Pack of Lies

ten

Being Translocated by someone else is a different feeling from doing it yourself—the difference between launching yourself from a swing and being tossed from a well-aimed catapult. Sharon had the skills, and a good touch, but she didn’t know me anywhere near as well as J did, so I landed dizzy and disoriented, which is exactly how you don’t want to be when arriving in the middle of a fight.

I ducked under a roundhouse and came up with my head into the guy’s rib cage, butting like a nanny goat. My dad’s girlfriend taught me that one, when I was still a teenager, along with the “never be afraid to get your thumb into someone’s eyeball” rule. I missed Claire. I wondered what happened to her, after my dad died….

“Bitch!”

“True,” I said sweetly, instinctively blocking a sizzling lash of current with a wall of my own. God, was he kidding me? Fighting with current like that was kid stuff; normally you outgrew it by the time you were fourteen—at least for girls. Boys seemed to take a while longer to learn that an unspecified flailing, even with current, was neither macho nor particularly effective. I went down, hooking my arm around my attacker’s knee, and used his body’s own motion to yank him facedown onto the ground. His concentration shot, the current-lash sizzled and flared out. I rolled over and planted my elbow in the small of his back, then pulled a sharp splinter of current up through it, touching right at the base of his spine.

“One pinprick, and you’re in a chair for the rest of your life,” I told him. “And that’s manual power for you, not electric.”

I wanted him to fight back. I really did. I guess he heard that in my voice, because he went limp like a bearskin rug. Damn.

Keeping that point of current nailed to his spine, I risked looking around. Sharon and Mercy had squared off against three guys, all of whom looked like they could pass in a crowd at a society fund-raiser, if you dressed them up better. Not your average goon squad. Two of them looked like they’d been roughed up; the third, the one hanging back slightly, was unmussed. Either the coward of the bunch, or their ringleader. Or both.

The current in the apartment was dangerously over the top—and even as I thought that, the overhead lights shorted out with a magnificent fall of sparks, and the immediately recognizable sound of a computer giving up the final ugly ghost came from the other room. In seconds, the entire building went silent, the way only a Talent can hear. No electricity at all. We’d killed it.

Lack of an immediate power sourcing didn’t seem to be stopping the trio of baddies, though, and my side seemed to be outnumbered, if not outgunned. I changed the point of current to a net, pinning my guy to the ground, and went to join the fray. He might be able to work free, but it would take him a few minutes. J taught me that trick—although it was supposed to be used on would-be muggers. Close enough.

Unlike my first guy, these three were making a very nasty attack. They were trying to pull current from Mercy—and now Sharon—so that their cores would be weakened, making them easy prey for a physical attack. Mercy was bleeding out of her nose—not a good sign; she was way overextended. Looked like she’d put up a damn good fight before calling for help, though, from the way the guys were sweating.

Draining someone was nasty but still basic. Using current as a true offensive weapon isn’t something most Talent learn. Defensive, yeah—like the current-splinter I’d used on the first guy, and a few more tricks that would scare off a Null, but that was it.

Most Talent don’t get trained by the Big Dogs.

“Get down,” I said to Mercy, shoving her a little on the shoulder. She went to her knees without resisting—I got the feeling she was used to following orders. Or maybe she was just too drained to think straight.

I took her place standing next to Sharon. I bet I didn’t look too imposing—skinny blonde chick in black, with too many silver hoops in her ear—next to Sharon’s Corporate Woman skirt and hose, but they were in for a surprise.

Sharon didn’t even look at me, busy holding off all three by herself. I could see the faint echoes of her current, straining to keep the others at bay. I was guessing that she was using a variant of the firewall we’d been working on in training…but that wasn’t meant to be worked by one person alone.

*ready?* I asked her.

*ready*

These guys might be working together, but that didn’t mean they were working in tandem. And that, thanks to Venec’s endless drills, was where we had a kick-ass advantage.

The three guys facing us had expected one lo-res girl, already scared and traumatized. What they got was two women, full-power and trained to act. And pissed.

My current, cold and blue like a winter sky, met Sharon’s hotter, more staticky flare, and twined like serpents on a caduceus. Only it wasn’t in a healing mode.

*tiger strike?^*

A wave of agreement flowed from me in response to Sharon’s prompt, and our current struck like a gigantic cat’s paw, starting to the left and sweeping across them, at exactly neck level—adjusted in motion, since they weren’t the same height. We’d practiced on each other, though, for exactly that scenario.

