Jeremiah Quick (31 page)

She felt him come, not just the grunt that
rolled through his chest, but the heavy urgent squirt from his
cock.

He let her shower after that, while he put
the bloody sheets in the wash and wiped down the mattress.

The shower.

How much she took such a simple pleasure for
granted – the unwinding of bandages, the normalcy of standing
beneath a fine, warm, stinging spray. It was the first shower she'd
taken alone since arriving here, and it was lovely, despite the
fact that her body was so terribly wounded that every droplet hurt,
and the very thought of soap was terrifying. She grit her teeth and
braved shampoo and conditioner, though, because she could feel
there was blood clumped in her hair. Whatever was in his liquid
fire seemed to do something to the cuts to stop them bleeding. The
edge of the wounds were white, the wounds themselves dry. She
patted herself dry and was so languorous and content that she
practically floated back out to him.

He was waiting for her, with a leather belt
and a pair of cuffs.

Her eyes took in this information, but her
head refused to process. Surely he wasn't going to beat her?

But no. The belt was for wearing not
beating, and snugged uncomfortably against the raw skin of her
waist. The cuffs clicked closed around her wrists, and Jeremiah
used simple double-ended snap clips to attach loops on the cuffs to
loops on the belt. "No hands," he said. "Just for a while."

Pretty stood still and quiet while he
twisted her hair into a braid, and she wondered about that, for the
Nth time – under what circumstance his fingers had learned to weave
these patterns in hair.

He patted the mattress, which was covered
with wet towels that smelled like his citrus solution. "Lie down,
Sunshine."

He draped a citrus-soaked sheet over her

The sting and burn was familiar now, no
longer a shock, not even that first instant, and she didn't react.
She saved her energy for scarier things, for when he changed this
game.

She relaxed into the pain, letting it flow
into her, warm her, comfort her.

He wouldn’t let her escape it. He wouldn't
let her escape any of it. The only thing she could do was surrender
to it and let it have her.

"Just a little while more, " Jeremiah
said.

"But why no hands?" Pretty asked.

"Because without them, you have to let me take care
of you. And that's what I want. I also want you, eventually,
desperate for use of them again. Now hush. I have more to tell
you."

Chapter 39

S
he.

She is perfect.

My glyph – my message to the world.

She comes out of the bathroom still damp,
looking relaxed, and even smiling a little.

She hardly whines when I lay a cloth soaked
in citrus over her. I can see from the rigid line of her body that
it hurts her, but I also see the moment when gives herself up to
it.

She seems to be done crying. I wonder how
long that will last.

It's time for the rest about Jamie. The
rest, and the end.

I take her hands away because I can't bear
for her to touch or hug me, not now, not while I tell her this
part.

I take a deep breath, because this is going
to be the hardest story of all to tell.

Chapter 40

I
wanted to get
Jamie something special. I knew it would take too long, but he'd
been feeling sick, and I wanted him to smile. Driving over an hour
and back for his most favorite caramel rolls was ridiculous, and
would get him laughing at me, because he'd know that after he
enjoyed one thoroughly, I'd bitch for the rest of the day about how
I'd traveled over hill and dale, through snow and sleet, to bring
him this wondrous treat. And yes, I'd even make rhymes. For him
alone, I would make rhymes.

I'd whine and moan and milk this favor
all day
, and by suppertime he'd be dissolving in giggles.
All of this would be part of the fun of it, part of the charm.

But the second I got out of the car, bakery
bag in hand, I knew something was wrong. There was this freaked out
nervy sensation at the back of my neck – not at all subtle, but
screaming.

I thought
What, a bear?
And studied
the yard, the tree line. Because sometimes the hinky
back-of-the-neck feeling comes from something fairly obvious, an
intruder or even a pending weather system – a difference that makes
the birds go quiet and the air go still.

I couldn't see anything obvious. The house
looked normal. And from where I stood, thirty yards or so away, the
dungeon building appeared undisturbed.

It was late morning, early summer. The sun
was shining and the sky was blue. There were wisps of clouds in the
sky, the ones that remind me of childhood and long summer days
following the creek or sitting on a rock teasing minnows with my
toes. The only times I ever felt safe and content - when I
disappeared to the nature park for hours on my own.

But the sun and the sky and the clouds
couldn't dispel this ominous neck prickle.

If I had to put a name to what I was
feeling, it would be… emptiness.

I went into the house and set the bag of
caramel rolls on the counter. I'd planned to warm them up, but all
my Spidey senses were telling me to go find Jamie. I turned to
leave the kitchen and saw a letter on the table. The letter was
addressed to James Summerfield. It confirmed an appointment with a
doctor a month from now. When I picked up the letter, there was a
pamphlet underneath.

The pamphlet was from the CDC.
Living
with HIV/AIDS
.

Oh, Jamie.

I yelled his name.

I went from one room to the next, calling
for him, begging him to answer me. I had to comfort him, tell him
we'd get through this, that it was no big deal. Surely I was
infected, too. Scenes flashed through my head – condoms and safe
sex? Never. Not with him. Neither of us had ever been able to
tolerate any barrier of any kind between us. No. We were one
flesh.

Had I considered that if one of us had HIV,
the other would very likely get it? Of course I had. You didn't
play with blood and other body fluids without being aware. We were
enmeshed. I wanted it that way.

We'd be well together, or sick together, it
made no difference.

When I went out the back door, his name was
coming out of my throat in one long, never-ending scream.

And by the time I ran across the yard and
hit the door to the dungeon, I had no voice left, just dread and
fear and
please no please no please no please
.

He was there.

