Black Locust Letters (6 page)

More
streaks bolted upright, their tails brighter than the dying bulbs
falling back down to earth, soon those streaks disappeared and
Betty wondered if one failed to ignite, then three bursts shuddered
into brilliant purple, crackling into orange then white. It did not
take long for Betty to lose herself in the flashes and thunder of
the warring colors, the ways they showed themselves in sweeping
arcs of fountains glittering beneath great booms and huge
explosions taking place above like a violent bouquet of flowers
erupting into bloom.

She
watched in stunned silence until the fireworks intensified, then
receded. At some point, she knew that Tetrametrius was called away,
but she did not realize who had replaced him until she heard
Clarkin's voice.

“
To
think that the same elements may be used by two different people
for such different effects. Explosives in the field are no less
awing, but so much less beautiful.”

Betty examined him, taking advantage of a pause in the
fireworks to eat quickly. Between bites, she said,
“Decapitaria?”

“
I
would rather have told you so myself, in my own time. It is a role
I would rather have left behind, but unfortunately, I am constantly
reminded of my service.”

She
tried to imagine him in the trenches, with a gun, a knife, a
grenade, anything at all, but she couldn't superimpose the two
images onto each other. Even in the harsh firelight, she could only
see the soft awareness in his eyes. She could only feel that
arousing presence of his, feel the effects his voice and proximity
had on her body—and she was torn between relishing it and fleeing
from it.

“
Do
I frighten you?” he asked, misinterpreting her silence.

“
No.
I just can't see you as so much as a soldier, much less anything
higher in the ranks.”

A
bitter smile twisted his lips. “It is that exactly which they
exploited.”

The
earth shattered into a series of roars, making Betty jump before
she saw the trails of fireworks soaring through the air: Nine of
them, the finale was beginning. A hand warmed her shoulder, too
firm to be flirtatious, and Betty realized Clarkin had reacted with
his field experience, calm but ready to push his companion down in
case of danger. The thought warmed her instantly, and she hated her
body's betrayal.

“
I
can take care of myself.”

Clarkin blinked at her while those fireworks plunged the
night into a cacophony of colors, but didn't take his hand off her
shoulder.

“
But
you don't have to.”

“
Who
else is going to take the responsibility?”

“
Certainly you can depend upon your family?”

Betty burned her tongue on a bit of hot banana and melted
marshmallow. She seemed to be careless with her food around the
demon. “Too many strings attached.”

“
You
can't be solely on your own.”

For
a few seconds, the echoing thunder of a lime green shower let her
escape the inquisition. As it faded to white, she said, “Father is
all I have, and he's a strategist to the core. He's a sociopath.
Best thing I ever did was move out.”

Clarkin glanced around. “You might be careful who you say
that to. Besides, they wouldn't allow him in the ranks if he wasn't
stable.”

“
I
don't care who hears. And, he is stable, just not a good man to be
around. How would they determine his mental state? Tests?” She
snorted. “You, me, and certainly him, we all know what the
analyzers look for. You just have to answer the questions without
raising any red flags.”

As
though to approve of her answer, the sky took up a series of
explosions, rocking the air with concussion waves of noise, echoing
off the cliffs and falling to the forest. Betty shivered. The
fireworks continued, the tempo increasing as more mortars ignited
and the night filled with a riot of booms, thuds, and crackles, the
lights so bright that it burned her retinas and when she closed her
eyes after the last whites had smothered out, she could see the
inverse colors against her eyelids. She shuddered when a cold wind
ran over her skin.

They
sat in silence for a while, savoring the meadow in moonlight.
Leaves gleamed with a trace of dew as though diamond dust had been
sprinkled on them, and lantern light reflected in the ripples of
the Tempest River. It was her companion who sighed. “For a few
hours a night, the moon is up and all is still, and I can forget
that there is stone and concrete and money and orders, and the
ancient calling in my blood says that the night is crawling with
things long-forgotten but not absent.”

For
her whole life, Betty had often thought that very same thing,
thinking that the moon and the shadows held secrets that she could
never unlock. She didn't know exactly what he was talking about,
but she felt a resonance in her very bones. Now Betty looked into
his amber eyes, wondering which he resented more: The humans, or
the things of the night. She wanted to huddle under his arm, but
firmly resisted the temptation.

She
glanced at the increasingly drunken crowd. “I should be
going.”

“
There are certainly no buses running at this hour, or at
least none that go here. And I would not recommend finding a ride.
Let me escort you home.”

Sudden unease settled in her gut, but she wasn't sure why.
The night was treacherous to be alone in, but was she any safer
with Clarkin? She forced a smile.

“
I
will be fine, but I appreciate your concern.”