Unlike practices, the claws here weren’t sheathed. Current curved and sharpened, taking near-physical form, and the first goon on the left cried out and clutched at his throat in pain. His pull on Sharon and Mercy faltered, and I came with another swipe of my own, cutting through the pull and throwing it back on the source, the way a cat would bat at a mouse. Visualizing it that way made it stronger, more “real” in the physical world, and the shock of it knocked him out of the attack.

The third guy had figured out what was going on, and tried to form a defense, raising a wall of current of his own. It protected him—but also stopped his attack.

Second guy, a tall blond fellow, was either more determined or less smart than his companion, and kept pulling at Mercy. I heard her whimper and my mood, already sour, took another dive. She’d already been assaulted once; be damned if I’d let these bastards do it again.

Without waiting for Sharon to catch up, I shoved the claw back at him, this time not swiping across, but digging in…not at chest level, but lower. Considerably lower.

Let the punishment fit the crime.

He howled and dropped, and I gave him a purely physical kick in the gut for good measure, the tip of my boot making a satisfying thwack on impact.

At that point they realized they weren’t going to be able to manage whatever they’d come here for, and must have called for help. There was an external surge of current, and all four intruders popped out with the usual rush of ozone-scented air.

I collapsed onto the floor next to Mercy, and let my current retreat from the caduceus. It didn’t go all the way back into my core, though: my nerves were still twitching, and my current reacted to that, settling like a second skin around me, cool and soothing.

While I still had the stink of them, I gathered up our impressions of the guys, their signatures, their looks, even their smells, and did my best to transmit them directly to the office, reaching for whatever awareness was first available.

*bonnie?*

Venec, of course. He was startled—we’d never done a person-to-person translation like this, without warning or prep, and I wasn’t even sure how I was managing it—but he opened to me without hesitation.

*attackers* I told him, pouring everything into that one thought, compressing as much as I dared, not sure how long I could hold the link open. A weight pushed against me, like a wave when I used to bodysurf as a kid; Venec, supporting me with his own current. I didn’t have time or energy to wonder how he was doing that. With an odd clicking sensation the sense of them left my head and went into his. There was a brief mental touch, almost a hesitant caress, and then he was gone.

I leaned forward until my forehead touched the carpet, stomach-sick and dizzy.

“You okay?”

I wasn’t sure if Sharon was asking me or Mercy. I just nodded, too tired all of a sudden to even speak. It was one thing to use offensive current in practice, when you were ready and prepared. Getting pulled out of a meeting on a second’s notice, and facing off against four strangers, without the chance to load up beforehand, and then do whatever it was I’d just done…

I could have eaten an entire porterhouse, at that moment, and gone back for dessert. And then taken a two-day nap.

“Mercy? You okay? Who were those guys?” Even as I asked I knew the answer to both questions. They were the goons who had threatened us on the street earlier, or sent by the person who’d done it, and no, she wasn’t okay at all.

Mercy curled on the floor like someone had just cut all her strings. She wrapped her arms around her knees, and wept silently, shuddering little-girl sobs that broke my heart and made me want to promise her that it would be okay, that it would all be okay. And I couldn’t. Because it wasn’t, and it wouldn’t be.

“We need to take her somewhere,” Sharon said. “Somewhere safe, where…”

Where someone could coddle her, was what Sharon wasn’t saying. Where they could talk her out of whatever semicata-tonic state we could already see creeping in. There had been too much, and she didn’t have the outlet of laughter—only sadness, and pain.

I thought instinctively of J, but that didn’t feel right. J was too brusque—perfect for my preteen wise-ass self, but not this damaged girl.

*mash* Distant, distracted, but still connected, somehow, enough to feel my quandary and come up with a solution.

“We’ll take her to Mash’s,” I said.

Mash was a legend in New York City. He had retired years ago, like my own mentor, but unlike J, Mash couldn’t say no…and didn’t try to. If you were a Talent between the ages of ten and twenty, his three-story brownstone was a perpetual open house; no questions asked, advice and sympathy—and the occasional ass-kicking—always on offer. Mercy was a little old for that, but I suspected that Venec was right; it was the best and maybe the only place for her right now. Mash not only took no shit from adults, but he also had the current to back it up.

I suppose we could have asked for a Transloc from someone back in the office, but we’d both had enough being tossed around the city for one day. Personally, I’d had enough for a month: Translocation wasn’t one of my better skills— I’d learned it late, and under protest—and it took way too much out of me, even as a passenger. The thought of bundling Mercy into a subway car wasn’t appealing, either, even assuming she could have made it that far surrounded by strangers. Instead, we called for a hire-car, bundled her into the back, and settled in for the trip back to Manhattan.

