by Kate Pearce
*
The woman isn’t corked, thank the gods. She had a few Aegir’s Suns—one of the few things I have missed since leaving Cogham— but she’s steady on her feet. Waltzing with her showed me that much. Also how well she fits against me. I’ve spent most of the night imagining how she would feel, and then, with her curves pressed up against me, I imagine even more.
I’d never have asked her to come back to the hotel with me, though, if she’d showed signs of being corked. I can’t really believe I’ve asked her back at all. I haven’t done that since—
I don’t realize I’ve been flexing the metal replacement hand Dian crafted for me until it whistles. I tilt my wrist, and a puff of steam coughs out, away from me and from her, so neither of us gets burned.
Well, it’s been a very long time. Long enough that the guys have started calling me re-virgin-ated.
When she’d looked at my hand…I’d waited for her red-painted lips to curl in disgust, and I’d only tensed more when she hadn’t. The only people I like less than the ones repulsed by the replacement are the ones who seem overly interested in it. Like I’m an extension of it, instead of the other way around. But she’d looked at the hand, called it beautiful, and then she’d stared into my eyes while we danced. No attempt to sneak glances toward the gears and wires, no flinching when the heat of it pressed against her back. If I hadn’t wanted her before that easy acceptance, I sure as hell wanted her after. And I had wanted her before. She’s a sheba, for sure, with her dark hair and eyes and skin a shade of brown it makes my suntan look pale.
I’m kind of surprised she agreed, though, and I’m torn between not wanting to break whatever spell’s between us, and making sure I’m not a cad and that she’s doing this of her own free will.
We share a taxi. Neither of us talk, but I fill a lot of the back seat, and our legs can’t help but brush against each other. Our fingers overlap on the seat between us, and I run my fingertip along her skin, enjoying the satiny feel of it. The way she shivers at my touch.
I’ve borrowed a room for the night in a boarding house through a friend of a friend. As we climb the stairs to the bedroom, our bodies make small, incidental contacts that remind us why we’re here. Just outside the door, I stop.
“You sure?” I ask her.
Her eyes, huge, and so dark her pupil and the ring of color are inseparable, manage to burn like smoldering coals. No sign in them that she’s too lit for this, or that she’s feeling any regret. She meets my gaze and licks her lips, like she can hardly wait to taste me, and the image of that shoots straight through me.
I press her against the wall, bracing myself with the replacement above her head, so she can duck out under my arm if she wants to. When she raises up on her toes to meet me halfway instead, my other hand tangles into the spill of her hair, dark like a shadow behind her, and I use my elbow to tuck her in against my body.
The kiss is all heat and teeth and need. I invade her mouth with my tongue, spearing her in a not-so-subtle mimicry of what I want to do with my already-throbbing cock. She presses against me, and I hoist her leg over my hip, notching myself into the space between her legs. She moans and grinds against me, and for the first time in more years than I can count, I’m afraid I’m going to spill inside my trousers.
A noise startles me into breaking the kiss. We share sheepish grins, and I mutter something about the room as I fumble the key from my pocket. I manage to socket the key into the lock, but damn if it doesn’t seem to have some sort of symbolism that makes me flush. She slides through the open door silently, and I close the door behind me. A finger of light pushes through the gap in the curtains and lays in a stripe across the bed. Like it’s pointing the way.
She lowers herself to the bed—which is made with a military precision—and looks up at me. The light falls across her face, bringing out blue-black lights in her hair. “I’m using birth control,” she says quietly. It’s a startling admission—it’s still a contested practice, and though it’s currently legal, who knows what the new year will bring. I realize she’s expecting some kind of reaction, but I don’t know what to say, so she keeps on. “Not that I do this sort of thing often. But…” She shrugs. “You don’t have to worry, is all.”
She looks away from me, but gets back to her feet and presses the gentlest of kisses to my mouth. A promise, or a reminder, maybe, or something as simple as hello. I’m rock hard again, or maybe still, and there are way too many clothes in the way. There’s just enough space between us that she can slide her hand up under my shirt. Her palm is warm against my skin, and I groan when she traces her nails across my pecs, down toward my abdomen. She reaches the waistband of my jeans and reverses her route, and then her nails drag a line across my nipple before she pinches it lightly.
The sensation twists me—or untwists me, maybe, because I can’t hold back anymore. I splay my hand against her back and tug her tight against me, pressing my arousal into her pelvic bone. She doesn’t shy from it. Instead, she shifts her hips to fit even more snugly against me, and I might really be finished before we’ve even started.
I step back, and she growls. I give her a quick grin and pull the shirt over my head, and the growl cuts off and turns into a moan of appreciation. I cannot help the smug expression I know spreads across my face. I’m nowhere near as big as some of the guys I know, but I work hard, and my body’s sculpted, even if I’m not as bulky. Seeing the way she’s eyeing up my chest, I puff up some.
And I start to undo the buttons of my jeans, leaving them to hang loose at my hips. It’s another chance for her to back out, though if she does, I think I might break down and cry. Instead, she reaches for the buttons of her own jeans and shimmies out of them.
