The Paradox Initiative (17 page)

“I sing a little,” she answered.

“How are you with ancient hymns?” George wondered.

“I know a few,” Kestrel said. “Which one were you thinking of?”

“
Everlasting Arms,”
Kie told her. “Can you play it, Jack?”

Suddenly serious, Wolfe answered.

“Yes.”

Kie held out a guitar to him. Wolfe took it, his
whole bearing subduing. He sat down on the edge of the stage again, then attended to Jim.

“Come sit here,”
Jim invited Kestrel, patting a stool. “Give us a song.”

Kestrel’s heart started to pound,
and she swallowed. But she liked the song and the men playing. She smiled, then sat down, hoping she wouldn’t fall off. The crowd quieted. The piano started—and the guitar, cello and mandolin joined. Jim nodded to her. She took a deep breath, praying she remembered the right words.

“What a fellowship

What a joy divine

Leaning on the Everlasting Arms

What a blessedness—

What a peace is mine,

Leaning on the Everlasting arms
.”

Her chest relaxed as the words flowed much more easily than she thought they would. Her voice rang easily, lightly through the pub, following the lovely old melody as if she’d sung it hundreds of times. And, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wolfe. He played steadily, softly. But he looked only at her. She smiled at him, her heart swelling, her voice rising with the chorus.

“Leaning, leaning

Safe and secure from all alarms

Leaning, leaning

Leaning on the Everlasting Arms
.”

She turned to look down at the other musicians. They glanced affectionately at her. George closed his eyes, swept away. And Wolfe met her gaze—soft. Bright. Warm.

“Oh how sweet to walk in this pilgrim way!

Leaning on the Everlasting Arms

Oh, how bright the path grows from day to day,

Leaning on the everlasting Arms
.”

The music crecendoed all around her. She closed her own eyes, listening even as she sang.

“Leaning, leaning

Safe and secure from all alarms

Leaning, Leaning

Leaning on the Everlasting arms
!”

The last chord thrummed through her. She opened her eyes. All the patrons clapped, and Jim reached up and squeezed her wrist.

“That was lovely. Just lovely. Thank you,” he beamed.

“Thank you,” Kestrel managed—then her attention was pulled to Wolfe. And she realized he’d never taken his eyes off her the whole time. He still didn’t. The noise of the pub and the musicians all around them faded to the background. Then, slowly, Wolfe inclined his head to her. And she smiled at him.

A sound.

Out in the lounge area.

Kestrel shot into a sitting position, her heart pounding before her eyes had even opened. She blinked, frowning around at her dark room. She pressed a hand to her chest and listened.

Talking. Hurried murmuring.

She pushed her covers off, snatched up her robe and put it on, then
walked quickly to her bedroom door. It swished open.

Wolfe lay
on his bed in the half-light of the dimmed lamp, his covers skewed. He twitched. He turned his head one way, then the other. He held his breath for long seconds, then drew sharp ones. She watched him, her attention narrowing, perched on the edge of the step.

His whole body thrashed. H
is right hand flew to his chest. He let out a strangled grunt through his teeth. His free hand tore at the blankets—and he let out a cutting yelp.

Kestrel
leaped off the stair, dashed across the floor and sat down on the edge of his bed.

“Wolfe,” she called, g
rabbing his right wrist. “Wolfe, wake up.”

He groaned, his throat spasming.

“Wolfe—can you hear me?” she leaned closer, shaking him. “Wolfe, wake—”

With a tearing gasp, he knocked her hands away. She jerked back—

He grabbed her by the throat.

She didn’t have time to scream—
he sat up and his hands squeezed. She snatched at them—

His eyes opened. Met hers.

His violent grip instantly loosened. His breath released in a desperate, shuddering rush as his gaze darted all across her features. She started breathing again too—but she broke out into terrible shivering.

“Brown Eyes?” he a
sked, hoarse.

“Yeah, it’
s…It’s just me,” she said, her lip trembling.

“
Oh
…” he gasped, his hands slipping down to rest on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.” His brow twisted and his gray eyes searched hers. Urgently, he reached up and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Are you…Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

His touch startled her—sent a thrill of electricity darting down her neck.

“I’m fine,” she stammered, swiping a stray tear off her cheek. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“I’m so sorry,” he choked, screwing his eyes shut and shaking his head. He rubbed his hand up and down her arm. “You…
” He suddenly stopped, unable to go on. His hands went still, then tightened gently. “I wouldn’t hurt you, you know. You
know
that I…” He gulped and lowered to a rough whisper. “I’d never hurt you on purpose.” He lifted his head and met her gaze. His expression panged. “You know that, right?”

Kestrel looked back at him for a long moment, then nodded.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I know.”