*on our way* I told Venec, who returned a noncommittal grunt that meant he’d heard me, but was otherwise preoccupied, probably with the stuff I’d sent him, and catching the others up on what had happened. With luck, they had enough to track those bastards down.

It occurred to me suddenly that my pings to Venec were using actual words, not images or emotions. I didn’t know if it was because of all the training we were getting, using our current more, or…

Or what. What the hell was going on between us, anyway, and why now, all of a sudden?

I was too tired to follow that thought anymore, right now. I closed my eyes and let the hum of the car around me lull me into a light doze until we hit the East Village, and Mash’s brownstone.

My credit card, naturally, was shot to hell after that little firefight, so we had the driver call the office to get someone there to authorize the payment. I flipped the bit of plastic between my fingers thoughtfully. More current, more usage…yeah, I could see that my days of being able to carry magnetic cards were nearly over. Damn.

Mash met us at the door. He was ancient, and irascible, and scary as hell if you were an adult with bad intentions, but he took one look at Mercy and ushered us straight in, no questions asked, yelling to someone to bring chocolate and a cat, and a bottle of whiskey. Teenagers scattered to do his bidding, others quickly clearing a place at the huge wooden kitchen table, and setting up extra chairs.

“Here you go, dearling, sit here, that’s right.” Mash took a red stripy kitten from someone and handed it to Mercy, who uncurled enough to cuddle it in her arms. The kitten, rather than scratching or wiggling to get away, settled in calmly and started to purr. Mash poured two shots of the whiskey, and broke off a chunk of dark chocolate that smelled awesome, coaxing Mercy into opening her mouth so that he could place it on her tongue.

“She’ll be all right now,” Sharon said. “Come on, Bonnie. We’ve got to get back.”

It took me a minute to remember what she was talking about. Back to the office. Right. Meeting. Roundup… That tickled something in my brain, and I took a second to chase it down.

“I’m going to take another look at the site,” I said. “Tell the boss.”

Sharon wasn’t happy at being messenger girl, but she nodded, and while she went uptown, I took the crosstown bus to the meatpacking district, where the attack had taken place.

As much as I wanted to go after the goons who had threatened Mercy, and us, we had to keep focused on the original crime. Stosser, damn him, was right about that. I’d written off the lack of any residue from the girl to her being lo-res, and all the looky-loos muddling the scene. But Mercy had put up a pretty good fight for an amateur before we got there today. So why hadn’t I found any trace of her on-site?

Part of it might have been not knowing exactly what I was looking for. She’d been a cipher, a shadow on the gleaning, “the girl,” or “the victim.” Distance and lack of bias were all well and good, but they weren’t the only answer. But between the interview, the ping for help, and the trip to Mash’s, I had a firm hold of her signature now. If Mercy had done anything, felt anything strongly, I should be able to pick it up from the site, no matter how faded.

And if there still wasn’t anything there? If there wasn’t any defensive current to find, from her, or the perps?

Then that would tell us something, too.

I got off the bus at 8th Avenue, and walked to the site. The sky was a clear blue, but the sun wasn’t very strong today, and I wished I’d worn a sweater over my long-sleeved T-shirt, since Translocation didn’t go via the coat closet to grab my jacket. Busy sidewalks, the usual weekday traffic, people in suits and jeans going to and from, intent on their business. It was easy to be anonymous in New York City—it was hard to stand out, in fact. And yet, I could feel eyes on me, watching me, following me. The weight of their attention had a strange, almost stale feel to it; familiar and totally alien at the same time. Nonhuman eyes.

Fatae eyes.

They knew who I was—or, more to the point, what I was. Either from the Gather, or Danny, or the fatae gossip lines, they knew. They were still here from this morning, when Sharon saw them, only now they were just watching, judging, and it was freaking me the hell out.

And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. The U in PUPI stood for unaffiliated. That was Stosser’s mantra, his impetus, and it was one we all agreed to, believed in. Repetition made habit. We had to be seen as impartial and unbiased to all sides. Not just client and suspect, but Talent and Null, human and fatae. If we weren’t, if our findings were dismissed as being bought or biased, then everything we did would be completely useless. Worse than useless; they could be used against the people we were trying to help.

