Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (33 page)

“Too strong,” Deven agreed. “Their life spans far exceed ours, but I could still rule them for the short length of my own life, so the lords were determined not to let me keep it. And after the revolution, the soldiers themselves wanted to see it destroyed, along with all the trappings of the lords’ rule. But I made a promise to Lord Jaguar before he died that I would protect his house power with my life. It represents his lineage, his eternal soul. I swore I would never see it destroyed. So after the revolution I fled.”

August stared at Deven quietly. Finally he pushed Deven’s shake closer. “Drink up.”

Deven had already forgotten the drink. Just recalling the story filled him with such a sense of loss he couldn’t ground himself. Everything he knew and cared for had disappeared the day he had given up and run like a coward.

But he’d kept his promise to Jaguar, he had to remind himself, and that was all that mattered. As long as he protected the Jaguar house power, he honored the memory of his great lord.

The ice cream was thick in the straw and Deven sucked hard to get it to move. His cheeks hollowed out and he noticed the way August watched him, almost predatorily, as he pulled the sweet drink into his mouth.

The burst of flavor stunned him. He’d not tried ice cream since he’d been a child back in Virginia and he’d forgotten how cold and creamy the texture was. It burned his tongue and burst onto his taste buds with sweetness. It was almost too sweet, but with each gulp the flavor grew on him.

“This is incredible!” Deven cried, when he stopped inhaling the drink for a breath. He pushed over the shake. “You’ve got to try this.”

August looked amused. “I know what a milkshake tastes like.”

“But this is insane!”

August rolled his eyes and grabbed the shake. He took a sip, then pushed it back. “Tastes like shit with beer.”

Their burgers arrived and Deven took a careful bite. The flavor overwhelmed him—it was too many things at once. At home he made rice, beans, corn, things he could relate to. This ranch-slathered fried chicken between bread business was too extreme for his untraveled palette; he found it difficult to process.

“Well?” August asked, watching him eat. “How’s your meal?”

“It’s a bit like the billboards,” Deven said after swallowing.

“The billboards?”

“Too much color. Can’t process what it really looks like.”

August chuckled. “Told you it was a bad choice.”

***

Back at the hotel, Deven’s funerary statue was still in the doorway when they entered the room.

Filled with sudden contempt, Deven booted the thing against the far wall. The clay shattered.

August hissed. “Messy.” He glared at Deven. “You need more than your weapons taken away, kiddo. You need anger management classes.”

“I told you to stop calling me kiddo.”

“You start acting like an adult, I may.” August unzipped one of his suitcases and removed two more small metal boxes. He stuck the first alongside the door and the second on the opposite wall. He flicked a small switch at the base and a green laser beam shot between the two boxes.

“What’s that?” Deven asked, yawning.

“Extra security.”

“Is it magical?”

August snorted. “No, just expensive. It’s a laser that triggers an alarm if the beam is interrupted. It’ll alert us if you receive more care packages.”

For some reason that seemed funny to Deven, and he laughed. He closed his eyes and leaned against the bathroom door.

“Let’s see your hip.”

Deven blinked for several seconds before he remembered he’d been injured. He was so used to ignoring pains in the hot, sterile environment of Aztaw.

“It’s fine.”

“You got hit by a car.” August went back to his suitcase and this time pulled out a small cloth bag. Deven wondered how heavy the suitcase was. August hadn’t been kidding about bringing his own equipment.

August stood close. He reached for Deven’s hip and Deven instinctively pulled back.

August’s expression instantly darkened. “
Oh Christ
. What did that son of a bitch Klakow say this time?” His hand clenched into a fist. “Whatever that asshole or anyone else told you, I’m not
that
much of a shit. I don’t fuck guys unless they want me to.”

Deven’s shock clearly showed before he had time to censure it. August turned away, face burning.

Deven quickly processed what August had admitted. He was still getting the hang of things around here, what was embarrassing and what wasn’t. He considered assuring the agent that his reluctance to be touched had more to do with years of living as an assassin than fear of being fondled. But something told him that conversation would go wrong.

Instead he unbuttoned his cargo pants, lowering them and his underwear to reveal his left hip bone. The skin was already mottled dark blue.

August wouldn’t face him.

“Well?” Deven asked.

August turned, his face still flushed. It took him a second to regain his composure, and when he did, he frowned at Deven’s hip. “Looks nasty. Does it feel like anything’s broken?”

“No. It’s just bruised.”

“Right.” August touched the swollen skin briefly, his fingers gentle and cool. Deven found his touch soothing, but before he could consider what that meant the touch was gone. August pulled a tin of something white and creamy from his bag and sank his fingers into the substance. “Don’t ask what this is. You’re better off not knowing.” He slathered the substance over Deven’s bruised joint and rubbed it in vigorously, hard enough to make Deven wince. He braced himself, holding his shirt out of the way.

He expected a mess. Instead the ointment melted into his skin and disappeared. He touched a spot where August had rubbed cream in and found his skin dry.

“Better off or not, what is that?” Deven asked.

August was still a little pink from his outburst, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. “Dead marda.”

“Who?”

“Marda. They live in the spiral realm. Their bodies have regenerative properties and they heal injuries well.”

Deven looked at the cream in the tin. “Are they...harvested?”

“God no, we’re not
Nazis
,” August said, sounding offended. “We buy their decomposed bodies legally from the families of the marda. We have trade deals with the spiral realm.” August studied Deven’s expression. “You don’t seem to have a good opinion of NIAD.”

“They abandoned the ten-year-old son of their insane employee in a dark underworld for thirteen years,” Deven said, wishing he sounded less bitter. “It wasn’t as though they kept their promise to see to my well-being.”

