“Yeah,” he says, getting up. “Yeah, there’s some in the fridge inside.”
Amy follows Darren across the yard towards the dark little office, steps in after him. It’s dark, lit only by blue moonlight outside, and the hum of the small refrigerator fills the air. The door closes behind Amy; Darren’s hands slide around her waist, pulling her close. Face level with his broad chest, Amy hooks her fingers through his belt loops and looks up at Darren’s unlit face. “May I kiss you?” he asks, quiet and husky.
Again, the urge to laugh hits her – this time because he asks. “God, yes.”
Bringing one hand up, Darren brushes her hair back over her shoulder, cups Amy’s face in his palm – his touch is warm, as hot as it is outside. There’s a moment where the air hangs potent in between them, exhales mingling, and then Darren leans in as Amy stands on her toes and presses her lips to his.
Darren tastes of beer and salt from the popcorn, his lips smooth but his stubble scratchy. As Amy kisses him, she inhales, reaching up to finally sink her fingers into those luscious curls. Sighing softly, he kisses Amy back, his hand flattening on the small of her back. “Well,” Darren says, quietly pleased, and pulls back.
Short of Amy yanking his head down, he’s out of reach for her to kiss him again. She slips her fingers under the hem of his shirt instead, brushing over skin pulled taut over his stomach. “Is that all?” she says.
Her eyes have adjusted enough to the dark that she can just make out his expression; he looks slightly bemused. “What do you mean?”
Amy sweeps her hands down along his hipbones to emphasize her point. “Sex.”
“Oh.” His hands interlace behind her back. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure if you were comfortable –”
“I want it,” says Amy, standing on tiptoe again and using Darren as leverage to bring her face closer to his. “Do you?”
He swallows wetly. “Yes.”
Tugging on his belt loops, Amy brings Darren the two steps over to the desk and hoists herself onto it so she can hook her legs around Darren’s hips as she pulls him into another kiss. And this is where things will go from here – they will pull their pants down, Darren will shove Amy flat on the desk, and hold her down as he fucks her swift and hard until she’s gasping and undone.
But Darren proceeds slow and maddeningly tender, running his hands over Amy’s body as if he wants to learn it. It’s not enough, she can feel whispers at the back of her mind. Impatient, desperate, Amy reaches down to grab his ass, grinding her hips up against his. Darren pauses, breaking off the kiss. “It occurs to me,” he says, “that we’d be more comfortable on a bed.”
Amy doesn’t care, but hey, if it gets him going. “Okay, sure. Your place or mine?”
Darren’s place is a little house on the outskirts of town. In the yellow light of his lamp, they sink down onto his bed, Amy kissing hungry down the rough curve of Darren’s neck. He hovers his weight over her, frustratingly cautious, and as he caresses down her side like she’s a work of art, lips pressing tenderly to hers, it’s nice, it’s too nice, it’s not enough – “Hey,” she says, tugging his shirt up, “can we like, speed this up –”
But Darren only chuckles, low in his throat. “Why?” he murmurs in her ear, throaty. “What’s the rush?”
The rush is her buzz from the beer is wearing off, the only warmth she has left is the heat Darren’s radiating, but even that isn’t enough against the chill of approaching spirits – “I like it better like that,” she manages.
Darren seizes her face in both hands, tangling her hair, his lips smashed against hers. Yanking his shirt up, Amy presses her hips up against his, hooking a leg around Darren’s waist. But soon even that isn’t enough, cold whispers returning – she can hear her name, faintly – “More,” she gasps, into Darren’s mouth; he’s shaking a little, lips hot against hers. “Come on, just – don’t hold back –”
But this has the opposite effect. Darren draws back a bit, flushed, with sweat glistening on his temples and eyes half-lidded with desire. “What?”
Amy tugs on his belt, trying to draw him back. “Push me around, be rough, be angry – just –” She doesn’t have the words, just yanks him down for another kiss.
But Darren’s lips barely brush hers before he’s pulled away again. “I don’t understand.”
