08. sorry, we're dead: clover and curses.
PART EIGHT:
PROFANITY
NORA
I sat down in our usual booth, waving to the large, bellicose Louis -- who lifted a grease-flecked spatula in a salute -- and smoothing down my blouse. A year ago, I came here almost nightly because it was so close to my closet of an apartment and the prices were doable on a temp's salary. I now lived several blocks away, with War, and made much more than I ever had before thanks to an official elevation to legal secretary and court stenographer. I didn't need to come to this ramshackle diner any more; I'd moved up in the world.
But this had been a sanctuary for me for so many months, as strange as that sounded. I'd become accustomed to Louis' acerbic ranting about the Yankees and dirty politicians ("though that's redundant, since there ain't a clean one in the lot of 'em") and I liked Mona's casual, motherly attitude and the way she remembered everyone's usuals. These people knew me; they had cared about me, even if it was only to ask how my day had gone, when no one else in the city had gone to the trouble of remembering my name. When I had been lost and alone, that had meant something. That had meant an awful lot, to be frank. This had been a place where I belonged, where I wasn't just a pair of breasts or a pretty face.
So even after moving my small trunk of things to War's, I still came here.
"I saw in the paper," Louis called from the kitchen. "That you got another show comin' up, over at that fancy little gallery on Belgrave Avenue. What's the name of that curator again?"
"Hanne," I said. "I still can't believe she paid to advertise it like that."
"Hell, I can," the cook snorted. "You got a real talent, girl. They should be hangin' your art up at the Met. When you gonna quit that lawyerin' job and become a full time Bohemian?"
"I like my job," I said. "I'm doing good work there. Helping people."
"Boy, if I had a talent like yours, no way in hell would I work another job," Louis said, slapping a squashed-flat burger patty onto an awaiting bun and pushing the plate over the counter to the man sitting there in paint-flecked overalls. "I'd stay home and wear nothing but a silk robe and drink fine wine at all hours."
"Now there's a picture," Mona said, pulling a grimace as she backed out through the swinging doors with a tray. "Keep on talking like that, Lou, and nobody's gonna order anything else. You'll make them all lose their appetites."
"Ha ha, you got me in stitches."
"Hiya, Nora. Where's your handsome detective?"
"On his way," I assured her, smiling when the waitress reached up to pat the henna-red curls poking out from her kerchief. She'd developed a terrible crush on War over the months.
"Say, when's he gonna put a fat rock on your finger?" the older woman asked in a conspiratorial undertone. "It's been, what, a year now? And you two living together and all..."
"Mona, I never suspected that you were an Evangelical."
"Me? Oh, Heavens, no! I know things are different these days; society ain't so prudish or strict, thank God, and I personally haven't a thing to say against it. If he treats you right -- and I have no doubts on that front -- what's the problem? So long as you're happy, Nora, I'm happy for you both. Just... You're such a pretty girl, and he's so dashing, and you'd be the most beautiful bridal party." There was a touch of wistfulness to her voice, and I wondered if Mona had any children. She wore a wedding ring, but we'd never talked about her personal life.
"Tell you what, Mona," I promised. "If War ever asks me, I'll make sure you get an invitation. You, too, Louis," I added impishly.
The cook sprang back quickly from the counter, futilely acting as if he hadn't been blatantly eavesdropping. "Me too, what?" he asked in a rush. "Here, you gettin' your usual, Nora?"
"Yup," I confirmed with a smile.
"I'm gonna check the pot," Mona said. "Make you a fresh cup."
While they both busied themselves, I fiddled with the gold band of my watch. It had been a gift from War a few months ago. The oval frame of the face was carved with roses, with inlaid petals of tiny rubies, to match the flower I habitually wore either behind an ear or thrust through a braided knot. That rose had been a gift from a god -- it looked and smelled and felt like a normal blossom, but it had never wilted, never browned, never lost a single petal. I wore it because it was beautiful, because it was difficult to turn down a gift from a god -- and as a sort of message, I suppose.
See, San Pascualito was a god of death. When he had handed the rose to me, I had just flouted his will by healing two people he had intended to claim. And he'd warned me to not be too generous with my miracles. Wearing a gift from a death god while I healed the sick, injured, and abused probably came across as arrogant, but it was also my way of saying that I wouldn't let even a god stop me from doing what I think was right.
