Powers (38 page)

“No, she won’t. It’s mine now, by right of conquest. All her lands and cattle and slaves belong to me.”

She wriggled a bit more in his arms, nestling her butt warm and muscular against his groin, and went to sleep.

So did he.

Light again. God only knew what day it was. And Mel wasn’t still lying next to him to say.

He sniffed the air. Something baking. Yeast bread—raisins, cinnamon, almonds, saffron. She’d been up for a while, if she’d had time for yeast bread. His nose told him
he
had time for a shower before the bread would be out of the oven and cool enough to slice.

She’d been there first. The towel rack held a second set of towels, still a little damp, that used to be Mother’s. Right of conquest again. She’d used his toothbrush. No problem. Any germs to share, they’d already shared them.

Silly question, that, but they’d both found out the hard way that some germs
could
bite them.

She’d gotten up and showered and been clattering around in the kitchen, without waking him. Either he had been really,
really
tired, or his subconscious really,
really
trusted her. Or both.

Anyway, he shaved—Mel hadn’t said yea or nay on a beard, but he wasn’t going to grow face-fuzz again until that librarian died or at least retired. No need to look even
more
like those memories . . . and he cleaned up the beard hairs and shaving cream and the rest, much neater than usual. Mel liked things tidy.

Dressing, he saw no sign of his old clothes—she’d followed up on her threat. Her coveralls and leotard and Kevlar vest and underwear lay in a neat stack in one corner, still dirty, waiting for him to tell her where the washing machine lived. He lifted his eyebrows at that—nude cooking could be hazardous to delicate parts of the anatomy. Especially since the aroma of frying bacon now mixed with the baking bread . . .

And not any kind of bacon he kept in the apartment. Maple sugar cured, maple wood smoked, he could smell the cost. He knew the shop and the smokehouse—excellent pork but he rarely scratched that itch. Other things he liked as much or more, that cost a lot less. Speaking of cost, he remembered that he hadn’t replaced the saffron, last time he’d used it up. Too damned expensive, for the amount he used it.

She’d been out shopping. Which upped the “nude” question by an order of magnitude.

Maybe she’d stepped outside of time to do it. Or, like Mother, she made the world conform to her own ideas of what was proper.

She’d left a neat array of weapons sitting on his dresser. Two Colt pistols, large and small, the third would be within her reach in the kitchen. That would be the one she’d carried on their quest, not the one he made Legion give back. She wouldn’t trust
that
one until she’d tested it on the range.

Next to the pistols, spare magazines. A wicked little serrated-edge knife with a flip blade. Machine forged stainless, but honest steel like her KaBar. Probably
not
for gutting alleged perpetrators in back alleys—for cutting seatbelts for rescue or escape, cutting tangled ropes and wires, that sort of thing. He hadn’t known she carried it.

And . . . the sword.

He stared at it while buttoning up his shirt. That sheath. He didn’t trust it, didn’t trust Legion. He floated his right palm above the sword hilt, above that gold decorating the sheath, above the black leather. He felt more to all of them than met the eye. He
knew
what the sword hilt was telling him. The rest . . .

It didn’t feel like a threat. Or even an invasion, not some kind of magical bug planted by Legion that would let the demon spy on them and control them from afar. He touched the gold. He touched the emerald. He’d wakened with a slight headache, no real bother, just the forge hangover. So familiar, he’d barely noticed it.

The headache vanished. The ache in his hip vanished, also an old acquaintance, background noise that told him he was still alive and moving when he woke up in the morning.

O . . . kay.

Trust, but verify.

He drew the blade. It slid out of the sheath’s throat as if it had been greased, but he could feel both the blade and the sheath agree on that. He was authorized. Step two okay.

The blade . . . it had a pale blue tinge on both edges, less than an eighth of an inch wide. He hadn’t done that. He touched one fingertip to the flat of the blade, not going anywhere near either edge. The steel told him it was fine, that the blue
was
metal, not some kind of poison or magic on the surface.

Killing Mother had changed the steel. It had become even harder, tougher, sharper. Sure of its own way. Anything that got in that way would die. It had taken on some of her character.

He winced at the thought. But those weren’t bad attributes in a sword. Just, not so good in people.