“I guess not.” August was still staring at him, his blue eyes sharp, calculating. He finally nodded. “You can pull your pants up now.”

Deven quickly buttoned his trousers, feeling his own cheeks flush red.

“Get some sleep. We’ve got a lot of work tomorrow.”

Deven dropped onto his bed and kicked off his boots, turning his back to the agent. He didn’t bother changing clothes—he removed the knives in his pockets that made sleeping difficult and closed his eyes.

Chapter Six

Deven rarely dreamed about sex.

After all, his experience was limited. Lord Jaguar had granted him access to one of his human sacrifices prior to her demise, and that had been a humiliating and awkward encounter that had gone nowhere.

On San Juan Island a visiting tourist named Christopher, who was about Deven’s age, once spent an afternoon fishing with him and later the two had drinks and he had done marvelous things to Deven’s body. But that was it for Deven. It wasn’t as though either experience had proceeded according to his own design.

Which was why it was so strange to wake up with his thoughts heated and a raging hard-on. All night he’d been haunted by the feel of a human caress, the soft, wet pressure of a kiss, so rare and pleasing. He wanted to be touched, to be devoured. He yearned for human contact so strongly he nearly gasped as he awoke, blinking up at the strange hotel ceiling.

Light poured into the room from the edges of the curtains. Deven glanced at the clock and saw it was a little past eight in the morning. He was surprised he had been allowed to sleep in so late.

He moved slowly in the bed, willing his erection to go away on its own. He didn’t have the privacy to take care of it; although judging by the unmoving form on the bed next to his, he expected Agent August was sound asleep.

Deven swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. His hip didn’t hurt at all; a quick glimpse revealed only a yellow bruise at the site of impact.

Quietly, he padded to the bathroom. He showered his pixie-offending smell off. Since he hadn’t brought a comb, he used his fingers to brush down the damp strands of his spiky black hair. It was getting long, beginning to tickle the nape of his neck, but after years of having his head shaved by Lord Jaguar’s slaves, it felt nice to leave his scalp alone for a while. His green eyes looked oddly luminescent in the low light of the bathroom, especially against his light brown skin.

He examined the collection of toiletries August had brought with him and sprayed some of his deodorant on in the hopes of remaining offense-free for the rest of the morning.

He changed into a clean clothes, but none of this roused Agent August, whose back was turned to Deven’s bed and who lay curled under the covers like a child. Deven loaded his trouser pockets with gear he thought he’d need for the day—his obsidian mirror, a selection of knives, summoning papers, a book of matches. He made sure his pen was still wrapped in his hair and tucked behind his right ear and pocketed his sunglasses.

He tucked the thin piece of jaguar skin into his pocket last, as if embarrassed. It was almost as if he heard his therapist’s reprimands in his head.

There was still no movement from the agent. It was nearing nine o’clock. Bored, Deven decided the man had slept enough and moved to shake him awake.

Deven stopped beside the bed, however, taking in the sight of August asleep. He looked much sweeter without his sardonic sneer. His lips were flushed pink, his eyelashes long and dark against his pale skin. His high cheekbones gave his face a chiseled, statuesque appearance. An explosion of black curls covered his pillow and only a hint of stubble darkened his chin.

He smelled sleepy and warm, and for a moment, Deven longed to stick his hands under the agent’s blankets, feel the body heat pocketed there. Aztaws were so cold and bony. As long as he had lived in their world, he had found their touch repulsive. Even when Lord Jaguar had gripped Deven’s arm in affection, the contact had been like metal prongs striving to reach bone.

“Agent August,” Deven whispered, touching the man’s shoulder. He gave it a little shake. “It’s nine.”

Nothing but the man’s slow, even breathing.

“Agent August?” Deven said louder. He shook harder.

August’s eyes snapped open. Deven pulled his hand back, ready in case August struck out in surprise.

August blinked at him sleepily. “Hi.”

Deven felt something heat inside him. “Hey.”

“What time is it?” August’s voice was rough with sleep. He rubbed his hand over his face.

“Nine o’clock.”

“Forgot to arrange a wake-up call.” He sat up, glanced around, and then clenched his eyes shut, looking pained.

“You okay?” Deven asked.

August nodded. “Yeah. Just remembered that Carlos is still dead.”

Deven tried to think of something sympathetic to say but drew a blank.

The agent padded to the bathroom, dressed only in a pair of tight boxers. Agent August had a very nice body, Deven realized. He also noted with interest that August, a man who packed a month’s worth of clothes, hadn’t brought anything but underpants to sleep in.

August disappeared into the bathroom and reemerged wearing a fresh suit, with a white dress shirt and dark black trousers that were so perfectly tailored it looked as if he’d been sewn into them.

“Coffee, then the field office,” August ordered. The shower and shave had clearly revived him, for now he was flinty-eyed and full of energy. “And take that damned knife out of your pocket before you kill anyone else.”

Deven pulled out his largest blade and left it on the table. He didn’t mention the other three he had concealed.

August plugged his phone into his laptop and downloaded the test results he’d run the night before. Like so many other things, the readout seemed to make him angry.

Deven glanced at the scatter plot himself. “What does it mean?”

“No fucking clue.” August shook his head. “I’ve never seen a reading like this, but someone at the office may have an idea.” He yanked his phone out of the port and dashed out the door. Deven rushed to keep up.

In the hotel cafe August ordered them both coffees. August’s was pale brown with milk that smelled burned. Deven had his black. Coffee had been the great joy of his life upon returning to the natural world. He loved the bitterness and the aroma. This coffee, however, made him long for the small coffee shop he’d grown accustomed to in Friday Harbor.