Eyes Shut’s smile was that of someone with a secret.
6
Woken by a sudden shifting of shadows. A vague awareness of a figure. A sound like a thousand soft gunshots. Dreamt he’d gone down the hole behind the station’s curtain. Into the underground. Found the gray caps there. Sleeping on their sides. Heads down like resting silverfish. Heretic and the skery lying peacefully on a mattress made of curling ferns. Finch went to join them and immediately exploded into spores. Was everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Finch had a headache. Mouth felt thick. The sound: a thunderous rain. A woman knelt in the gloom beside his bed.
“Sintra.”
The sharp smell of grass and water on her skin. Wanted to fall into her. Hold her like he was holding on to Bliss as they fell into darkness. Not caring in that moment what Rathven had told him.
But couldn’t decipher the look on her face. Somewhere between watchful and sad. Made him hold back.
“I could’ve been anyone,” she said. “You’re too trusting.”
Teasing: “But you’re not anyone.”
Sintra rose and dropped something onto the bed. He picked it up. The extra key to his apartment.
“Keep it.” Offered it back to her.
“No,” she said.
Frowned, kept holding it out to her. “It’s yours. Not mine.” Disturbed by her now. Calm disrupted. There are doors and there are doors.
“Someone broke into your apartment,” she said. “I don’t want you to think it was me. Keep the key. Maybe I’ll take it back later.”
Finch turned on the lamp next to the bed. Could see her clearly. A white blouse that revealed the curve of her breasts. Black pants that ended in stylish boots she must have bought long ago. Over that, a deep green trench coat ending at the knee. And still that expression on her face. Almost grim. Almost frowning.
Lowered his arm. The key felt cold and small in his palm. Made him weak to think of her without it.
“Are you sure?” Couldn’t risk more than that.
“Yes,” she said. Folded her arms.
He got up. Reached out to touch her hair. She pulled back.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to stay here,” she said. “I want to go out.” Not looking at him.
So this was how it would go down. What could he do but let her.
“Okay, so we’ll go out, then.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. As if suddenly undecided. Thought he understood. But he felt reckless. They’d only gone out twice before.
“I want to.” And he did. Wanted to be out in the world. Even if that world was completely fucked up.
“I can go out by myself.”
Touched her face with one finger, to brush aside a strand of hair. To feel the softness of her cheek. Brought her close. Kissed her on the forehead.
“Let me get some clothes on. We’ll go. Wherever you want to go.” No matter how far.
Wouldn’t burden her with the details of his day. Wyte erupting from ruins of his own dissolution to save them both. The mad charge to safety. The “snow” falling on them both. A whole world of torment he wanted to leave behind.
“We’ll go wherever you want to go,” he said again, from the bedroom as he dressed. Savagely. Like he didn’t care. Putting it on her. Apartment wasn’t safe anyway. A solid wall could become a portal. A man could die and keep dying for a hundred years.
Came back out and made a show of sticking his Lewden in its holster. Put his arm around her, despite the pain in his shoulder. Opened the door. Feral shot out through the gap and was gone.
Made a show, too, of locking the door behind them with Sintra’s key.
“You look rested,” she said as they went down the stairs. “That’s good.”
Didn’t feel rested. Not anymore.
* * *
Sintra: “There’s a black market party tonight. We’ll go to that. I know the way. There will be signs.”
An urgency to the night. A dangerous pace to it. In the sky at some distance: the green towers, lit up like a glistening festival display. They rose impossibly high. In another city, at another time, that stained, blurry light might have seemed romantic.
The rain made it difficult to look for signs that didn’t look like signs. A line of white paint in the gutter. A sudden fracture of light from a door. A muttered phrase from a drunk collapsed on a corner. At night, only about half the streetlamps worked. But all across the skyline phosphorescence draped and bled and hazed in and hazed out again. Ragged groups of camp refugees were gray smudges. A smoke smell, and a strong whiff of acidic perfume that came from a blossoming fungus like a light blue wineglass. No umbrellas. They looked too much like mushroom caps.
They huddled in awnings. Ran across open courtyards. Hugged the sides of buildings. Splashed through puddles. Loosened up enough to laugh about it. Like kids. Like the Rising had never happened. Like she’d never returned the key.
They crossed a bridge over a canal. Lights from both sides careened and cascaded through the water rippling below. Stood there for a few minutes. The rain had let up. Came in waves now, with calm between. The night had turned cooler.
He took her hand. Took in her bedraggled hair, the way the rain had moistened her cheeks. Wanted her. Badly. While another part of him wanted to ask, “How did you know about Duncan Shriek?”
“It’s almost a normal night,” he said.
“What’s a normal night?” she asked. But she was smiling. A little.
“A night when my apartment isn’t trashed twice,” he said.
“What do you think they wanted?”
“Money, probably,” he said. Unable to look at her while he was lying.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I had a day like any other.” She smiled at him. Revealed near perfect teeth. Wondered again if the Dogghe skill with herbs helped.
Couldn’t take it anymore. “Sintra, what do you do?” Such a naked question. It split the air like a thunderclap.
She studied him. The light from the canal reflected in her eyes. Anything from rotted leaves to dead bodies could lie at the bottom.
“I could be anyone, John,” she said. “I could be someone you wouldn’t like very much.”
“I might have a better idea than you think.”
“No. You don’t. What if I have three children? What if I’m a trained assassin? What if I’m a prostitute?” In one swift motion: she had his gun and was pointing it at him. “What if I’m somebody who wants you dead?”
Took a step back, had his hands out in front of him. Too surprised to do more.
But a flick of her wrist and she was offering the Lewden back to him, grip-first. While his heart dealt with it.
“Point made,” he said. Taking it. Swallowing. Hard.
“Maybe I should tell you I’m a spy for the rebels. I think that’s what you’d like me to say, isn’t it? But why does it matter. Why now?”
“I don’t know,” Finch said. Except he did. She’d given back the key. While everything was falling down around him.
They stood facing each other. Like friends, or enemies.
“What do you want to know?” she asked. “And why?”