Last, he checked Legion’s gold coins—still hidden where he’d left them. Weight the same. Mother hadn’t taken them, which meant she hadn’t found them. And Legion hadn’t played a demon’s joke.

Mel was slicing the bread, fresh yeasty-sweet steam with a touch of saffron and sliced almonds rising with it, when he stopped in the kitchen doorway. Back to him, bent over the cutting board, she didn’t look up. She wasn’t nude. He recognized some of Mother’s less . . . aggressive . . . attire, loose gray velvet drawstring pants and a light blue silk top. With this type of clothing, it didn’t matter that the two women had rather different shapes. The outfit didn’t bare any controversial bits and was more or less opaque. While leaving the male eye—or female, if so inclined—with no doubt that those bits were there, in proper and enticing shape. No visible evidence of underwear.

Which made sense. Mother was shaped like an ancient fertility goddess. Her bra or panties—if she owned any—would have fallen right off Mel.

“You are a most peculiar man. Easier to wake you up for good food than for good sex.”

He thought about that. “Everything considered, all angles, food costs less in the long run.”

She straightened up and turned around. Lifted her right eyebrow. “If I’m available at all, I’m a cheap lay. No diamonds necessary.”

Albert grimaced. “That’s not the kind of cost I meant.”

“No. It isn’t.”

She turned back to the stove and shuffled some scrambled eggs. He saw flecks of red and green in the fluffy light yellow, and his nose identified them as three different peppers. One of which promised to bite back. Also, an artisan cheddar he couldn’t quite place. Should go well with the saffron bread. Whatever name and ethnicity it went by. And bacon.

Which was done. Precisely, according to his nose. Perfect timing again.

She dished food out and added a block of farmhouse butter from the refrigerator, another luxury he didn’t indulge. Orange juice. The bread, the bread, the bread, a low braided loaf baked on a sheet rather than in a bread pan, exquisite. Thick slices. Hot. Moist. Savory. The butter verged on gilding a lily. Except, it completed filling his senses. Texture as much as flavor.

“Need to get you to talk to my kitchen knives.” Mumbled around a mouthful of eggs. “They won’t slice bread this warm.” She swallowed, a concession to good manners, before going on. “Which reminds me. I felt you drawing the sword. Touching that . . . emerald. I’m not used to having a psychic shadow. What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?”

He shook his head and got up to slice the second loaf. Somehow, the first had vanished. “Whole bunch of things about this that I don’t understand. That sword is what it is. We forged it together. Some kind of wedding ring, or maybe a suicide pact. And we won’t know what Legion was up to with that sheath, for maybe a century or two. All I know is, it’s complicated. I
think
it was thanking us. Maybe.”

She’d joined him at the counter, switching on his coffee maker. New smells blossomed, fresh-ground Sumatran beans and cardamom. Sensory overload. More stuff she’d bought when she was out. Maybe second or third trip.

“How long?” He didn’t need to specify what he meant.

“Two days since I woke up. Hate to disappoint you, but I polished off all the leftover onion soup and sourdough. You missed out on braised garlic lamb shanks with new potatoes. Yummy.”

“I thought you said that good food would wake me up faster than good sex?”

She punched him in the ribs, hard enough to hurt. Those muscles again. “Teasing. Sex was last night. Won the race.”

She leaned over, still taller than him, and nipped his ear. “Good.”

But they went back to eating.

“Two days. You could have found the washing machine by now. Wouldn’t have to rummage through Mother’s closet and wear
her
idea of fashion.”

She took a sip of coffee. “Item the first: silly man, I
like
dressing up slinky-sexy like a damned expensive whore. I just haven’t had an excuse for it, last couple of centuries.” Pause for another sip. “Item the second: this is
your
apartment, and the former home of Bilqis of Sa’aba. I’m
not
poking around any more than necessary. I’m not just being polite—I remember those stairs. Very tricky. Bilqis had left a surprise or two in her room. Including one in that pillow.”

Mother. He’d learned, long ago, to stay out of her things. Which reminded him . . .

“Why didn’t she catch us earlier, before I finished the sword? Why wait until I
finished
it?”

Mel cocked her head to one side and squinted at him. Shook her head. “No, you wouldn’t know. You’re always on the inside.”