He let out another sigh, closing his eyes and wrapping his hands around her elbows. Kestrel swallowed unsteadily as his forehead brushed hers. She could feel his warmth—almost feverish.

“I was…I was having a nightmare,” he muttered, swallowing twice.

“About what?” Kestrel wondered. He smirked—a shattered expression.

“Wouldn’t make any sense if I told you. They never do, when you say ‘em into the open air.” He took a careful breath, but didn’t release her. He rubbed his thumbs against her skin. “They’re nice little side-effects of the post traumatic stress I like to carry around.”

Kestrel’s
shivering started to abate.

“What…What causes post traumatic stress?”

He swallowed, almost smiled—but couldn’t bear to.

“War,” he whispered simply, risking a glance at her. Their faces were very close. His eyes shimmered.

Kestrel stopped quivering. Her chest settled.

“Oh,” she breathed.

“Yeah,” he said, barely making a sound.

For a long while, they sat in silence. Wolfe slid his hands down and gripped her fingers, holding them there on top of the tangled bedclothes. Now that Kestrel wasn’t shaking, she could feel the slight tremor passing through
his
broad-shouldered frame.

“So…” she finally said. “I shouldn’t wake you up.”

“Well, I’m…I was not enjoying that dream,” he confessed. Then he squeezed her hands harder. His voice lowered. “But I don’t want to...To do anything I’ll regret. And if you wake me up like that…I might.”

“Okay
,” Kestrel nodded. She paused. “What if I throw a pillow at you?”

He laughed. A startling jolt that seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. He nodded, and wiped at his eyes before taking hold of her hands again.

“Yeah, that might work.”

“Good,” she returned the pressure on his
fingers. “I’ll get a pillow and sit right over there, then, so you can go back to sleep without worrying about it.”

Sudden confusion crossed his face. He gave her a penetrating look.

“Wait, you…You mean it?” he asked. “You’d wake me up?”

“Yes,” Kestrel nodded. “I couldn’t sleep through that, anyway.”

He openly gazed at her, eyes brilliant, his brow slowly furrowing. She rubbed the back of his knuckles with her thumb, then tilted her head and smiled at him.

Something broke.

Singing. Well—a drunken
attempt
at singing—out in the hall.

Wolfe pulled out of her grasp,
growling, and got out of bed. He crossed the room, barefoot. She could now see that he was wearing loose pants and a fitted sleeveless white shirt. He punched the door release and the door opened. The exterior light framed his canine-like scowl as he braced both hands on either side of the door and leaned out. He turned to the right, catching sight of someone.

“Hey, shut up!
” he ordered. “It’s past midnight—some folks are trying to sleep.”

“
You
shut up!” came the drawled retort. “You’re makin’ more noise than I am!”

“Yeah, sure,” Wolfe muttered, glaring, then coming back in and
closing the door. He glanced at Kestrel as he came back to his bed. “I thought you said drinking was illegal here.”

“We must have crossed the Liquor Line,” Kestrel
realized.

He paused, considering.

“How far is the Liquor Line from the Gain Station?”

“About six days,” Kestrel answered. He heaved a sigh,
raking his hand through his hair.

“Halfway there,” he murmured. He sat heavily down on his bed
next to her and rested his elbows on his knees. Sighing, he interlocked his fingers and lowered his head. “Better get some sleep before that wino decides to start singing again.”

“All right.” She took a breath
got to her feet. He watched her.

“I’ll be right here, armed,” she said, sitting down in a nearby chair and pulling one of the decorative pillows into her lap.

“You won’t sleep well in that chair,” Wolfe warned.

“Yes, I will,” she insisted. “I did the other night, remember?”

He sat still as she settled, and when she looked up at him again, that soft, open, ghost-of-a-smile look had not faded.

“Go on,
” Kestrel urged.

“Okay,” he
whispered, smiling crookedly. He shook out his blankets and turned his pillow over. “Goodnight.” And he lay down on his side, facing her.

“Goodnight,” she
answered.

And it was only after he dozed off that she was forced to fight back more tears, swallow them, and continue her vigil until
exhaustion finally overcame her—but the clamor aboard ship built, and didn’t die down until dawn.

“Not sure this is a good idea,” Kestrel said as the elevator sank. Wolfe drew himself up and shook his head once.

“Don’t worry. This place isn’t half as rough as other places I’ve seen.”

Kestrel didn’t know how to argue with him—but her gut
stayed tense. Their elevator was crowded tonight: three other couples kept them company, decked out and dressed to the sparkling nines, the women draped across the men as they chatted and giggled. Kestrel and Wolfe had backed into a corner early on to make room for them. Now the smell of perfume stifled her.

