Whiskey and Water (58 page)

It hurt. Like a blunt knife worked under
the skin, and neither his teeth sunk in his lip nor the warmth of her around
him helped at all. He locked his elbows and let his head drop until his
forehead rested on hers again, and tried to watch.

And first, she tore him open. Right at the
scar, fingers burrowing like snakes, pulling him apart at the center seam. His
flesh stretched. He expected showers of blood over her fingers, red meat and
white sinew behind.

But there was no blood, only the
extraordinary pain, the sensation of being on iron hooks, shredded and pulled
open. Not just his skin: his ribs, his heart, his lungs. He fancied he heard
bones cracking as she spread her hands, her face tight with effort, braced by
his own weight and her legs pinning his hips. She glanced up, caught his
white-faced agony, and flinched. "Feel it," she said. "Trust me.
Nothing else helps."

He licked his lips, closed his eyes,
and
felt.

He felt her peel him, felt every nerve and
fiber between skin and flesh yanked loose, from neck and back and thighs and
halfway down his arms. Felt her lips on his lips, warm and soft as she reached
up, her breasts rippling where they brushed his chest. Felt her clench around
him, the deep pulse of contradictory sensations that burned his sinuses and
sent salt water dripping down his nose in a slow continuous stream, the
distillate of pain, so pure it didn't even have a name.

She relaxed, her hands slipping down his
ribs, stroking his shoulders, brushing his nipples and his throat. "Open
your eyes," she whispered, kissing his face, licking up his tears, pushing
aside his filthy hair. "It's over, Matthew. You were brave. It's over
now."

He opened his eyes. And greatly daring,
glanced down.

To find himself bare.

The ghosts of his ink lingered on his
skin, pale brindled on the gold of a late-autumn tan, but the ink itself was
gone. Or not gone: wadded in her hand like a camouflage net. She squirmed under
him and made him gasp, hauled at the edge of her crumpled cloak, and picked
open a basted seam and shoved them inside. "I think you'll feel much
better now."

"What was it?"

"What was what? The tattoos?"

"That you gave me," he said,
"and took back."

"Absolution," she said, and
folded away the pocket of her cloak. She touched the center of his chest, where
the scar had been. "Your sins are your own, Matthew Magus. From this
moment on." And then she put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him
against her until they lay, warm skin on warm skin. "I'm not a
Christian."

"Funny thing, that. Make it a good
sin anyway. For my sake." His head still sang from raw white pain static
and her warm, demanding scent. "Lady," he said, "I can only
try."

Why Did I Leave South Boston?

M
ax's ecstasies when Lily staggered through her front
door were unparalleled. He twined her ankles, scolding, scorning Christian with
his tail. Lily crouched to scoop him up and wobbled, her right hand tented on
the floor, her head dropping between her knees. She grounded the other hand,
her caduceus clicking wood. Chills rattled up her spine, clattering her teeth.
She gritted them and tried to breathe evenly through her nostrils, to not feel
the aching joints, the nausea slithering through her gut. "I need . . . hospital.
Shit, it's Sunday — "

They'd think she was an OD if she
staggered into the ER jittering and hyperventilating, Medic Alert bracelet or
no, if she couldn't reach her endocrinologist and have him call. She fumbled in
her handbag. Her phone, the Solu-Cortef. "Christian?"

He stood beside the unclosed door, one
shoulder on the upright, watching her. "I forgive you," he said. "Take
my hand."

"I don't need your hand, I need my
goddamn shot." She couldn't find it in the bag. Max reared up like a
meerkat and pushed his face against her cheek, whiskers prickling, fur like
black satin. He smelled like rancid tuna fish; Autumn had been by to feed him.
"PrRau?"

"Dammit, Max — " She couldn't
blink the headache back. It filmed her vision, sloshing back and forth like hot
liquid when she shook her head. She lost her balance, slammed her elbow, and
fell, spilling the bag on the floor. "Ow. Damn, damn."