The sway of her hips as she does it makes my throat go dry.
Her shirt’s still on, but her panties went with her pants, and when she moves her arms just so, the hem of her shirt lifts to give me a glimpse of the top of her thighs, and the curls at the junction of them, and it’s unconscious and so sexy I could watch her for hours, but need claws at me and I know I wouldn’t last.
She looks up at me, the need in her eyes a mirror of my own, and I couldn’t deny her if I wanted to.
And I really don’t want to.
I skim both hands up under the back of her shirt, lifting it out of the way, and hoisting her onto my hips in one swift movement. My erection has sprung free of my pants, and I angle her to probe her entrance with the head. The surge that presses me into her—finally—also topples us onto the bed, and I prop myself up on one hand to make sure I haven’t hurt her. She grabs the denim of my trousers with both hands, pinning me against her.
“Don’t you dare stop, Tyr,” she breathes.
“I’m not going to last,” I tell her, mortified when the words leave my mouth, but she just laughs, of all the damn things.
“You’ll make it up to me. But I—” She doesn’t finish the sentence. It doesn’t matter, though. She’s given me all the permission I require, and I sink into her, into my need and longing and I lose myself to the slide of my skin in and on hers. She’s wet and clenching around me, and I’m not going to last long, so instead, I think of exactly how I’ll make it up to her later, and that sends me over the edge toward my own completion. I moan and try to catch myself, but she shifts her hips just so, and arches her back, and I’m undone. I grind my teeth to cage the possessive roar that wants to escape me, and instead merely a growl accompanies the fierce release that comes over me. Pounding into her without any restraint, I lose myself, and she meets me thrust for thrust.
True to her word, she doesn’t seem to mind that the first time went so fast, and it turns out she has some ideas of her own on how I can make it up to her. Ideas I indulge, and we spend what’s left of the night, and most of the next day, bringing each other to new heights of passion.
But somehow I’m not surprised, when I wake to afternoon sunlight shimmering outside the window, to find she disappeared while I slept.
2
Love is a weakness.
I stare at the woman seated across from me, and I try not to feel disdain, or pity, or anything but sisterly affection for her. I can’t help but shudder at the thought of needing a man so desperately that I can’t imagine my life without him. Even one who treats me well, though her husband has done no such thing.
Men have their uses, of course—I color a little at the memory of the many ways Tyr and I used each other the evening before—but they can serve that purpose without involving emotions, let alone a home and finances.
On that note… “No money in your own name?” I ask.
She shakes her head, and the small diamond in her nose flashes in the light. “Nothing.” Her voice is a hoarse whisper, thanks to the ring of bruises around her neck, bright purple against her brown skin above the blue-and-gold edging of her sari. I want to kill him, this man who promised to love, honor, and cherish her, but instead beats her to make himself feel powerful.
I’m limited, however, to what little I can do. To rescue her from her abusive husband, I have to take her from her entire life: friends, family, home—not just the house she shared with him, which is enough of a rarity in this economy, but her neighborhood, the ability to navigate shops and know which shopkeepers to trust—she won’t even be able to keep her own name. I’ve been told it’s a death of sorts, and while I can understand that… she would be safe.
Why isn’t that enough?
I try to keep all of that from her while we talk, however. This is a woman who’s been not just hurt but injured at the hand of someone who, presumably, loves her. Someone she loves. She doesn’t deserve to feel that I’m judging her on top of it all. And I’m not. I’ve seen this too many times. It’s not her I judge, it’s him, and my own inability to do anything about it. But that wouldn’t be appreciated, either, so I turn my attention to the task at hand. “Have you ever held a job?”
Priya nods, and we cover her employment history. She’s smart, articulate, and beautiful, and though her work experience rather predictably petered out when she met her husband, she has marketable skills. And…I flip another page in the biography Thora’s written. “A degree?”
She smiles. “The University of Delhi. Before I came here.”
“Was it an arranged marriage?”
She gives me a pained smile. “No. My husband was a visiting lecturer from a University here in the States. He is very handsome. Very charming. When he came back to the States, I came with him. Leaving my arranged marriage behind.”
One of the more extreme cases of isolating a woman from her support network that I’ve ever seen. “Can you return home? Would you like to?”
“No.” She doesn’t offer to explain, and I don’t need her to. The finality in her voice is enough.
“We’ll be able to find you work, though you might find yourself in a job for which you’re overqualified,” I tell her and she gives me a wry smile. This is probably not a new circumstance for a woman who graduated university just as the Great War ended and the boys started coming home. “You’ll get a small stipend to start with, to help you until you’re earning for yourself.”
Thora slips into the room, her heels making enough noise to announce her arrival, and she places a tray of tea on the table between us. She pats Priya’s hand gently and gives me a quick look. I nod. “Full treatment,” I tell her quietly. “Do we have the connections required to invent a degree from a decent school? With a focus on—”
Priya provides the information, and Thora writes it in her neat shorthand on a piece of paper from my desk. “I’ll look into it. We might.”