Before, I’d been frustrated at that: now I got a real sense for the tightrope we’d been shoved out on. If we did this wrong, if I did this wrong, it would be game over. The fatae, at least, would never trust us.

I couldn’t afford to do it wrong.

There were only a few people around, once I made it across the wide expanse of West Street: an occasional jogger, rapt in their headphones, or a nanny pushing a stroller, trying to give kidlet some fresh air before returning to their high-rise apartment. The site itself was a little more worn than before, but the pile of offerings had been refreshed on both sides. New flowers, new saint’s candles. None of the participants had been religious, according to the dossier, so it wasn’t specific to them: someone else was bringing god into this. It might not mean anything—people called on random deities all the time, even if they didn’t actually believe and would be horrified if someone answered. Religion was rote and empty ritual for a lot of people. Faith, though…

If you believed in something hard enough, a lie can become truth. Yeah.

Holding on to the memory of Mercy’s signature, I sank into fugue-state, and let my mage-sight flicker over the area. I wasn’t looking for anything specific, nor was I trying to glean everything from the site. This was more akin to scanning the ocean’s surface, looking for sign of a humpbacked whale, or dolphin’s leap, out of the whitecaps and swells.

Only, instead of a dolphin or whale, I caught a sea monster. There were things lurking around the edges: new things, gathering and waiting. Some a block away, some within reach if I were to stretch out my hand. Some human, and some not. The eyes I felt on me before, and more. Sharon had only said a few…this was more like dozens. Right now they were passive, merely watching. Was this rubbernecking, Cosa-style? Or did it have something to do with the larger events around us, the antifatae tension Venec was worried about? Everyone had their eyes on us, right now, waiting to see what we did, what we decided—what we reported.

“Need to ask Venec what he thinks,” I said, the sound of my voice startling me, and sending several of the more alien observers skittering farther out of range.

*thinks what?*

I yelped, and fell onto my knees. Off in the distance I was damned sure I heard a snicker from one of my invisible observers, but ignored it, more intent on the sudden intrusion of a voice in my head.

*how did you hear me?* I demanded. That wasn’t supposed to be possible. Screw that, it wasn’t possible! I was tempted to throw up a total block, the kind you’re only supposed to put up in case of emergencies—like blinding and deafening yourself while standing in the middle of traffic, it was more dangerous than it was useful—but my curiosity got the better of my outrage.

*how do you do that?*

There was a pause, as though Venec was as shocked to hear my voice as I had been to hear his, and then:

*was afraid of this*

As answers went, that wasn’t. But Venec’s mental voice lingered in my brain, more solid and specific than any ping I’d ever gotten, the same way it had been earlier that day, and I could feel him poking around, probing at the limits of that connection—not in his brain or in mine, but somewhere overlapping. It was like the current-bubble I’d formed with Pietr that allowed us to share a point of view, magically, only there hadn’t been any spell, no intentional opening-up…

That weird current-spark, earlier in the week. That amazing, near-erotic feel of something transferring between us… No. Impossible. Current didn’t work that way. There was no way to “accidentally” use current—you had to will it to do something, or it would turn back on the user, not go do something on its own, the same way a hammer would come down on your finger, not go attack someone else if you weren’t paying attention to the downward strike.

But the answer felt right, if impossible, and I could feel Venec’s agreement as well, distant and right next to me at the same time. That, and his late-night visit in my head, and this… How, as J used to say over and over in lessons, was subject to If. Once If was met, then How was merely a matter of time and study. If we were connecting on some level neither of us had ever encountered before, then something had happened. If neither of us had intentionally done something, then either someone else had done it to us—and we both thought of and rejected that idea at once; this thing was locked between us, nobody else’s signature anywhere to be found—or we’d somehow done it unintentionally.

I could feel his awareness and uncertainty about all this, tasting it the way a dog would taste the air for rabbit or squirrel.

Impossible or not, when my walls and barriers had been down during training, and his had been down, too, for whatever reason, then our usual current-brushes and attraction had…done what? Done something, damn it.

Suddenly the insights I’d had into Ian earlier made sense, too. They hadn’t been mine, they’d been Ben’s. It wasn’t just his thoughts that had access into my brain, it was his knowledge, too.

My freaking earlier had been nothing compared to how I felt right then.

*get out* I ordered him, and slammed up walls fast and hard enough to dismember any mental fingers left in the way.

