Burn(28)

He didn’t wait for her to answer. He just headed back toward the house, leaving her there. She let that sink in, knowing she deserved it but wondering what to do. She found no answer. She moved to follow her father, but she felt Kazimir’s footsteps behind her, terrifyingly quiet for a creature so large.

“Time to open your eyes, Sarah Dewhurst,” he said, as if whispering into her ear. “The days grow short.”

“What days?” she said, still watching the house her father had vanished into.

“The days until you meet your assassin.”

She did turn at this, eyes wide.

“He is coming,” the dragon said to her. “And he is going to kill you.”





Eight


“BUT WHAT DO they mean?” Nelson said, tracing his finger along the tattoos down Malcolm’s chest.

“That feels really nice,” Malcolm said, a catch in his voice.

“And why do they stop here?” Nelson’s fingers didn’t stop at Malcolm’s waistline, where the tattoos did. He carried on down through the uninked skin and hair.

“That feels nice, too.”

They were at the border, waiting for the night to get late enough so there was no chance of traffic. It had taken most of three days to get there, even in Nelson’s truck, not just because of the increasing snowstorm but also because Malcolm had agreed to go to a crossing much further east, all the way over in Montana, that Nelson said wouldn’t be manned.

Their first night after the campground, with no tent and a fire a risk too far, they had huddled together in the truck for warmth, turning the engine on every hour or so to bring in a little heat.

“We’re going to have to get close,” Malcolm said, “or we’ll freeze to death in our sleep.”

“You sure?” Nelson said, with a little smile that Malcolm hadn’t understood. Or told himself he didn’t understand, when in fact he understood perfectly well and had hoped his voice didn’t give it all away when he made the suggestion.

What on earth was he doing? Where had this come from? And why had those questions evaporated so completely when Nelson snuggled in behind him and started talking about his family, breathing a sad story into the back of Malcolm’s neck? His parents had found him with someone. They didn’t approve of that someone in a very violent way. His father had beat him; his mother had told him to never come back. Nelson had left, taking the truck he’d bought from his grandfather with money from farmwork.

“Where are you going to go?” Malcolm had asked, wanting the breath to continue.

“Right now, I’m going to Montana with you.”

“And after that?”

Nelson didn’t answer, Malcolm turned around to see why, and it happened. Despite the freedom of the Believers, Malcolm had never been kissed, by anyone at all, until Nelson. Shy, questioning, but unambiguous, Nelson tasted warm and slightly sour and of tobacco and warm again. Then Nelson, in the relative warmth of the truck cabin, had started to undress him.

This was not in the preparations Malcolm had been given. He’d been warned of predatory men and women who might seek this in exchange for favors, favors like a ride to the border. He’d been warned about those who might try to take this from him by force. He had nodded and understood and accepted properly the wise words he had been given.

But this didn’t feel like that. At all.

He was only ever supposed to accept a ride with someone when he was in deep extremity and only then for the briefest possible time. But he had happily agreed to another day’s ride from Nelson. And then another day after that. And here they were again, Malcolm shivering in the cold while Nelson traced the tattoos on his skin.

“They’re down your legs, too,” Nelson said. “And you’ve had them a while.” Nelson gently ran his fingers across Malcolm’s inner thigh. “Your leg hair has had time to grow back.”

“They start when we’re very young,” Malcolm answered. “They’re our scripture.”

“Like the Bible.”

“In a sense. But it’s more about your dedication to what you believe. The more you commit yourself, the more scripture is written on your body.”

“And you know this when you’re a child?”

“Believers don’t think age is a barrier. Some of our most important preachers are children.”

Like me, he didn’t say. He had preached since age seven, been acclaimed for it. It had made him the obvious selection for this mission.

He pushed the thought of the mission firmly out of his mind.

Nelson kept looking—between Malcolm’s legs, around his hips—seemingly more out of interest than lust. “It’s a little cold to be all the way naked,” Malcolm said, gooseflesh appearing everywhere.

“Only for a second. I want to see.” Nelson glanced up. “If that’s all right?”

Malcolm smiled. Nelson had become almost an entirely different person after the kiss. Softer, younger, like he’d thrown off the burden of having to defend himself against possible attack. Malcolm wondered if he would ever experience that feeling himself. His defenses were for something else entirely, not for who he wanted to kiss, wanted to touch like this.

The second day, they had literally spoken to no one else save for a gas station attendant midway. Malcolm used his cash to fill the tank and buy them enough food for the road. Nelson’s eyes had widened at the money.