| |
Erik leaped to his feet. “No, Sera. Don’t say that.”
I threw up my hand, stopping him before he reached my side. “I can’t be constantly worrying that you might stick something in my drink or my food whenever you don’t want me to do something.” I yanked on my shirt and buttoned it with trembling fingers. “I’ve done a pretty good job of protecting myself for the last five years. I acknowledge you’ve helped me, and I thank you for that, but that doesn’t give you the right to control me or decide what I can and can’t do.” I knelt and rooted under the bed for my boots.
Erik crouched beside me. “I know you’re mad, and I don’t blame you. But please don’t go.”
I found one boot and rolled onto my rear so I could slide my foot into it. “You’re right that I worshiped my father, loved him as if he hung the moon each night and set the sun afire each morning, but he’s dead now, and I’m not looking for another man to take his place.”
I had worked up a good head of steam, and if Erik knew what was good for him, he’d shut up and get the hell out of my way. But he didn’t. He grabbed my other boot and held it behind his back, out of my reach.
“C’mon, Erik, give it to me.” I shoved my hand out at him, palm up.
He scowled. “You can’t leave yet. They’re still ganged up outside the door.”
“I know that,” I said, full of piss and vinegar and steam. Goodgodalmighty, my head was about to burst open with anger. Lord, give me just one minute away from him, just one minute... But where the hell was I supposed to go? I could’ve used a good dramatic exit complete with a slamming door, but a swishing bit of curtain lacked the same emphasis. The only door I could slam had a brace of Ungodly Beings waiting for me on its other side.
“Argh!” I jerked my fingers through my knotted hair. Usually, I kept my unruly curls tamed in a tight braid, but it had mostly come loose. My hair surely looked a fright, like I’d stood on a rooftop during a windstorm, but what did it even matter right then? “God, what I wouldn’t give for a hot bath...” I muttered as I stomped out to the maintenance tunnel, one boot on and one foot bare.
Whenever I needed to work off some anger, I would usually take out my rifle and take target practice on the undead, but opening Erik’s front door would have been suicidal. With my one booted foot, I kicked a broken bit of brick. Clank. It nailed the side of Erik’s train car. I looked around, searching for another loose piece of rubble, and found one. Clank. Then another piece. Clank. I had just pulled back my foot for another kick when Erik appeared in the train car’s doorway.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Pretending this is your head.” I aimed and kicked. My missile slammed into the side of the train. Clank.
Grinning, he dangled my other boot by its laces. “Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John.”
Pausing in my search for another brick chunk, I cocked my head like a dog hearing a curious noise. “Diddle what?”
“One shoe off and the other shoe on.” He swung the boot, teasing me.
“You’ve gone nuts, haven’t you?” I stumped up to him, snatched my boot, and plopped to the ground to put it on. “Too much time on your own. You’re no longer properly socialized.”
He chuckled. “It was something my mother used to say to me when I was little. Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John. Went to bed with his trousers on; One shoe off, and the other shoe on.”
“Do you have many memories of your mother?” The rock kicking had released some of my anger, so I managed to ask the question in a civil tone.
Crouching beside me, he picked up one of the bits of rubble I had used to assault his house. “Some. It’s the silly things like that nursery rhyme that stick with me the most.”
“I don’t remember my mother. Bloom does, but she doesn’t like to talk about her.”
Erik chucked his rock at the maintenance bay door. Clank. Demonic shrieks and moans answered from the other side. “Humph. You’re still not going anywhere for a while.”
“Humph,” I echoed, folding my arms over my chest.
“You said something about a hot bath, didn’t you?”
I squinted at him. “Maybe.”
“I have a pan of water heating on the brazier. Maybe in a few minutes, when it’s warm, you’ll let me wash your hair for you. It’s the best I can offer.” He fingered one of my curls, and my breath froze. Then he presented the piece of dried leaf he’d removed from my hair.
A blush lit my cheeks, and I turned to hide it from him, embarrassed by my dirtiness.
“Sometimes,” he said, ignoring my discomfort, “when the light hits it right, your hair looks like a sweet gum tree in the fall.”
“What color do sweet gums turn?”
“Deep red, like a Burgundy wine.”
“Bloom says I get my hair from our mother. I can’t really remember what she looks like.”
“I bet she was lovely if she looked anything like you.”
I swatted his knee. “Don’t think a little sweet talk is going to soften me up. I’m still plenty mad at you.”
“I expected you would be. You’ll forgive me or you won’t, but in the meantime, you should let me take care of you.”
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” I had said it without much conviction because Erik had sunk his hands into my hair. He worked through some of the knots with gentle fingers, and his touch eased the remaining symptoms of my hangover and embarrassment.
“No, Serendipity Blite, you do not need me to take care of you, but you should let me anyway.”
He must have been part snake charmer, because I couldn’t help giving in. “Why?”
“Because it will make me feel better about drugging you, and it will make you feel better too.”
He must have been part mind reader as well. “Maybe,” I said.
Releasing my hair, he chuckled. Then he stood and held a hand toward me. “Come on, Sweet Gum.”
Later, Erik and I sat on the floor before his blazing brazier, and he untangled my damp hair with an ivory comb. He had washed it in something laced with sandalwood, a scent I’d noticed on him before—something he received in trade from Dr. Dwivedi, no doubt. “How do you know how to do this?” My eyelids slipped closed, and I hovered on the edge of falling asleep.
“I don’t know. I used to pickpocket some when I was little. I guess I have nimble fingers.”
“Bloom has nimble fingers. She plays music with them. Do you?” Unlike our vault filled with Bloom’s collection of stringed instruments, Erik kept nothing musical around his place.
“I mess around with a piano sometimes, but not much. Can’t get one down here on my own.”
I imagined him towing a baby grand on his back, and the vision made me chuckle.
“How about you?” he asked. “Do you sing or play anything?”
I shrugged. “I can make mean music with most anything filled with gunpowder, but that’s about it.”
“Well, that’s a more important skill anyway.”
“I don’t think so,” I said as his fingers slipped from my hair to work on the knots in my neck and shoulders. I suppressed a moan. “I think it’s important to hold on to what makes us human. Sometimes it worries me that the only thing I’m really good at is killing things that are already dead.”
He dug a thumb into a stubborn muscle near the top of my spine. “You read a lot, too, don’t you?”
I groaned, unable to contain it.
“What was that?” He snickered.
I ignored him. “Reading is just taking up something someone else has made. Playing music is creating something, making something. That’s an important thing these days.”
“You grow a garden every year. That’s making something.”
“Something that I just gobble up again and again. Nothing lasts. Not even death.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself. Besides, music only lasts until the last note is played.”
Erik’s touch had eased, and he trailed soft circles over my neck and shoulders. Sleep crept in around the edges of my consciousness, and my chin sank to my chest. In a display of chivalry, he hefted my dead weight—excuse the pun—from the floor and carried me to the bed, where he tucked me under the covers.
“Did you drug me again?” I asked, only half joking.
“No. But maybe that dose hasn’t entirely worn off.”
“Don’t go anywhere without me.” I yawned. “Don’t leave me behind this time.”
“I won’t.” He bent and dotted my forehead with his lips. “I promise.”