In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition (21 page)

Plus it was good, anonymous fun. The trouble with being a vigilante is that you anger some people. They’d love to take it out on your friends. The only sure way to prevent that is to remain vigilant and without friends. That does tend to cut into social interaction, however. Dancing became an easy way to maintain superficial but seemingly meaningful contact with others.

I recognized Selene immediately. It was in a club lesson–Balboa. I pulled her tight to me, chest to chest, our faces all but cheek to cheek. My right arm closed around her. She moved through an inside spin. I caught her deftly, her weight against my arm, our feet moving in unison. Then she sped away again and back in. Tantalizing and teasing, daring and taunting.

She’d recognized me, too, but before either of us said anything, it was time to rotate partners. She went away and I didn’t even remember if she’d given me a name. Heck, I was so surprised I barely remembered what name I was giving others that evening. I went through a dozen more partners before the lesson ended. I looked for her, but the lights went down and people flooded the floor.

Then the tap on my shoulder. “Dance?”

I nodded and led her to the floor. We found a corner. We confirmed what we’d already knew. We were good together, and it wasn’t just because we were practiced at dancing. We were on the same wavelength, which meant all the songs were painfully brief, and the time spent dancing with others was agonizingly long.

Even when we weren’t dancing, when we were draining bottles of water and wiping off sweat, we didn’t need to speak. We watched each other, both wary and trusting. We were in a bubble, hyperaware of the others around us, and yet not threatened by them. We knew each other’s secret, which united us even while it made us potential enemies.

I broke the silence. “Sanctuary. Deal?”

Selene smiled. “As in the medieval idea of a Church being inviolate?”

“Exactly.”

“Deal.” She offered me her hand, and we shook.

“I’d like to see you again.” I held a hand up. “The Chronicle, personals section. Just add a block north and east. If you show, you show.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Place an ad and I’ll subtract a block.”

We danced once more, then another man asked her to dance. I didn’t see her again that night. I had a moment of sleeplessness after placing the ad, thinking she might not show up, and might not write her own ad. Then I remembered we’d agreed to sanctuary, so even if she didn’t show, I knew I would be seeing her again.

She did show. I’d specified the northeast corner of 36
th
and Kirby, so she met me at 37
th
and Kane, right there on the edge of the Park. We wandered through it, chatting until it became dark–disabling two muggers who mistook us for easy pickings–then caught a bite at a club right before joining the lesson.

It was salsa and it was wonderful. Balboa and swing are energetic and fun dances, but there’s nothing like Latin dances for heat and sensuality. Salsa is Tango Lite–easier to pick up, but no less hot. Spinning Selene into a hammerlock, controlling her movement for a step or two, then spinning her out was to tame an elemental and then free it again. It was playing with fire, but fire that liked being played with.

Before she vanished that night, she gave me a note. It was a puzzle, but I’d had experience working out cryptic messages. Once deciphered it provided clues about where we would meet again, and how I should dress. And for our next encounter, I worked out a puzzle for her–setting a tone for our relationship.

For five months we danced–in clubs and through the jungle of getting closer. Every night we were different people. Sometimes it was just names, sometimes it was whole roles. I once had an entire restaurant singing Happy Birthday for my wife. She got me back another time by having me buy a round at a bar to celebrate my graduation from Law School.

And then there were nights when it was just the two of us, anonymous, going to the theatre or eating wings before hitting a ball game. Names and other things weren’t important. We had the luxury of knowing who each other truly was. So few couples ever managed that.

Selene took the first step in making things permanent. I decoded a note that specified an apartment and a time. I was to bring wine. I arrived and entered a modest but respectable building. She was on the third floor and looked a little harried as she answered the door, her hands in oven mitts. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then ran to the small kitchen, tossing a “make yourself at home,” over her shoulder.

She had to know what I’d be seeing. Family photographs. All her books–not unexpectedly a vast majority were art related–and the diplomas with her real name. Art on the walls, reproductions of Picassos and others, interspersed with water-color studies of her own.

The apartment, it was her. It wasn’t a set, as my apartments were. This was where she lived, and she’d let me in. She had opened a door.

I turned as she pulled a lasagna out of the oven and set it on the table. “Sanctuary?”

She looked at me curiously, then smiled. “Thank you.”

We opened the wine and enjoyed dinner. She told me about her day. She was Selene Kole, assistant Director of Acquisitions at the Frederick Haste Museum of Art. She offered stories about co-workers and their travails. I reciprocated with a couple anecdotes about tax clients, even though I’d long since stopped temping for the accountant.

I don’t really think she thought we’d end up in bed that night. Or, perhaps, she was open to it, but thought it might happen upon our return from dancing. If she let me walk her home. If she invited me up.

If she kissed me.

So it was like that again when we departed the Emerald Room, leaving the Mayor behind, and went to the Regent on Eisner. We held each other all the way up in the elevator and then, even before we stepped beyond the foyer, she pressed me back against the door and kissed me. Urgent and warm, her body tight against mine, sucking breath from my mouth, crushing it from my chest. I held her and kissed her back, the tip of my tongue flicking against her lips. They parted and our kiss deepened.

Then I broke it. I grabbed a handful of hair at the back of her head and tugged, bringing her chin up. “Selene, it’s been a very long time...”