Holy shit. The urge to hyperventilate came and went, but my hands were trembling and my pulse was too fast for comfort. Did not like, did not want. No. I might be casual about sex, I didn’t have any of the usual hang-ups about body image or privacy or personal space, but there were certain things that were mine and mine alone and my brain was #1 on that list. Pings were all well and fine but I decided who I talked to, I decided what was in my brain.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Deep breath in.

Anyone watching me would have assumed a panic attack and they’d probably have been right. But slowly it came back under control. Whatever had happened, it was Venec. Venec, who had shadowed me before, when I was greener, but had shown respect for my privacy. Venec, who when I told him to leave, left. Venec, who didn’t seem any happier about whatever was going on than I was.

Benjamin Venec, who guarded his privacy so closely that we didn’t even know where in the city he lived, or if he was in a relationship or had a cat or a goldfish or if he’d hatched out of an egg in Stosser’s backyard.

He was dark-eyed and broad-shouldered, with thick curls he tried to slick back but didn’t have the patience to keep groomed, with strong square hands that were the hands of a workman, not an artist. Calloused fingers and strong muscled arms, and my pulse started to speed up again, if for more pleasant reasons, just thinking about those hands.

“Well, you’re back to normal then, aren’t you?” I asked myself ruefully, relieved when there were only my own thoughts in my head in response.

I tried, after that, to slip back into a working fugue-state, but it was no use. I was too aware of every tremor around me, every shimmer of current, every twitch of movement. Going deeper would require me lowering the wall I’d erected, and be damned if I was going to do that right now. I was too off-kilter, too vulnerable. Any faint trace of the original players left here would have to stay hidden for now…and probably forever, after three days of wear and tear on the scene.

I came back to full normal awareness, still holding up my walls, and sighed. I was very much not good at failure, even if there were extenuating circumstances. Especially when there were extenuating circumstances: that felt too much like making excuses, and covering up the fact that we’d failed to gather everything in the first go.

Live and learn, J would say. But what if, someday, a screwup like that meant someone didn’t live to learn?

The air felt colder than when I’d arrived, and I looked up to see that the sky—pale blue that morning—had clouded up to a thick gray. I was too tired to do more than sniff in ether, but there didn’t seem to be any storm-hint in the air. Pity; I wasn’t much for sourcing wild, but people—Talent—tended to relax more when the spring thunderstorm season started, and we were definitely, all of us, the pack and the entire damn city, in need of relaxing.

Venec was gone when I made it back to the office. I knew it even as I was climbing the stairs, even through my strengthened internal wall: he wasn’t in the building.

“Coward,” I muttered, letting my wall drop enough that he would hear me. At least, I assumed he could hear me. Odds were he had his own wall up, to keep me out. Reasonable enough. I didn’t think he was enjoying this any more than I was—he’d sounded so annoyed when he realized he’d heard me that it was almost insulting, actually. Irrationally—and I knew it was irrational and I couldn’t help it—that just made me pissier.

“Hey.” Pietr greeted me when I stormed into the office, and picked up on my mood immediately. “Whatever it was, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t my fault.”

I had the instinctive urge to say something wise-ass and cutting, and bit down on it. He was right: it wasn’t any of his fault.

“Venec booked out for the day?”

“Yeah. About ten minutes ago.”

Hah. Just as I was getting out of the subway. “Coward,” I muttered again, for good measure. “Stosser?”

“Disappeared about an hour ago.”

“What are the others doing,” I asked, and then realized that I didn’t give a damn. I loved my job but right now I did not want to be anywhere near anything that had anything to do with Benjamin Venec.

“Gone home, Venec’s orders. Twelve hours of sleep before we’re supposed to come back.” He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was disobeying that order.

Venec was right, damn him. I was wired with the need to do something, but we’d all had a hell of a week, and if I pushed it much further I really would fall over. I needed to get out of here, and ideally get out of my skin, if only for a little while.

I gave Pietr a long considering look that had been known to make some people nervous. He met it square, his gray eyes calm and knowing. Hrm.

“You want to go get dinner?”

Pietr suggested the place, a little red-meat joint down by the seaport that the tourists didn’t know about, and was perfectly willing to not talk about a damn thing that had anything to do with work. And somewhere over the course of a bloody-rare steak and my second vodka tonic, I decided that I was going to break my “no coworkers” rule, and have sex with Pietr. Feel-good, no-promises, tension-easing, playful sex. I was pretty sure he knew what I’d decided and was fine with that.

We finished dinner and paid the tab, and found ourselves standing on the sidewalk in the dusk. It had started to rain while we were eating, the kind of rain that’s like mist against your face.

“My place is closer” was all he said.