Amy –
It’s Travis’s voice, unmistakably, and she flinches away. Now Darren’s drawn back even further, holding himself up over her with a concerned frown on his face. “Amy?”
“Please,” she gasps, straining up towards him, “Please, I need it –”
But now he’s frowning in earnest, almost soothingly brushing her hair off her face. “What is it, are you okay?”
Amy, Amy, Amy, the whisper repeats, and she can hear the wail of a child – “No,” she almost growls, “I’m not, that’s why I need you to fuck me –”
But Darren’s looking increasingly worried and confused, and the ghosts are getting closer and closer, and she swears she can feel icy fingers on the back of her neck. “I, uh, I know we don’t know each other very well,” says Darren, cheeks flushing awkwardly. “But if you’re in trouble, if there’s anything I can do to help…”
At this point Amy is shivering uncontrollably, feeling almost trapped now in between Darren’s arms. “You don’t want to know.”
His expression shifts to something almost painfully earnest, and he sits back on his heels. “I want to help.”
Amy, sighs Travis, Amy, Amy, can you hear me?
“You can’t help,” she says, propped up on her elbows. “They’re already dead.”
Darren pales, staring at her. “What?”
She can hear Tucker, she can hear him, he’s crying and crying and it won’t stop – “They’re already dead, and it’s my fault, and, and –”
“Stop, stop, Amy –” Darren’s hands engulf hers, warm, and although he looks afraid his grip is steady. “Just – just calm down, and tell me what happened –”
Travis is so close now she can feel him, so cold he burns her, his voice hollow. Amy, I’m here, why – why –
“I killed my boyfriend and son,” she blurts, numb.
Color drains from Darren’s face. “What do you mean?” he asks hoarsely. “Surely you didn’t… actually…”
“We were in the car, I was driving.” Amy’s tongue is like shale in her mouth, and Tucker won’t stop crying. “The other car came around the curve on the wrong side, I panicked and swerved. The car hit a tree. My boyfriend and son died.”
Darren’s shoulders slump and he exhales, shaky. “That’s – that’s different, it was an accident, you didn’t mean to –”
Amy, groans Travis. Why?
“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice is shaking, her hands are shaking, everything’s shaking. “They’re still dead.”
Kneeling across the bed from her, Darren is silent, one hand still on her leg as if he’s forgotten it’s there. Amy, says Travis, right in her ear, and she cringes away from the icy breath. Why did you run away?
“I’m sorry,” says Darren quietly. “Truly.”
Amy stares at him. “What?”
“I said, I’m sorry.” He sounds… sad. “That’s an awful thing to go through.”
He looks sad, too, eyebrows scrunched together, his hand now rubbing her thigh in a comforting sort of way. “Oh,” Amy says faintly. “Okay.” Travis, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry –
Why did you run away? he says again, and then Amy, Amy, Amy. With each repetition his voice sounds flatter, weaker. Tucker is crying in fits and starts, the sound hollow and echoing.
Darren’s eyes widen in dawning horror. “Can you hear them right now?”
Mutely, fists clenched in the blanket, Amy nods.
“Jesus,” he whispers.
Amy keeps waiting for the rage, the grief, the betrayal from Travis, but he just keeps repeating her name in the same pale voice. And that’s it.
“Look,” Darren says quietl
y, seriously. “I don’t think we’re in the mood anymore, but if you want – if you don’t want to be alone – you’re more than welcome to spend the night…”
Everything bubbles up hot and liquid against the back of her throat – pent-up sexual energy, buried grief, days of frustration, and through it all a piercing pain that Amy doesn’t understand, just knows it has something to do with Darren’s offer and the sympathy in his face. “Yeah,” she says. “I think I can stay.” And then, to her complete horror and relief, she bursts into tears.
“Here you are,” says Darren, wheeling Amy’s motorcycle over to her, gnats dancing in the late afternoon sunlight. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know why that took so long.”
“It’s all right,” she says, inspecting it. The polished paint and chrome gleams as bright as ever. “What was the problem?”