One of the women, in a short-cut, twinkling red dress, with long, curling blonde hair, looked over her shoulder at Wolfe. Though a black-clad man stood with his arm around her waist, her jewel-like eyes flicked up and down Wolfe’s broad form, then
she gave him a long, alluring gaze and a saucy smile. Out of the corner of her vision, Kestrel saw Wolfe glance the other way. Kestrel caught the blonde’s eye and buried her with a flashing scowl. The blonde quickly turned back to her date.

The elevator doors opened. The sparkling people exited f
irst, laughing. Kestrel and Wolfe trailed after—though Kestrel noticed he had dipped his head to hide a crooked smile.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he answered, then straightened. Kestrel frowned at him, but his smile remained. And now, the loud music kept Kestrel from forcing him to elaborate.

The nightclub level boomed and glimmered and danced. Hundreds of people flowed like the currents of a black river up and down the wide corridor and in and out of all the clubs, their feet creating pulsing tones, their voices a throbbing chorus. Multi-colored laser lights flickered and swayed from unseen places, shooting wavering patterns across all the walls and bodies.

A hand slid down and took hold of Kestrel’s. She jumped, her face heating up—

Wolfe squeezed her fingers, then pulled her forward through the crowd, weaving between the sharply-dressed young men and the wildly-colorful young women.

It took much longer than usual to reach the pub. And when they did, they could hardly see past the front door: dozens of people blocked the way, facing inward. Wolfe’s grip on her tightened. They pressed forward, Kestrel just ducking her head and wincing as they practically crawled between all sorts of noisy, cologne-doused people. Her face brushed shoulders and hair as she passed—she squeezed down on Wolfe’s hand.

Music rang out overhead. The next moment, they emerged right in front of the
brightly-lit stage, where Jim and his band played a ripping tune to a clapping, smiling audience. The band glimpsed her and Wolfe, then happily nodded toward the one empty booth in the whole pub—the one the two of them had sat in the other night. The two slipped into it, Kestrel letting out her breath in a rush.

“There’s a few people here tonight!” she remarked, having to shout over the ruckus. Wolfe
smiled, nodding as he glanced around.

The next moment, a waitress wearing heavy eye-makeup and a short blue dress, her flaming red hair piled on top of her head, came up to them and put her hands on her hips.

“Good evening! What can I get for you?” And she winked at Wolfe. Kestrel’s stomach turned over. But Wolfe lifted his head and grinned right back at the waitress.

“I’ll have a beer.”

“What kind, sir?” she asked. “We have over two hundred.”

His eyebrows went up
and he blew out his breath. Then, he closed one eye in thought.

“Is there
any
chance in the
world
you’d have a Yuengling lager?”

“Of course, sir!” she assured him brilliantly.

“Really?” Wolfe said in disbelief.

“Yes!” she said.

“You’ve just made my day,” he sat back as he kept looking at her, obviously satisfied.

“Glad I could help,” she beamed.
“A pint?”

“
Perfect,” he nodded.

“And for you?” the waitress asked Kestrel.

“I’ll just have a sweet iced tea,” she answered, striving to keep her tone pleasant.

“Very good,” the waitress said. “Be right back with those.”
And she left. Kestrel glared after her.

“A sweet tea,” Wolfe commented.

“I don’t drink,” Kestrel snapped.

“Relax, Brown Eyes,” he said, that twinkle of amusement in his eyes returning. “I was just going to say that you must favor the Missouri side of Kansas City.”

“Why?” she wondered.

“Sweet tea—favorite drink of southerners,” he explained. “That and lemonade.”

Kestrel managed a smile.

“My grandma lived in Louisiana,” she said. “When we’d visit when I was little, that’s all we drank, all summer long. Unsweetened tea was just—wrong.”

He chuckled, then nodded.

“
Completely understand.”

The waitress returned, set down Wolfe’s foaming glass first, then Kestrel’s tall
, amber iced tea. Wolfe shot the waitress a mild look of disapproval as she departed.

“What?” Kestrel wondered. He shook his head once.

“She should’ve served you first,” he said, then picked up his glass and took a sip. He swallowed, then nodded.

“
Not bad. How’s yours?”

Kestrel
closed her fingers around the cold glass, took a gulp of her own, and grinned.

“
Almost
as good as Grandma’s.”

He returned her grin. And the tension in her gut faded—replaced
by odd warmth.

“Jack! Jack, come here, lad!”

Kestrel turned to see Jim beckoning to him through a thunderous applause. He held out his guitar. Wolfe sighed, then glanced at her sideways.

“Don’t drink all my beer.”

She snorted as he got up. He maneuvered around two people and took the guitar from Jim, then sat down. Kestrel cradled her tea in her hands and turned in the booth so she could see better.