More coffee. Which was good. Albert savored another sip of his.

“That first night, way back when, I damn near had to sell my ass to Shaitan himself in order to follow you into your forge. Not just opening those locks. The doors didn’t lead anywhere. Like your power had moved the whole forge and cellar sideways into another world or a place outside of time. Turning the Seal into a sword, that stepped up to another level entirely. I don’t think Bilqis
could
enter the forge while you were working. Couldn’t enter the heart of another god’s power. Once you were done, the sword complete, the fire cold in the forge, then the walls opened again. Inside and outside of the doors lined up. Whatever.”

I always did feel that I worked off in another world somewhere. That’s why days vanished.

She took another sip of coffee and savored it. “That reminds me. Where do I go to buy an anvil? Haven’t seen them in stock at the local hardware, and I owe you a new one.”

What?

She read his face. “I ruined your anvil. Don’t you remember? Sliced it in half.”

Uhhh . . .
“Self defense. Mother threw it at you.”

“Could have dodged, could have had my winds throw it right back at her. I had time. But the sword felt
good,
best weapon I’ve ever held, and I wanted to show off, biggest baddest warrior goddess in ten galaxies.”

And she cut the anvil clear through, even splitting the elm block. And elm wood doesn’t split worth a damn. Then she stabbed Mother . . .

Dead.

The word froze him.

They’d killed Mother. The two of them. He made the blade. She held it. Mother was dead.

He saw the point entering her chest. Poking out of her back. No blood. The exploding blaze of purple light, instead. The frozen time. Legion rebuilding the world around them, squeezing that light back into a point and vanishing it. Somewhere. Somewhere in demon-space.

Dead. He’d held that word squeezed away in his own demon-space. Now it exploded.

He was shaking. She was holding him, warm chest and arms cradling his head. Mel. Kali. Death-goddess. He felt his tears damp and hot in the cloth. Mother’s cloth, shirt from her closet. Slinky-sexy, damned expensive whore. Untouchable goddess.

Balkis. Bilqis of Sa’aba. Mother. Eternal. Dead.

She wasn’t my mother. She didn’t even belong to my tribe. She controlled me, tampered with my brain. She was a monster—nothing mattered to her but her own whims. She wanted to bring gods incarnate back into the world of humans. Turn humans back into slaves. Slaves to the gods.

If she had gotten her hands on that sword, she would have killed Mel with it. Killed me.

“She was a monster. But she was
my
monster. I loved her,” he whispered that into the damp cloth between Mel’s breasts.

He felt Mel’s lips touch the crown of his head. Heard her whisper.

“I know. Hani was
my
monster. You heard. He still haunts my dreams. I loved him.”

He felt her arms around him. Her hands on his back. The hands that killed . . .

The hands that caressed and demanded. He remembered how he had formed the sword’s grip, fitting to the ridges and hollows of her hand on him in the darkness. Her hunger in the darkness, both times. Even back in the tent, no sex, just needing someone to hold. What it said of the hollow space in
her
life.

Mother. Men or women, she took humans and discarded them. Not even worth the slight trouble of killing. They worshipped her for a brief time, each, and she left them. Any hollow spaces were strictly
their
problem.

She could have had immortal lovers, gods or goddesses. She knew them, alone of all the victims of Suleiman bin Dauod’s magic.

She didn’t want them.

I wonder what Mel stabbed through, to kill her. It wasn’t a heart. Mother didn’t have one.

But she was
my
monster.

He wrapped his arms around Mel, just above her butt, that butt he knew the exact roundness and muscular hard warmth of in the darkness, so comfortable nested against the hollow of his groin. He wept into the hollow between her breasts.

Ruining the silk, most likely.

Some time later, he loosened his grip around her waist. The same instant, she relaxed her hold on his shoulders.

“I’ll wash up, just this once. Don’t get any ideas about making it a habit. And now you owe me another meal.” She turned to the counter, the sink, the stove, leaving him some privacy to grab a napkin and wipe his eyes and nose. Eating and then grieving, they’d used up enough time that the bacon grease had congealed in his frying pan. She turned on the gas to melt it, and pulled the jar out of his refrigerator where he saved leftover grease for cooking.