“That would be great. References can be handled in the usual way.” She nods, a gleam in her eyes, and I offer another small thanks to whatever power it was that brought her into my life. The usual way is a series of forged letters and, occasionally, hired actors to play the part in telephone calls.
I return my attention to Priya. “It will take a few days to get your paperwork in order. We have somewhere you can stay until then. We will take care of you. You will be safe.” She closes her eyes as if she’s tasting the word, and I let her enjoy it before I ruin it on her. “It will not be easy.” Though a damn sight easier than dealing with her husband, I think, though I don’t say it. I never say it. “You can have no contact with anyone you know. You’ll be moved to a new city, given a new name.”
“I will die,” she says in that croaking voice. As hard as I am working to school my expression, she must see something in it, and she smiles a little. “I am not being dramatic or protesting. I mean that in order to do this, Priya will have to die, so that I can live.”
“Yes,” I tell her simply, grateful she understands.
I look into her eyes for a long moment. “Is there anything at your home you will want to take with you?” She starts to shake her head, but I hold up my hand to forestall her, though I keep my voice gentle. “Please, don’t answer right now. If you do think of something later, you can telephone us from where you are staying. No matter what it is, telephone us, and we will retrieve it for you.” I hold her gaze. “If you return to that house, we cannot help you.”
She nods, and I’m glad to note her gaze is steady, as are her hands when she reaches for her tea. “I understand. But there is nothing of him I want to keep.”
“No family heirlooms?” She shakes her heads. “Photos?”
She flinches. “May I have a cigarette?” I hand her one silently. “At one time, I would never have believed just the idea of seeing his face again would make me afraid.” She lights the cigarette silently. “I quit, three months ago,” she says with a humorless laugh. “I kept a pack in my purse and hid money in it, instead.”
Another few puffs on the cigarette before she speaks again. “He’s a handsome man, my husband. With eyes the color of sand, and hair the color of sunlight.” She pauses. “Do you have a young man?”
I shake my head, though the image of midnight eyes and suntanned flesh flashes through my mind.
She looks away—not at the wall of my office, but as if she’s staring at something far off. “I never would have believed it, when we first met, that the very sight of him would make me hurt.” She shakes her head slightly, her hair shimmering like a waterfall down her back. “I never want to see him again. Not even in photos.” She finishes the cigarette in silence and stabs it out in the ashtray. Then she nods. “There is nothing I want from there.” Despite her mangled voice, the determination in her tone is clear.
And I feel a rush of affection. I could grow to like her. We’re a little alike, she and I. The knowledge turns me cold. Intelligent, brave, beautiful women can fall prey to love. I know this, but this is the first time I have ever admitted it could happen to me, unless I remain diligent against it.
I wonder sometimes if he knew. If, before I was born, my father knew what he was going to consign me to and decided to have me anyway. Knowing him, he might even have thought it was a reward.
But it wasn’t. It was a constant, painful reminder: love is a weakness.
* * *
Allfather arrived with little pomp or circumstance. I gave my presentation, handed over the supporting paperwork, and then led them to a table to eat and watch the Folies. Once the club closed for the night, they’d asked for a meeting space, and I surrendered my office, though it had been tempting to put them somewhere I could eavesdrop.
Instead, I sit at Thora’s desk, examining the grain of the wood, the inlaid pattern, while just beyond the door, I can hear the indistinct rise and fall of voices as they decide my fate. I’m glad I didn’t let any of the other girls wait with me. Knowing that their fates are being decided by a handful of high-ranking members of The Wild Hunt would probably drive most of them mad. But the fact of it is, we need their support. Of the steamcycle clubs that have erupted across the country in the few short years since the cycle’s invention, The Wild Hunt is t
he biggest and the most powerful. To open my own club without approaching them would mean death for any and all of us. Worse than death for some of us, considering who the president of the club is and who I am.
It isn’t like we don’t have anything to offer. We’d be a support club, pledge loyalty to The Hunt, and live by the code. I have a business, connections, and the finances to back it up, a rarity after the Depression ended and the latest recession began. Most of the money came from bootlegging during Prohibition.
Those were good times.
I think the decision would be made already, if this proposed club wasn’t all women.
There are bound to be rivals of The Wild Hunt who will see an all-female club as a weakness. An easy way to make their bones with Allfather. He could avoid the hassle altogether and deny our petition.
But he won’t.
Will he?
I tap my feet, as if it’ll ease the jittery feeling in my stomach. Everything is riding on this. I have one hundred years Earthside before I have to serve a century in Valhalla, and I’ve put all of my resources into this venture. Not to mention my reputation—not just Earthside, but in Asgard, too. Being Loki’s daughter has often worked against me.
And even more important than any of that: women’s lives, as well as their afterlives, count on this. Not that Allfather knows that. Maybe I should have told him everything. Not just the public business plan, but the secret mission it will be financing. I get to my feet and pace the small room while I—again—go through the pros and cons of telling him. On the plus side, he might see how important this is, how we could save even just a few women from being sent to Hel—a land meant for the weak and sick—when these women are nothing of the sort. Perhaps they could find their place in Helgafjell, instead, where they would live afterlives much like the human lives they deserve.