In just a couple moments, the ensemble struck up a tune just as wild as the one before it
, Wolfe’s fingers flying over the strings. Kestrel felt a slow smile spread over her face as she watched. Wolfe turned more toward the other musicians, as if challenging them. Kestrel took another sip of her tea, realizing that they had picked up the tempo…

A figure obsc
ured her vision. She glanced up.

A
dark-headed young man stood in front of her booth. He wore a blue suit, but the collar of his shirt hung open, and he’d clearly spilled something down the front of it. He smiled at her—his brown eyes looked glazed over. He stuffed his hands in his pockets with too much force, then canted his head at her.

“What’s a pretty
kid like you doing sitting here all by yourself? Herself,” he corrected, his diction a little muddy. He shook himself, then tried another smile. “And drinking
tea
no less.”

Ke
strel looked narrowly at him.

“I like it.”

“Sure, sure, for picnics,” he waved it off. “But we just crossed the Liquor Line! Have a little fun, girl.” He leered at her and leaned down. “Lemme buy you a drink.”

“No thanks,” she answered.
“I don’t drink.”

“Don’t believe you,” he said flatly. “Next you’ll be telling me that you don’t dance.” He grinned wolfishly. Kestrel’s face flamed. She knew what kind of dancing
he
meant.

“I don’t.”

“A hot thing like you?” he cried, far too loudly. “I know you
would
, if you had a little motivation…” He lurched in toward her again, putting a hand on the table. She stared him down, fighting to ignore the stench of strong liquor on his breath.

“I’m not feeling it,” she said.

“I think you
will
,” he whispered, getting closer. Kestrel started to sweat.

“C’mon, baby,” he purred. “Gimme a chance.”

“Back up.”

The deep voice growled from behind him. Like a bear in the depths of a cave.

The young man stayed as he was for a second, then arched an eyebrow. Then he snorted, and turned his head. Kestrel quickly glanced past him.

Wolfe stood right behind him, drawn up to his full six-foot-three height. He lifted his chin, never breaking eye-contact with the other man. The young man smirked.

“What? Is there a problem?”

“You’re bothering her,” Wolfe answered. “
I’d like you to stop it.”

“Why?” the young man
stood up and faced him, crossing his arms. “You her husband?”

Kestrel swallowed.

“No,” Wolfe answered.

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“
Just a concerned citizen then, huh?” the young man smirked. Wolfe’s eyes narrowed.

“You could say that.”

“Then what are you doing bothering
me
?” the young man demanded. “I haven’t done anything. And you’re clearly too stupid to realize who I am.”

Wolfe
gave him a blank look.

“Should I?”

The humor vanished from the young man’s face.

“My father
owns
the
Exception
,” he retorted. Wolfe looked plainly at him.

“And that gives you license to annoy people in bars?”

Kestrel realized that a lot of the people around them had stopped what they were doing to see what was going on. She squeezed her hands together under the table. Wolfe never moved.

“It’s
my
ship,” the young man bit out. Wolfe gave him a critical smile.

“It’s your father’s ship,” Wolfe
amended, then regarded him frankly. “And you’re not much without him, apparently. If I were you, I’d start looking for a life of my own.”

The young man’s face turned scarlet.

He grabbed Wolfe’s beer and threw it in his face.

It splashed all over—into Wolfe’s eyes. Wolfe stepped back, hands flying up—

The young man kicked Wolfe in the chest.

Wolfe crashed to the floor. The onlookers yelped and leaped out of the way. Chaos erupted. Kestrel jumped to her feet, banging her knees on the table. The young man sneered.

Wolfe coughed hard into his hand, his whole frame shaking.

“Well you’re
not
me,” the young man taunted.

Wolfe lifted his head.

His beer-drenched face hardened like stone. His eyes blazed.

Slowly, he climbed
to his feet. Everyone watched, wide-eyed, commenting feverishly to each other. Wolfe wiped his face with the back of his hand, took two steps forward on the slick floor, and set his feet. He raised his eyebrows and looked straight at the young man.

“No, I’m not.”

The young man bared his teeth, pitched forward and swung at Wolfe.

Wolfe blocked it with his left arm. His right hand
flashed—

Struck
the young man’s nose.

The young man’s head whiplashed backward.

Then, his body went limp, and he toppled to the floor.

Everybody exclaimed—some cheered, some clapped, others just gasped and moaned. Kestrel scrambled out of the booth, stepped over the young man and hurried up to Wolfe.

“Are you okay?” she gasped, her whole frame quivering.

“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely, as if there was so
mething in his throat. He rubbed his right hand fingers together and frowned down at them. Kestrel looked too…

Blood coated his palm.
She started.

“What—Did you cut yourself?” she demanded.

“Jack! Are you all right?” Jim asked, hurrying up to them, followed by the rest of the band.

“I’m fine,” Jack insisted. But Kestrel watched
his face turn the color of ash.