I still don't really know what I am. War thinks I'm an angel, and that seems the closest to the truth, all things considered. I hear the prayers of the faithful every day and night, though I've learned how to tune out all but the most desperate. I've carried the stigmata of their suffering. I can heal with a touch, be they man, woman, or preternormal. I've struck out against creatures of darkness with something I can only call a divine light, a power that burned in my blood like the wrath of God Himself.
And at least one god has deferred to me and shown me respect.
But I still have no memories of my childhood before I came to live at the orphanage. I don't remember parents, or if I simply sprang into being. San Pascualito said that I had "reclaimed my grace" when I stopped Christian Beauclair's devilish plans; that "the gates" were open to me again, but what did that even mean? How had I lost my "grace"? Why were the gates, presumably of Heaven, closed to me prior to that moment?
If I was a fallen angel, why had I fallen in the first place?
Mona set a steaming cup of coffee before me and a glass of ice water across from it with a smile. "Hope your beau hasn't caught some big case," she said, noticing my fidgeting movements with my watch. "He's never stood you up before."
"I'm sure he's on the way," I said. "War always has a good reason when he's late."
The door opened with a jingle from the overhead bell and a blast of glacial air. Mona turned and I looked up -- but it wasn't War. It was a young man in a rumpled black coat and a crooked tie, a pencil tucked over his ear and a half-gone cigarette clamped between his lips. His black hair was wild from the wind; there was no sign of a hat in either hand. He looked familiar, but I didn't immediately place him.
"Hello, honey," Mona said, bustling forward and snatching up a menu from the wire basket by the counter. "Just you tonight?"
The cigarette rolled from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Yeah."
"Coffee? Or would you rather tea?"
"Coffee, thanks." He was staring at me, rather obviously so, and I looked away sharply. I was used to men looking at me -- I knew I was pretty, and that men found my blonde hair, fair skin, and full breasts alluring. Ever since the latter had developed when I was fourteen, I'd resented how men viewed my body, hating my appearance in no small degree for the indignities it brought me. All the leers, catcalls, groping hands, and the outright threats of violence. If I'd only been plainer, perhaps they would have left me in peace. (But then, often simply being female was enough -- before Mr. Bjørnson and War, I'd had very little reason to have a higher opinion of men, sadly.)
A dark blur in my peripheral and the squeak of the bench opposite mine made me look up again, this time with a flash of outright anger. The stranger had actually sat down across from me; the sloppy grin he wore would've been boyish if not for the dark stubble on his chin and cheeks, the equally dark hair I could see beneath the open collar and askew tie. "Hiya," he said, thrusting out a hand as if he hadn't just intruded on my personal space. "How are ya?"
"I'd be better if you took another seat," I said coldly. "That one is reserved."
"I don't see anyone else," he said, after a mock glance around the room, lifting his thick eyebrows. "I'll just keep it warm until they get back."
"I don't wish to speak with you," I persisted, unwilling to give any quarter. A man like this, you give him an inch and he'd try to pin you to the floor.
"But I've been wanting to speak to you for a while. You're Nora Donovan, aren't you? Rising star at Waddington and Bjørnson. Talk of the courts these last couple of weeks. And word on the grapevine is that you're shacked up with Warrenwick Gam. That true?"
"That's none of your damn business," I flared. "Who are you?"
"Cary Callahan. I write for the paper."
"I know the name." I've heard Virgil shout it often enough, usually just before he ripped, smashed, or cracked something. War didn't have a high opinion of him either, so I'd made a point of avoiding any articles that had his name in the byline.
"So you've heard of me?" he grinned. Cocky and arrogant, that was obvious.
"Nothing good, I assure you." His grin waned somewhat -- that took a little of the wind out of his sails. "As I said, I don't wish to speak to you."
"Oh, but hear me out, please," he adopted a wheedling tone, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, pulling the pencil from his ear and digging a dog-eared flip-top notebook from his inner jacket pocket. "I've been trying to get an interview with you for over two weeks now--"
"Funny. Usually when someone wants to talk with me, they set up an appointment or call the office. They don't corner me in a diner. ...Have you been following me?" That would explain why I'd so often felt as if I was being watched since I started working days; the unshakeable sensation that my footsteps were echoed wherever I went.
"I prefer talking to people off the cuff, without any warning. I find that when you give people warning, that gives them time to rehearse answers and hide any skeletons -- but then you wouldn't have any skeletons to hide, would you, Miss Donovan?"