Pietr’s place was like him: quiet, almost elegant in its simplicity. He had a one-bedroom on the ground floor of a prewar building, with wooden parquet floors and an upgraded kitchen with very nice stainless appliances I coveted, and a bathroom twice the size of my own, but there were security bars on the windows that would have driven me nuts in a week.

His bedroom was totally what I would have expected from him: Shaker-style maple furniture with clean lines and a definite solidity, the bed in the middle of the room, decent-size, two pillows, a golden-brown comforter and white sheets. Everything was clean and neatly organized, and there were black-and-white photographs on the wall, of scenes I thought I recognized. I walked over to look more closely.

“That’s Budapest.”

“Yeah.”

I turned to look at him. “You took these?”

He shrugged and nodded, as though embarrassed.

“They’re wonderful.” They were. I didn’t know much about photography, but these really gave you a feel for the place and the time of day.

“Old camera, not much electronics to fuck up. I used to love playing around in the darkroom. I haven’t been able to do much lately, though. We’re…”

“Changing?”

“Yeah.” His embarrassment shifted to curiosity. “You’ve noticed it, too? Ever since we started really working out, using current more, it’s harder to be around any kind of electronics, even the stuff that used to be safe. You think…”

“I just noticed it myself. I don’t have a theory yet, but yeah, it’s got to be tied into how much we’re using, even when we’re not using it. Is the core a muscle, the more you use it the bigger it gets? Or…” I realized how we sounded, like we were still in the office, and laughed. “Damn it. This is ridiculous.”

“What is?”

“Me, babbling. I don’t babble, ever. I’m scared. I…I haven’t been scared…ever. I mean, yeah, scared about a lot of things, but never this. Never about sex.”

Pietr sat down on the bed. “Are you really scared? Or just not quite so sure of yourself anymore?”

I had to stop and think about that, damn him. There had been so much today, dealing with Mercy, the attack, the deal with Venec…it was no wonder I was feeling wobbly and weirdly off-kilter. I’d known I was using sex to make myself feel better, but was I using it to hide from those wobblies, instead of dealing with them? And if I was, was that wrong, necessarily?

“I am not used to not being totally sure of myself,” I admitted.

“I’d noticed that.”

That made me laugh again, the way I think he’d meant it to, and suddenly I saw again the glint of mischief I’d noted in him, that first day in the office. It had been too subdued lately, buried under training and the weight of what we’d experienced. I was glad to see it back. I was glad to be part of what brought it back.

“I’m okay being a diversion,” he said, his face serious, although the spark remained. “But I don’t want to be an excuse, or a thing you hide behind. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I sat down on the bed next to him. It gave way under my weight, and I made a mental note not to stay the night. Soft beds gave me backaches.

“It’s not just physical,” I said suddenly. “I mean…the diversion. I…” I really did like him, and the urge to take comfort was matched by a very real appreciation of both his form and his brain.

“It’s all right, Bonita. I understand.”

And just like that, the awkwardness was gone, and I felt like my old self again…well, sort of. There was still this weird space in my head where the wall was up, keeping me from being quite the same Bonnie as usual, and part of me that felt weird, getting down to it with a coworker after all my promises to myself and to J that I wouldn’t mix business with pleasure, wouldn’t screw the job up with my usual casual attitudes. But Pietr stripped down nicely to long lean muscle and just enough flesh to be comfortable, his hands were as strong and as soft as I’d suspected they might be, and he had a streak of wicked inventiveness that challenged my own. And he very definitely was not a virgin.

And he was excessively and pleasingly diverting.

After a while I propped myself up on my elbows, wriggling around the pillows, and grinned down at him. “You were a saxophone player in a previous life, weren’t you?”

“Trombone,” he said, looking up with that glint in his eye, adjusting the spread of his hands across my hips, coaxing me into a better position, even as he shoved one of the pillows off the bed and onto the floor. “High school band. I was horrible. But I practiced really, really…hard.”

Laughing when you’re about to slide into orgasm is possibly one of the best ways in the universe to get rid of any lingering depression. My wall held, but it seemed easier to maintain, somehow, in the sticky aftermath.

Pietr was very guylike in the ability to pass out right after orgasm—his second, my fourth—and he snored. I had meant to get up and get dressed afterward, leaving a note to ease any awkwardness, but it had been a very long day, and I was very tired. And the bed was surprisingly comfortable, even if it was too soft. I curled up against the warm body next to me, listened to the rain coming down outside, and slept.