His particular scent hit me the second I
pushed open the door, and relief went through me in a rush, so
visceral and real, that I can't even describe it. Like air rushing
out of a balloon, or getting the chance to urinate after holding it
for way too long. It was a physical sagging, this feeling, a whoosh
as fear drained out of every part of me.

It was dark. The only light came from
bathroom, where the door was hanging open an inch.

I skirted dungeon furniture by memory and
pushed the door open all the way. My heart, which had been
hammering so hard it hurt my chest, was silent and still for this
one long moment.

He wouldn't… no, he wouldn't…

The bathroom was bright, fully
illuminated.

And empty.

I turned a full circle to be sure.

I couldn't have articulated what I'd been
afraid to find.

More relief.

I walked more slowly back to the door, to
the light switch.

I expected to see him waiting in the cage or
bent over the spanking bench, wiggling in a sort of dreaded
anticipation for what was to come.

He'd be… humiliated and embarrassed, but
mostly he'd be terrified for the future. He'd be waiting for me to
take control, to punish him for bringing me this information, and
then to absolve him, and he'd need me to reassure him that whatever
this meant, this HIV thing, we would face it together, and
everything would be okay.

I never expected to see him hanging from the
rafters.

Chapter 41

"N
o. No. Oh
no."

Pretty whimpered the words, struggling to
sit up, needing her hands free so she could touch him, hold him.
Oh, Jeremiah.

He was sitting on the mattress beside her,
rigid. His face was tilted up, staring at the rafters, at the scrap
of black cloth hanging there.

Neither her muscles nor her skin were happy
about the effort it took to sit up, but that was the least
important detail in the world; she had to be close to him. He'd
prevented her from wrapping her arms around him with the fucking
belt and cuffs, but she was upright and swinging her legs down,
pushing her toes against the floor to scoot close enough to him
that she could lean her head against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said,
because she could think of nothing else.

He wrapped his arms around her, and leaned
his forehead against the side of her head. His breath came in
stuttering hitches as he spoke a strangled whisper into her ear.
"He did that. Left me like that. And most of the time I still can't
believe it. This can't be real."

He started rocking.

"My Sunshine Boy. The only one who ever
filled me all the way up, and he left like that,
like that
.
As if he'd sat down and considered which way, of all the ways he
could leave me, that would destroy me the most."

"No," Pretty murmured, letting her lips
brush the side of his face. "No. He wasn't thinking at all. He was
terrified, horrified. Lost."

"I'd have found him, if he'd have given me
the chance. I told him I'd never let him fall, and he didn't
believe me. He left. And he took all my tears."

And then his whole body heaved, and he was
wracked with sobs, and Pretty felt the wetness of tears, and
because she was almost crying herself, she didn't realize
immediately that they were his own.

After what felt like a long time, he took in
a deep breath and said, "I righted the table and tried to hold him
up, praying to every god I'd ever heard of to let him be alive. At
some point I remembered I had a knife sheathed to my belt. I sawed
through the scarf, lowering him carefully, carefully to the
tabletop, telling him, over and over and over
never let you fall
never let you fall never never never let you fall
…

"Do you understand, Pretty, why I need you
to be Dark for me? Just for a little while? Please. I know it's too
much to ask of anyone. I know this. But I have no one else. Of the
Three, you're the only one left. I can't stay here anymore. I need
to go home."

The shock she experienced then, when she
knew,
knew
, what he was asking… was colder than a blast of
snow down the back of her shirt at the same time it was a spark
hotter than molten glass. Was uglier, even, than the fact that it
was entirely possible Chill died because she was too selfish to
spare a few minutes a month. Uglier than walking away from her
family and
into
this
.

"Oh… no no no no. Jeremiah. Please don't ask
this."

He pulled away, just enough to raise his
head and look her in the eyes. "I
am
asking."

She sagged against him, letting the horror
course through her nerves, her brain, feeling it twist her guts and
roll her stomach like a cliché of Jamie rolling in his grave.
Surely Jamie didn't want her to do this.

Once there was a beautiful boy, the most
beautiful boy in the world…

And then she heard it, inside her head, a
voice, not her voice. And not Jeremiah's, either.

Jamie's voice.

"And that boy, he made the most terrible
mistake…"

The gasp came out of her like an explosion,
and the pain that welled up behind it was so big Pretty had
difficulty comprehending it, much less putting it in to actual
words that made sense. Like a giant bubble made of all her blood
and all her tears and all her every living thing, and it rose up
from her center and slammed into her throat, pushed against her
voice box, the back of her tongue, the backs of her teeth, until it
tore loose in a torrent of sobs.

She fought the cuffs that kept her hands at
her waist, and it didn't do any good, so she bent forward until she
was staring at the floor between her feet, almost falling off the
side of the bed, and let the bubble of grief and fear and dread
pour out her mouth like screaming vomit.

She didn't know how long it went on.

His arms were around her, pulling her upper
body against his.

Rocking.

His lips tickling the outer curve of her
ear, saying something she was too upset to hear.

Her ears were ringing.

"I can't, I can't, I can't," she protested,
letting him comfort her.

"Shh. We'll ritualize it, make it
beautiful."

She shuddered, somehow both leaning into him
and fighting him, all in the tangle of that moment.

He took her face in his hands. "I'm sorry.
But it's you. I tried, I can't even tell you how hard I tried for
it not to be you. I searched for a year, positive it had to be
someone else.

"Lilith, Eve, the Goddess,
my mother. I didn't want it to be you. I promise you, I tried to
avoid this. But they were all stupid and vapid, only pretending to
be open, faking their lack of skepticism. They never
really
listened.

"You, you've always been open to me, so
wide-eyed and willing to listen, willing to learn. So of course it
has to be you. There's no one else it can be."

She wished she could comfort him. She wanted
to be wide-eyed and willing to learn from him. It had always been
so.