus had sent him back as a woman. What a sick sense of humor.

  He clutched the towel across his voluptuous chest and beat a hasty retreat, knowing his lower extremeties—such as they were and weren't—were uncovered. Feeling more exposed and vulnerable than he had in all his life, Nick jogged through the blessedly vacant men's locker room, down the corridor, and into the ladies' facility.

  Stunned, he stood frozen in the center of the once forbidden sanctuary. Women of all assorted shapes and sizes walked around in various stages of undress.

  Now this is Heaven.

  Then he caught sight of the most gorgeous redhead he'd ever seen—a natural redhead. She was built like a tall Marilyn Monroe, with shapely legs he would've given almost anything to feel wrapped around his body in a clinch of—

  "Whoa!" Perspiring, he lifted his hand to touch the reflection. His reflection.

  Nick Riley was a drop-dead, brick shit-house babe.

  "I can't believe I let you talk me into this." Margo Riley sank even lower in her chair at center stage. Any moment now the runway in front of her would fill with nearly naked, sweaty men. What in the world had possessed her?

  Steph giggled and drained the contents of her glass. "Admit it, sis," she said. "You've always wanted to do this. Now you have an excuse."

  Unconvinced, Margo shook her head and took another sip of club soda. Maybe she should have ordered something stronger. Anything to take her mind off where she was and what was about to happen. "This is so crude."

  Steph ordered two more drinks from the passing waiter. "Hey, c'mon, Margo. It's a story. This is work. Your job! Remember?"

  Simultaneously nodding and grimacing, Margo looked up at the still empty stage. "I always wondered what men saw in watching naked women undulate their bodies in places like this." She shrugged. "Now I guess I'll find out—sort of."

  Steph paid the waiter and pushed a drink that looked suspiciously unlike club soda toward her sister. Maybe it was the fruit and little umbrella that gave it away.

  "Just imagine what Mom'll think," Steph whispered with a wink.

  Margo sucked in her breath. "You wouldn't dare."

  Steph arched her delicate blond eyebrows and pursed her full lips in a feigned pout. The innocent look vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Maybe. Maybe not."

  Wrinkling her nose at her sister, Margo took a tentative sip of the tropical drink. After removing the paper umbrella, she took a second taste and nodded in satisfaction. "Not bad. What is it?"

  "Something yummy." Steph flashed her a grin. "So, what made that old prude boss of yours give you such a sweet assignment?"

  " 'Sweet' is a matter of opinion, I suppose." Margo sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I know what he wants for this story, but I'd rather tackle a more important issue."

  Steph covered her face. "Not the First Amendment. Why not write about the guys, especially if that's what your editor wants? And the reason women like to come here?" She looked around the nightclub. "In case you haven't noticed, the place is packed."

  Margo glanced around, amazed to discover that every table in the club was taken. "I had no idea."

  "That's my point, and I'll bet it was your editor's, too," Steph said in her sarcastic, get-a-life voice. She leaned forward, elbows on the table. A shock of blond curls fell across her forehead. "Women come here for one reason—to look at hunks. Take notes, journalist."

  Stunned, Margo studied her sister's expression. "What makes you such an expert?"

  Steph reddened, laughing. "I've been here lots of times."

  "No."

  "Yeah, it's fun."

  "It's embarrassing," Margo whispered, looking around again. Why were so many women here? She bristled, hating to admit her sister was right. "Okay, so there's a story here, but that's all it is to me."

  Shrugging, Steph pointed to the stage. "Showtime."

  Margo moaned in self-chastisement. How had she gotten herself into this mess? She should have suggested that her new editor take the assignment h
imself, though looking like Ernest Borgnine might have been a liability in the Studfinder.

  "Here we go." Steph whooped and cheered with the other insane women while Margo groaned again. Music with a heavy disco beat reverberated through the small club. Varicolored lights rotated and flashed as the emcee announced the first performer.

  "Good evening, ladies, and welcome to the Studfinder," he said dramatically. "And I guarantee you will find more than a few studs." The women roared with laughter and applause. A few wolf whistles rose above the din. "Now get ready for Tarzan."

  Tarzan? The ultimate male domination fantasy. Margo suppressed a shudder of revulsion. It's a story. Get a grip.

  Removing a notepad from her purse, she leaned back and started writing down everything she saw, heard, felt in the dim room. This was freedom of speech and expression in action. She had to remain focused. If people wanted to watch exotic dancers of either gender, that was their business. Government had no business dictating morals. Satisfied she'd found the proper mind-set for this assignment, Margo glanced up at the stage. "Oh. My. God."

  A man—an almost naked one—stood directly in front of her. Smiling. Very slowly, his hips undulated to the music, displaying his well-endowed physique in intricate detail. He wore only an exotic leopard print breechcloth. "Oh, my God."

  "You said that already. You'll be all right, sis." Steph squeezed Margo's hand in reassurance. "Him Tarzan. You Jane. Chill."

  Margo averted her gaze from the grinning god and jerked the umbrella and fruit from another drink. She drained the contents in one smooth gulp, refusing to look again at the wriggling, pulsating male in front of her. "Why'd we have to sit so close, Steph?"

  "For your story, of course."

  Ignoring her sister's laughter, Margo turned her attention back to her notepad. She made more notations about the subject in the breechcloth, leaving out certain details regarding his anatomy. Her editor wouldn't consider that newsworthy, though Margo couldn't help wondering if perhaps The Guinness Book of Records might be interested.

  The dancer released what could only be described as a Tarzan yell—one that would have had Cheetah, Jane, and Boy running to the rescue.