The way he said it, bright blue eyes fixed on mine, made me uneasy. I didn't, of course, have anything salacious I wanted hidden. I had never lied or passed myself off as something I wasn't; the only acts of violence I had ever committed were done in self defense and wholly justifiable. But something about Callahan's smirking expression, a touch gleeful and knowing, was unsettling.
"Is this man bothering you, Nora?" Mona asked, abruptly looming over the table with a near-boiling-hot pot of coffee in one hand and my plate in the other. "Say the word and Louis'll be more than happy to throw him out."
"Is that any way to treat a paying customer?" Callahan said sharply, lifting his cup to his lips. "I'll have the number three, by the way. Hold the onions."
"I can handle myself, Mona," I said finally. "Thanks."
She gave me a dubious look, but the couple in the far corner were signaling for her. As soon as she had moved out of earshot, Callahan lowered his coffee. "What a right old battle-axe you have guarding you," he said. "I thought young ladies no longer needed chaperones to move about the world freely."
For a fraction of a moment, I thought of the derringer in my purse: another gift from War. He'd given it to me when I'd started working days, when I would no longer be near either him or Mr. Bjørnson. It had been a comfort, knowing I had that option should my safety be threatened in this sprawling city. There couldn't always be a memo spike handy when a man pushed his intentions.
"Mr. Callahan, if you think you'll get any grist for your rumor-mill from me, you're mistaken. I can share nothing with you that would be of any interest to you or your readers."
"I highly doubt that, Miss Donovan. Were you aware that Mr. Gam and Mr. Meriweather were the first openly preter detective agency in our fair city? They opened their door not more than five years after the Revelation; before the Chaney and Stoker Laws went into effect, even. Very brave of them. I've done some digging -- metaphorical, mind you, though I'm sure that with some preters all the really juicy stuff would require an actual shovel -- and from what I've determined, they've solved over three thousand cases in the last forty-five years. Three thousand!" He whistled. "Doubt even the NYPD can boast that sort of record, and that with just the pair of them. That's several hundred criminals put behind bars and thousands of dollars recovered. And then there was the Strop Sisters case just a couple months back -- but then, weren't you there, yourself? You and Mr. Gam were already an item by then, weren't you?"
"My relationship with Mr. Gam is not open to discussion."
"Ah, but it really should be. Considering what you are, and all."
"What I am?" I echoed blankly.
"See, I was there at the Strop trial. Sitting in the back row with a couple other rag-men, taking copious notes and sweating like a pig. I saw the would-be-assassin try to gun down The Howling Hyena, and that professor take the bullet instead. And I saw you -- with your pretty curls and distinctive rose -- take that bullet right out of his shoulder somehow. I saw the golden light and how his wound healed unnaturally fast even for a preter. And I said to myself, 'Cary, that is the real story. Forget the trial -- you've gotta find out more about that mystery woman.' And, after a lot of digging, here I am. Talking to a bona fide angel."
"I've heard about your views, Mr. Callahan," I said. "I know how you feel about preters. So why are you so eager to speak to one now?"
"Angels are hardly fangs or furs," the reporter said earnestly. "You're a divine being. Holy. Them? The bloodsuckers and animal-men, the mutants and the freaks? They're monsters. Created by the devil, not God. And it pains me, Miss Donovan, it really and truly pains me, to see you consorting with one of them. If I were in your place, I'd be afraid of losing my grace again, being so frequently in the company of something so profane."
"Profane?" I said, voice rising alongside my anger, unable to keep my emotions in check. "If you want profanity, Mr. Callahan, I'm more than happy to give it to you. I don't need or want your sanctity and prejudice; I don't want to hear your fucking opinions about my personal life. And I am not going to be the subject of another anti-preter newspaper piece with your goddamned name attached to it -- if I see any reference to myself or Mr. Gam in any of your forthcoming articles, I will have my employer slap you with a libel suit big enough to make the newspaper drop you completely. Do I make myself clear?"
The silence in the diner was ringing. Every pair of eyes was fixed on my table. I'd risen from my seat in the middle of my diatribe and now loomed over the young journalist; he stared up at me with a mixture of surprise and trepidation, and I could only guess what he was seeing, though I felt hot enough for there to be actual brimstone glowing in my eyes. He swallowed slowly, as if with effort, and tucked his notepad back into his pocket.
"I see that I've upset you. That wasn't my intention."