Flushing, Darren rubs the back of his neck. “Bent frame, actually.”
Already astride the bike, Amy squints up at Darren. “And you couldn’t figure that out on your own?”
Darren shrugs, eyebrow raised. “Like I said, I don’t really know bikes.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“You don’t,” says Darren, firm. When she starts to protest, he continues, “I mean it, this should never have taken this long. I’m sure you spent more than you could afford on the motel.”
She’s not going to argue with that. There are ghosts in the air, barely more than murmurs, but they are soft and gentle as they drift by. Amy feels new and tender, somehow, protective crust cracked to reveal soft skin. “Come here,” she says, and when Darren’s within range, she cups her hand around the back of his neck and guides him down for a kiss. His lips press against hers, rough and slightly warm. When Darren pulls back, there’s a sparkle in his blue-green eyes.
“Will I see you again?” he asks.
Amy shrugs, backpack heavy against her shoulders, keys ready for the ignition. “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe.”
He smiles a little, sunlight dancing on his hair. “I hope I do,” he says.
Ready to start the engine, her foot on the pedal, Amy pauses. Beyond the yard, the road stretches off into the distance, curving slightly, sending off heat waves in the shimmering golden air. “Yeah,” she says, and turns the keys, engine growling to life. “Me too.”
THE END.
THE MISSIONAIRES by Edward Ahern
Evenings were the hardest. The dim lighting left us little to do, and my father spewed his hatred of villagers and his disappointment in me. One of those after-dark evenings about four months ago, someone knocked at our front door.
My father jumped up with a worried look and loped toward the door carrying a candle. I dropped my book and followed him. "Stay back!" he growled.
Father set the candle on a table, grabbed the shotgun leaning up against the hallway wall, and called out through the door. "Who is it?"
"John Carstairs?"
"Yes?"
"We believe you have a room available."
"Who are you?"
"Two women travelers, unarmed."
He leaned forward and stared through the peephole in the door, then waved me over.
"Naomi, try and get this right. Unlock the door and open it, but stand behind it so you don’t block my shot."
"Yes, father."
"Now."
Moonlight draped two women.
"Come in, quickly. Stop in the hall… Naomi, shut the door and lock it. Hurry up!"
Once I'd locked the door, I turned to look at them. They were distinctive rather than pretty, solidly built, without makeup, hair unbrushed. They wore tattered slacks and baggy sweaters, but so did we. There were no new clothes. My father held the shotgun pointed just to their left.
The shorter woman spoke. "John Carstairs, I am Miriam, this is Esther. We wish to lodge with you."
The worried look on my father’s face had rewrinkled into a scowl as he studied them "Out after dark in times like this, are you…
"Yes, we are. Disciples of the Lucent One. We are come to reveal her gospel to those of you still living in this village."
"You'll have to leave. They say it's your kind that destroyed things. The God-fearing residents will put you on spits and roast you."
Esther moved closer to him. "But you have no love for these villagers."
"Nor they for me, once I’d left their puckered-ass church. But there's only one bedroom, with one bed."
Esther spoke again. Her paleness was bordered by India ink hair, and I saw thin scars running across the backs of her hands.
"We two are bonded, day and night. One bed will do. And before you turn us away, hear us out. The collapse and wars are man-made and not caused by the Lucent One. We are simple preachers of her words, teaching the path to fulfillment. We come only to illuminate. And we will pay amply for our lodging."
"Paper money is worthless."
"We pay in coin, or can provide food if preferred."
"You carry nothing."
Miriam's smile didn't reach her eyes. "As instructed by our One. We go out as lambs to slaughter. But we have access to many things. Our Lady is generous, unlike the Semitic god."
She reached under her sweater and pulled out an ivory-colored pouch. I glimpsed what looked like a nipple on the bottom of the pouch before Miriam's hand covered it. "Is that?…" I stopped myself with a headshake.
"Yes child," Miriam said softly. "A breast of a departed sister. Death is not the end of our service." She turned to John. "Would fifteen silver quarters allow us to stay?"