Christian was crouched beside her without
her ever having seen him move. He brushed her hair off her cheek as Max shoved
his ears into her palm. "I can heal you," Christian said. "I
know you're jealous of Jewels. I know. But she's not what you are. No one could
be more special to me. You know that, Lily."

"Not jealous." Her teeth
chattered. She pulled her palm off Max's warmth, batted Christian's hand away,
and groped among the spilled contents of her handbag for the shot. A plastic
cylinder, light, neutral in temperature. She brushed cool tubes of lipstick, a
fluff of tissues, glass beads on a hair elastic. No cased syringe. Her arm
trembled with the exertion of holding her weight off the floor.
"Help
me."

"I'm trying to. You're a witch, Lily.
You don't need that."

"Get out." She strained, heaved
herself onto her stomach. Both hands. She could push herself up with both
hands. If she could just s
ee.

The syringe wasn't there. She wasn't
missing it, wasn't reaching past it. It was gone, and so was her phone, and so,
in fact, was the silver snuffbox that held her pills. She didn't even have
those. "Christian," she said, forced to stop as her stomach spasmed
and she retched, a stringy-thread of yellow fluid gliding off her palate and splashing
the floor. Her words panted on racing breaths. "If I don't get my shot, I
will die."

"You'll live forever," he
contradicted, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. "You'll help
me stop Lucifer. And you'll rule by my side."

God in Heaven.
"I'll die."

"Die unshriven." His hands were
so gentle, so kind. They soothed her neck and shoulders, pulled her away from
the pooled vomit. He enfolded her in warmth. "Die and be damned. Or live
and be a queen. Your choice, Mary Theresa Wakeman."

No choice at all. "
I liked the way you kissed me," she
said, or mumbled, pressed against his shoulder. "I wish — "

I know," he said. He smoothed her
hair over the doublet's velvet shoulders. Max climbed up Christian's knee and
head-butted Lily, rumbling worry and affection. "It's a good wish, love.
It can still come true."

In the musty hallway of Peese's apartment,
Don paused at the top of the stair and turned to regard the raven. "I'm
not so sure this is a great idea."

It blinked one black eye shiny as a sequin
and cocked its head. The irony transmitted without words, and Don gasped and
shoved his vest down. It was pinching his armpits. "I know, I know,"
he said. "I should wear the damned thing looser, but then my backup gun
slips down and pinches my fat."

Another voice interrupted. "Now I've
seen everything. You're talking to pigeons. And another thing. If you lost a
few pounds you'd fix those problems and you wouldn't huff like a fire truck
climbing my stairs."

"It's a crow," Don said,
ignoring the hairy eyeball the raven shot him. "And I'm in better shape
than you are, Ernie. You could have told me you were working for an
angel."

"You could have told me you were
working for a sorcerer."

"I wasn't until this week."

They stared at each other, Don shifting
restlessly from one foot to the other, Ernie leaning on the rail at the far end
of the stairwell. "Look, Don. I don't gotta like it."

"Don't gotta like what?"

"Michael." He blinked and pulled
his arms off the rail. "Shit, you didn't know. I figured that you were here
because . . . Christ, I'm such a bonehead."

"No, I just came by because a little
bird told me." Don jerked his head at the raven, which clutched the
banister and beat uneven wings. "And you just told me something
else."

"I didn't tell you nothing."

"No. Just enough. Is it too early for
a beer, Ernie?"

He scratched his elbow and shuffled away
from the rail. He was wearing creased trousers that looked like yesterday's,
and fuzzy monster slippers. "Not if you ain't been to bed."

Kit woke in his own skin, to find Morgan
leaning over him, the morning flashing hammered highlights from her hair.
"I'll tell you for free who's got the power to do what you need."

He touched her cheek. "Who?"

"Lily Wakeman. And I'll tell you how
to find her."

"If?"

"If you bring her back to me when
you've convinced her, and taught her the binding. It's been long since I taught
someone. And she'll be a
witch,
that one. She's three times Matthew.
Twice Elaine."

He swallowed. He'd shaved for the
disguise, and her breath felt soft on naked skin. "Tell me how to find
her."