"Try harder in the future," I said through gritted teeth.
He took out a wallet and left a wrinkled bill on the table -- and a yellowed business card. "I sincerely would like to talk to you, Miss Donovan," he said in a much more subdued tone. "Off the record. I swear. Just think about it, please. I think I can help you find some answers -- about where you came from. Journalists are good at finding answers, and I'm good at what I do."
"That's a matter of opinion," I muttered. "Please leave, Mr. Callahan."
He stood. Straightened his wrinkled coat. Popped a fresh cigarette between his lips and nodded at me, hands miming a tipping hat. He'd just reached the door when it swung open with another jingle and accompaniment of cold air -- and stopped short.
"Evening, detective," he said. "I was just on my way out."
"Glad to hear it," War said in a flat voice, face as smooth and emotionless as a statue's. He stepped aside and waved an arm meaningfully; Callahan pushed past without another word, gaze fixed on the ground.
War's dark eyes turned to me and his expression thawed. "Judging by the look on your face," he said quietly, striding towards me. "You were his target tonight. Are you alright?"
"Fine," I said, taking a steadying breath. "Pissed off and offended, but fine." There was a handsome young man in a linen suit shadowing War's steps, an immense book in his arms; if I didn't know any better, I'd swear it was part of a set I'd seen a hundred times before in Mr. Bjørnson's office. "Who's this?"
"Nora, this is my new client, Pharaoh Khasekhem. Khasekhem, this is Nora Donovan."
The man bowed deeply with an incongruent creak. "It is an honor, Miss Donovan. Your almost-husband has been exceedingly kind to me tonight."
"'Almost-husband'?" I repeated, smiling.
"Khasekhem is still learning English turns of phrase," War said quickly, stooping to kiss my cheek and brush an errant curl over my ear. The slightest and most mundane of gestures, but the way his fingertips and lips caressed my skin made them infinitely poignant. War could be a hard and dangerous man -- I had seen him in action several times over the past year -- but with me he was unceasingly gentle. There was a softness he displayed around me that made my heart skip; even in the throes of passion he made it obvious that his foremost thoughts were always of me and my comfort. "Please, Khasekhem, have a seat."
While the strange Pharaoh set his book down on the table and began the surprisingly complicated movements necessary to slide across the opposite bench, I edged further down mine to give War the space to sit beside me. His left arm promptly fitted itself along the back of the booth, over my shoulders. "You're sure you're okay?" he whispered in my ear.
"We can talk about it later," I murmured, somewhat transfixed by the awkwardness of the stranger across from us. "So you're a Pharaoh, Mr. Khasekhem? I didn't think Egypt had pharaohs any more."
"They do not, sadly," he said when he had finally settled. "Perhaps the country would be better regulated if the practice had continued. But I have been informed that the Romans are to blame, with their conquering empire." The way he spoke lent it the air of a fresh grudge and bitter grievance.
"Though that did happen several hundred years ago," I said, hoping to placate.
"When you have reached my age, Miss Donovan, the past is closer than the present."
"Khasekhem is a mummy," War explained. "He ruled over four thousand years ago, and woke up last month thanks to an enterprising archaeologist. The new exhibit at the museum came courtesy of his tomb."
"No courtesy at all," Khasekhem continued, still bitterly.
"Peder's going to do his best to get Khasekhem's case brought before the court," my man continued. "We just left him, actually."
"Oh! Then you're in excellent hands, Mr. Khasekhem. Mr. Bjørnson is an incredible lawyer. You can put your full faith in him."
"Yes, between Peder and Mr. Gam here, I feel more than adequate to face the challenge. Which comes as a very great relief to me, Miss Donovan, after all of the trials and tribulations I have already faced." He looked to War, with a crooked, tight-lipped smile. "She is just as you described, Mr. Gam. A very lovely woman indeed."
"He was curious about you," War said quickly, like some bashful schoolboy.
"Well, so long as you're saying nice things, I won't mind you gossiping about me to your clients." I belatedly remembered my plate of food, which had gone stone cold in all of the hubbub. "Louis? I'm sorry, but can I have another order? I'll pay for both, of course. Mr. Khasekhem, is there anything--"
"Oh, no, no, thank you," he said. "I cannot. I haven't the ability."