“The past is dead. New memories.”

She took my hand and led me deeper into the dark room. Nimble fingers removed my tie and unbuttoned my shirt. My jacket flew off, pushed away as we kissed again, and my shirt followed it. I unzipped her gown. It disappeared in a whisper of silk. Shoes bounced into the darkness and the rest of our clothes trailed from doorway to bed.

There are those religious sects who maintain that dancing is just having sex standing up. That’s because they really don’t know how to have sex lying down. Cool sheets contrasted with Selene’s soft, warm skin. Fingers danced, lips kissed, teeth grazed and tongues feasted. Her hair lashed me, a velvet curtain that caressed, leaving my skin tingling and chill in its wake.

Selene had ever been a masterful lover, but not because of a perfected technique or the introduction of some new trick. As we were one on the dance floor, so we became in bed. She read me, knew what I wanted and needed. She forced me to lay back, then she touched me and kissed. She stroked scars, layering good touches over bad, smothering evil memories and took no offense as my body twitched and resisted out of reflex.

Gentle and insistent, playful and demanding, she directed me wordlessly. Memories flooded back for both of us, heralded by sighs and moans. She rose above me and slid me into her, beginning a sensual rocking rhythm which started slow, but built. It built gradually, rising and falling, undulating with her body, with my hips, the two of us moving together tightly. Lust warred with tenderness and ultimately fused with it. Her fingers slipped into mine, our grips tightened, and our bodies exploded at the same moment.

Then she lay on my chest and I held her as she held me, our bodies sweaty, chests heaving, each of us giggling, boneless and exhausted. I kissed her head and she kissed my chest. Then, gradually, she slipped onto her side and I nestled her there beneath my right arm.
 

A knee rose across my thighs. Protective. Possessive. And she slept.

By rights I should have as well, but other memories held sleep at bay. I wanted to banish them, but I was tired enough that I didn’t have that much control. Our lovemaking had opened doors that had been closed for two decades.

Their opening allowed other memories to crawl up from the abyss.

Not counting the Emerald Ballroom or Hall, the last time I’d seen Greg Greylan had been in Austria. I’d met Redhawk before and we’d worked together a couple of times. I’d never known who he was. Some gossips working the hero beat had tried to cast us as rivals but, as storylines go, it was a non-starter. He was Nighthaunt’s heir-apparent and I was a small-time independent who’d been tapped by C4 to hold capes and cowls while the bigs nailed serious supervillains.

I met Greg on the flight to Europe. They’d given him the seat next to me in business class. He tried to come off as a sophisticated traveler, but he was a bit too ‘gosh, golly’ to pull that off. He didn’t say anything Redhawk would have said, but his delivery ran close a couple of times. I started to wonder.

We chatted and I’d have probably thought nothing more about him, save that he showed up in the hotel bar after our arrival. He was out of place there, and had only one reason to have showed up.

Like me, he was following instructions.

An ABC government agency had offered me a mission. They promised, in return, to help me with a few problems. Tax problems. Since none of my identities was ever going to get a tax refund, I never bothered to file tax forms. They’d get that cleared up and promised a hefty, tax-free bonus. They’d even let me keep the frequent-flier miles to Europe. I was in.

When Greg showed up at the bar I called him over to my table. Took me about ten minutes to determine he was Redhawk. I also figured he’d not identified me. Since we were clearly on the same assignment, and since our contact hadn’t spoken with us yet, I suggested we get dinner. He agreed and we found a nice place nearby. We got a good dinner and lingered over it. Then the restaurant turned its bar into a disco, so I suggested we check it out. Greg really didn’t want to, but he liked having a friend, so he went along.

Typical disco: loud, dark when some strobe wasn’t blinding you, and full of folks who wanted to fly their individual freak flags. Greg spent most of his time goggling bar-hugging eyecandy while I checked out the women on the dance floor. One was pretty good–she was working hard to back-lead a drunk through some swing steps. I wandered over, asked her to dance, and put her through a bunch of moves that coaxed a smile onto her face.

Her English was much better than my German. She had two friends who joined us. The redhead and the blonde draped themselves over Greg, who alternately looked as if he’d died and gone to Heaven, or feared he was going straight to Hell. I spent most of my time dancing with Lise. The last I saw Greg, he was wandering away with a woman under each arm, ready to have a life-changing experience.

Which is about the time Lise brought me a bottle of water.

I drank.

And got my own life-changing experience.

At some point I felt safe enough to fall asleep, waking only as Selene slid onto my chest and kissed me. She smiled against my lips.

I returned that smile.

“You were restless.”

I slipped my arms around her waist and held her tight. “Memories. Gone now.”

“You can tell me.”

“I know. Not worth bothering with, really. Not any more.” I kissed her quickly. “So, what are we going to tell Victoria?”

“What
we
?”

I hesitated. “She’ll have to know. Wouldn’t it be best if we told her together?”

Selene laughed. “Nope. That’s a discussion she should have with her father.”

“Like I need a baptism of fire…”

She caressed my cheek lightly. “Part of your life. It has to be done. But don’t worry.” She kissed my chin. “If you survive, I have all sorts of medicinal kisses to take away any hurt.”

Chapter Twenty