Kit.
Disappointment, or mere mockery? "She's wearing
your clothes."

Lily didn't like dying. It hurt, and Max
wouldn't stop pestering. She couldn't stop heaving and she was cold, so damned
cold, and Christian's warmth didn't penetrate her skin, did nothing to ease the
shakes. She would have begged, if she thought it would have done any good. She
had no pride.

Something was shaking. The old house.
Someone climbing the stairs—
running
up the stairs—but Christian lifted
her off the floor and swept Max away carefully with the side of his shoe.
"Psst, kitty," he said, pulling Lily against his chest.

She squirmed. She didn't want to go with
him. She wanted to call her doctor. She pushed at his chest, her bracelet
pinching her wrist, the medallion banging the side of her nose.
"No!"

He turned, cradling her, as the door
banged open and rebounded off the wall with an unresonant crack. Max bolted
under the fainting couch. The doorway framed Marlowe, a too-big shirt stuffed
hastily into black trousers, his bare feet balanced in a swordsman's pose and
an extended rapier bisecting his face.

He smiled, and blew a lock of hair out of
his eyes. "Unhand the lady, Christian."

Christian shifted Lily's weight in his
arms, her fluttering breaths loud in the dusty room. Sun seeped in fingerling
rays through the curtains, haloing Christian and flashing in Kit's eyes. Kit
squinted and slipped a half step aside. The sun could also dazzle off his
blade. It might be an advantage.

"Back licking the Morningstar's boots,
I see. She's mine or she's dead."

"We'll see." Kit advanced,
shuffle and stomp, his weight behind the line of his rapier. "This isn't a
pistol. A hostage won't save you." Christian snorted. "A rapier won't
hurt me."

"I dueled Lucifer once. And I
won."

"Those
'swords' don't count, warlock—"

"Hah!" Kit, shouting, lunged. A
little banter, a little distraction. He
couldn't
hurt Christian. But
perhaps he could get him to let go of his prize. He'd deal with whatever the
Devil had
done
to her after.

But Christian stepped back and aside as
smooth as a dancer, dodging Kit's feint. Lily whined against his neck as he
hitched her up. He'd sling her over his shoulder if need be. "Much as I
hate to cut this short ..." he said, and allowed himself to fade.

He was taking her somewhere. And Lily did
not "want to go. She didn't like dying, and she liked this even less,
being swung around like an overstuffed duffel bag. She pushed, but her hand was
shaking, her elbow and shoulder ached. Her fingers slipped on Christian's denim
jacket, and the bracelet banged. "Ow."

She couldn't focus through the pain in her
head, the ringing in her ears. Her vision blurred, her skin chill and wet.

The enamel caduceus on her wrist burned
like a cherry-red brand against the anodized disk. Caduceus.
Kerykeion.
Tiresias.
Tiresias' staff, bound by copulating snakes. Symbol of Hermes.
Mercury,
Hermes, Trismegistus, Thotb.

Good Goth girls knew these things. Good
comparative religion grad students knew them too.
Mary Lily Theresa. Think.

Tiresias, who was transformed into a woman
when he separated two copulating snakes with his staff. Who was blinded by
Hera, or perhaps Athena, and gifted with prophecy by Zeus — or, perhaps, Athena.
Hermes, the god of healing. The god of messages. The god of between-things,
transmutation. Magic.

A handmade bracelet. A life-saving
insignia.

A gift from an angel.

Lily pressed her lips against the anodized
design, blurring it with her lipstick, and whispered, "Michael, please."

The room faded and Kit dove toward her,
dropping his rapier to clutch Lily's collar and hair. Darkness flashed.
Stuttered. Failed. And dissolved into choirs of glorious light for endless
moments, before that too faded, having dazzled.

*  *  *

When the light dimmed, Kit found himself
kneeling in a sere, wintry meadow at the edge of an iron-black tarn. Lily's
fever-papery skin clung, fragile, against his fingers when he rolled her over
and pulled her into his arms. Her lips swelled, branded deep with the coiled
outline of two snakes. It seemed like the least of her problems.