I remembered a book I'd come across at the public library years ago as a girl; I had worked my way through the gods of Norse, Celtic, and Greek mythology in search of interesting stories to draw, and had stumbled onto a book about ancient Egypt. And there was an entire pantheon of incredible figures, half-man and half-beast, infinitely more interesting to draw than the purely human-shaped deities of Norse and Greek legend. I read about the scales every soul was weighed upon, to determine whether the sins in the heart were heavier than a single feather. The vicious story of Set and Osiris' rivalry, and how the latter's wife had been forced to gather up his dismembered body in order to give birth to their son Horus. It had all been so fascinating; the Egyptians had a very different view of death and the afterlife.
The way they removed the organs, for example, before mummification. There must be no feasting in the Egyptian afterlife, as there was in the Norse and Celtic. No doubt such steps aided in the preservation process, since fleshy material was more likely to rot or attract pests. They stored the removed parts in things called canopic jars, I remembered. But then... If the mummy awoke, he would naturally be lacking those pieces.
No wonder he couldn't drink or eat.
Mona brought me a fresh plate, topped up my cup, and paused long enough to ask after War's health. Khasekhem explained the circumstances of his arrival in the city, his conflict with the archaeologist Colin Davenport, and how indebted he was to War and Mr. Bjørnson. I inquired after the objects the museum currently held -- did they have his canopic jars? How horrible, for strangers to claim ownership over bits of your very body! -- and was even so brave as to venture a question about his gods. Had the stories passed down over generations been accurate? Were the paintings and hieroglyphics apt depictions?
"Nora is an artist," War said. "She likes to capture truth in her art."
"Truly, they are more impressive than any man could ever hope to capture," Khasekhem said wistfully. "Now that I am back in this world, I find that my recollections of them have dimmed somewhat. Perhaps on this plane, they cannot be fully understood or recognized. But yes, they are like the old reliefs and statues. Forms that are neither man nor beast, but hybrids, the divine essences of each. They speak and I hear the flooding of the Nile every spring, the bellows of the crocodiles on its banks, the piercing cries of the ibises at dawn and the jackal at night. It is an overwhelming experience, to be regarded by such powerful beings. Both blinding and eye-opening: a blessed contradiction. And then there were the messengers."
"Messengers?" I dipped my forkful of pancakes into the pool of syrup.
"The scribes and messengers of the gods, beings that were apart from both them and we mortal souls. They looked human, but had no eyes -- or rather, their eyes were glowing golden orbs that radiated light. My Lord Osiris told me that they were the ones responsible for mankind knowing the truth of the divine. They passed it to men in their dreams and visions. It was through them that we knew the shapes and stories of the gods, that we learned the magic necessary to usher the royal line into the presence of divinity. They were incredible to behold, beautiful and mysterious, for they never spoke to me or my family. They only served the gods; with us they were deaf and mute. Though one did -- I think you would like them, Miss Donovan," Khasekhem said abruptly. "For they are artists, too. The most incredible artists I have ever beheld. I saw one paint across a pond, in colors more vibrant than I ever saw in life, and I swear to you the image moved and spoke as if a living thing."
"Sounds like a film," War said. "That's something you should see, Khasekhem. A moving picture, down at the Grand Cinema. Though most of them aren't in color."
"The more I hear about this modern world, the more surprised I am. It seems that science has advanced to the point where it is indistinguishable from magic, and yet magic is practiced so openly now, without condemnation."
"Well, mostly," War said cynically.
"Your experiences are just remarkable, Mr. Khasekhem," I said. "If the city heard your story, I'm sure public sentiment regarding the exhibit would sway to your side in no time. You know, with all of the advertising the museum's been doing, if you got a reporter to run your story, that would really get people talking."
"Though you'll want to be choosy with the reporter you talk to," War said meaningfully. "I'm sure Peder would know a trustworthy one to approach. We'll have to bring that up, in our next war meeting."
"Oh, yes."
"Nora, did you need anything else?" Mona called, leaning over the counter. "I just pulled an apple crumble out of the oven, for the pie case, if you'd like a slice."
"Oh, no, thank you, I'm quite full. One last cup of coffee and I'll be good to go."
"I apologize," Khasekhem said, guilt flashing across his face. "I have monopolized your meal. I will excuse myself now -- is there anything else you need from me tonight, Mr. Gam?"
"I think it's best if we give Bjørnson time to get the wheels in motion. I'll look into Colin Davenport on my own -- swing by my office again tomorrow around eight, and we'll pick things up then."