Father glanced back and forth between Miriam and the pouch. "If the villagers find you they're apt to kill you. But you already know this." He fell silent, then said. "What would you do here?"
Esther replied. "We're not the demons, John, the powers we have are…instructional. We're simply messengers for the Lucent One.”
Father remained dubious. “Where are your men?”
“We are the mirror image, John, the reversal of roles. There are no men. It’s been a long walk. May we sit?”
When father agreed, I knew he would take the silver. The villagers refused to share their food with us unless we paid in coin, and we had no coin to give. Fifteen pieces would let us eat for weeks, even feeding these two.
We had two sofas in the living room, both still facing the television, although there had been no electricity for years. My father and Esther sat together on one. Miriam patted the space next to her. "Sit here, child."
I stared at my father, who scowled at me, then shrugged. When I sat down Miriam reached over and touched my face with her fingertips. The feeling was soothing, like a cat stroke. She looked at me with, not affection, understanding perhaps.
"You're not a child anymore, are you? Fifteen? And still a virgin."
I blushed, and father's face reddened. "That's enough of that," he growled, then held the candle toward Esther for a closer look. "You look young to be part of the original Thirteen."
Esther smiled. "We age well, John, but you're right. The thirteen messengers all were desecrated with religious symbols and martyred. We are the next generation of disciple, in the hundreds. As we convert other women we will become legion, and march toward Millennium."
"Using my house? Putting us at risk?"
"Only with your permission, and for ample pay. Peacedale is a village, John, and our presence will eventually be revealed. But the villagers that shun you don’t fear you, if a mob forms it will be for our benefit, not yours. Here, please, take this silver as token of our agreement."
She poured the coins into father's hands. He counted them and nodded. "Excellent," Esther said. "In a few minutes there will be another knock at your door. A woman will be bringing us all food and drink. Do not ask her name or look under her hood at her face. Miriam and I are the visible faces, but many, many more work in shadows."
Father scowled, then clutched the coins more tightly. "Naomi can handle your cooking and cleaning, but you're responsible for your own room�
��" He was half through his listing of house rules when the knock came. I went with him to the door, leaving the two women alone. After all, there was nothing left in the house worth stealing.
He pulled open the door. "Yes?"
The hooded woman turned sideways from the candle light, wordlessly handed him a full plastic trash bag and turned away. Father stepped through the doorway as if to brace her, but then shrugged and came back in. He hefted the bundle, then thrust it at me. "Shut the door, Naomi, and bar it. Then put the food on the kitchen table. Be quick."
As I walked toward the kitchen, my father yelled.
"You can't burn anything in here!"
The smell of burning herbs drifted into the kitchen. Miriam responded. "This is our temporary temple, John, and we must cleanse it of godly corruption. And the little flame is already dying down. Let us eat."
The food I set out was plain but ample, preserved meat and fish, dried fruit, slightly stale bread, and a jug of fruit wine. The two women consecrated the meal with words I didn't understand and we sipped the wine. It wasn't grape, something sourer and more biting. Once I’d launched into eating my stomach hurt, it was unused to so much food.
At one point, flushed with the wine, father reached out to tap Esther's shoulder.
She pulled back. "Don't touch me. You're a god leper, and must be cleansed. In time, perhaps.”
Once we’d eaten, I began clearing the table. Esther turned to my father. “Leave us now so we can prepare the kitchen for our use. You will hear chanting, but will not understand the words, so listen all you like."
My father’s face bloated into anger, but he couldn’t take it out on me or them. "Naomi, take a candle, we're going upstairs."
I turned to go, but stared back at Miriam. "They say you're evil, that you summon demons and curse people."
Miriam stepped over and put her hands on my shoulders.
"You’re touching me, but I'm not purified either."
Her eyes crinkled. "There is no need with you. And the answer to your question is yes. After all, if the followers of the Nazarene could cast out spirits, why should we not be able to invite them in?"
9 Tales Told in the Dark 23 Page 2