"Thank you again, Mr. Gam. And it was a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Donovan. Good evening to you both."
It took him another awkward moment to extricate himself from the booth -- it seemed his joints didn't wish to cooperate -- and he bowed again before taking up the large book and hurrying out of the diner.
"What an interesting man and what a sad story," I said, as War took the seat he had vacated and sipped at the glass of water. "He moves like a puppet whose strings have gotten tangled."
"That face you see is only a glamour. Beneath it he's still bandage-wrapped and in danger of falling to pieces. It's amazing that he's stayed in one piece, all of the traveling he's done. Those Egyptian priests definitely knew how to make things last."
"I'm glad you and Mr. Bjørnson have taken on his case -- the poor man."
"Yes, well, enough about my case for right now." His hand slid across the table to cover mine. "You said earlier tonight that you wanted to talk about something."
What with the sly Cary Callahan and the despondent Pharaoh, things had flown right out of my head. "Oh, yes, I did... Perhaps that should wait for later, after you get home."
"I'm running down a couple things on the archaeologist and then I'll be straight home," he promised earnestly. "Just give me another hour, maybe two."
"Dear, take as much time as you need," I reassured. "This can wait, and your client has waited far too long as it is."
"I hope Callahan didn't -- he wasn't a total ass to you, was he?"
He thinks I'm sleeping with a devil and in danger of being smote by Heaven for it, I thought ruefully. I didn't want to tell him that the reporter must have been tailing me for the better part of a week or two; or that he'd reasoned out what I was after the Strop trial. "He told me you and Virg were the first preters to open a detective agency in the city. Is that true?"
"Yes, and our first office was firebombed three weeks after we opened. But that sort of thing stopped after the preter legislation went through a few years later."
"And you've really closed over three thousand cases?"
"I want to know just how in the hell Callahan finds this shit out," War muttered. "Who's been talking to him? And why are we suddenly in his crosshairs?"
"Well, it was only a matter of time, don't you think? Given how he's been working his way through the preter ranks for months now. And you and Virgil don't always manage to stay under the radar. Don't worry," I added, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles. "I made it blatantly obvious that I wouldn't give him the time of day or feed him any tidbits for his nasty articles. And if he persists in pestering me, I've always got the derringer."
War laughed at that, his typically solemn face brightening. God, but I loved it when he smiled and laughed. He looked so much younger and more carefree. "Thatta girl," he said approvingly. "Not that I'm endorsing murder, mind you, but in this case I'm pretty sure we could talk the judge into self-defense or simple manslaughter. You'd be doing a public service, after all."
He paused, smile waning but still there. "I'm glad you're back on nights," he said finally, quietly. "It's selfish of me--"
"Selfish? No."
"Yes, it is," he insisted. "Sugar, don't tell me you haven't enjoyed seeing the city when it's bright and warm. When there are normal people on the streets and everything's open."
"War, I've been working night shifts for so long, that's what feels normal," I said honestly. "Sunlight may be nice in small doses, but I'd rather have you."
He blinked at me, forehead furrowing. He felt guilty because he thought he was keeping me away from something I loved; he was surprised that I loved him more. War still didn't think he was good enough for me. There were moments when I'd turn and catch him staring at me with the saddest expression -- a mixture of awe and wistful longing -- and I knew he must be thinking, She's an angel. And I'm a murderer. Why does she stay with me? And no matter how many times I reassured him, no matter how many times I told him I loved him, a part of him would never be convinced.
It was so hard to put it into words he'd believe. He knew about my past, about the roughshod treatment I'd suffered, but he still couldn't truly accept the fact that he was the best thing that had ever happened to me. He hadn't just saved my life when I tried to throw it away -- he gave me hope, he gave me support, he gave me strength. Because of War I knew who I was; I'd found a purpose and calling. I knew what it was to feel joy because of him, after a lifetime of only knowing fear and worry and want.
"War?" I said, leaning over the table, hesitating just shy of a kiss. "You're an idiot sometimes."
"Only sometimes?" His breath was hot on my lips.
"Mmm-hmm. And we're gonna talk about it more later, when you're done working."
"Damn -- what time is it?"
"Just past one."
"I'll be home by three. Promise," he swore.
"I'm counting the minutes."
He kissed me, short and quick and hot, and then he was gone.
"That man can move when he wants to," Mona said from the counter, where she was sitting on a stool and smoking a cigarette, as the door banged shut behind him.