“
Then allow me to help you find a car for hire. They'll be
heavily booked.”

Betty hesitated, but decided that he was right: She'd had to
share a car to get here, and if she were to go home, she would want
to be cautious both of who drove her and who else was in the taxi.
Still, she was not certain. His very presence unnerved
her.

With
as few good-byes as possible, they made their escape, and none too
soon, for soon there came the stench of burning clothes as a
streaker set fire to his costume and ran to cannonball into the
river. Dare or lost bet, Betty wasn't sure, and didn't want to find
out.

The
Carnival was only getting started. A few of the Secret Police stood
watch on the hill as Betty and Clarkin passed, but she wasn't sure
what they would do if anything actually happened. Clarkin nodded to
each in turn.

Clarkin walked through the parking lot quickly, holding
Betty's hand protectively, and for an instant she forgot her
misgivings and was glad to have a man to take the brunt of the eyes
which would have turned predatory on a lone female. After the
better part of an hour, her feet were beginning to ache, and she
had to admit that if they'd just started to walk for her home,
they'd be half-way there by now.

“
Why
don't we turn for town? I'd rather walk in the right direction,”
Betty said, and they did so, taking the shoulder of the road with
as little fuss as they could.

Betty tried to plan how to get rid of Clarkin at her
doorstep, and convince herself that that was what she wanted to
do.

They
hadn't gone more than five or ten minutes when there came the
clopping of horse hooves and the creaking of wheels. Clarkin nudged
them to the side, where they stood to watch as two Clydesdales
swayed down the center of the road, pulling behind them a wooden
hay wagon loaded with square bales set up along the sides as
seating. Sweat marked the horse's necks and flanks, dried as though
they had been working all night and were now going to their
home.

“
Whoa, there. That you, Hannah?” The man sitting on the bench
holding the reins paused to lift up a lantern glowing with
lightning bugs.

“
Froglips?” Clarkin asked back, surprised. “You calling it a
night already?”

“
Tammy's thrown a shoe, and I won't lame her up over a few
hundred bucks and drunken pukers. What you doin' walking
home?”

As
though remembering her, Clarkin stepped up to the light and
presented the woman he'd been hiding behind his shoulders. “This is
Betty Cratchet. Betty, this is Charles Smith. And the beasts are
Tammy and Toby.”

Betty stroked the hip of the nearest horse, not sure which
one was which, or if it mattered. “Hi.”

“
Lovely to meet you, Miss Cratchet. Where are you
going?”

“
Town. She lives on the street with the old grain
silo.”

Charles Smith checked the impatient horses with a tug on the
reins. “Nice area. Peaceful. Hop on, the both of you. I won't have
more than one lady with aching feet come morning.”

Betty didn't need any further encouragement; the last art
festival she had been to, she'd been willing to pay to ride the hay
wagon, but she had always missed the departure times. A private
ride seemed a treat to top all others, and she climbed the two
steps on the back in a hurry, taking a seat on a hay bale next to a
gap-toothed Jack-O-Lantern made from a pumpkin with an irregular
top.

She
was too elated with the ride to mind that Clarkin sat next to her
and put an arm behind her, grasping the railing as though to keep
her from toppling over when the wagon gave a lurch. She truly
wasn't prepared for it, as the horses seemed to hit their harnesses
eagerly, and she fell against his chest. The hands on her shoulders
were firm, strong, and the press of her exposed tops of breasts to
his shirt made her body hot to the very core. Clarkin murmured
something into her hair, something she couldn't make out, and she
looked up into amber eyes so vibrant in the moonlight that they
seemed to shed a light all their own.

For
a long moment, they just stared at one another. Clarkin pulled her
a little tighter to him, and her hand slid around his chest. She
heard the steady pulse of his heart in her ear, felt the play of
muscles under her fingers. His body, lean as it was, was all muscle
and no bone, and the earthy sweetness of his aftershave mingled
with wood smoke went straight to her head. His face was so close
she could see tired creases at the corners of his eyes and softer,
fainter lines about his lips. This close, she saw the weariness of
a hard life and suddenly had no doubts as to his decapitaria
background.

Flames ran through Betty, and she wanted to cling even closer
to him, for his other arm to hold her, to tip her lips up to his,
to … She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to swallow the growing
yearning for other caresses. This was not to be borne. This was
dangerous. Not only as a man and a woman, but as a General's
daughter and a Never Were. But still, it was there, a stirring
inside her that she had not felt in such a very long time, and
never before with such a passion. She knew what this was and how to
sate it and she hated the treachery of her own body, but still she
felt it.

“
You
must take care. Here, now, Charles, do you have anything to drink?
I daresay that Betty didn't sample an ounce at the
Carnival.”

Betty sat upright, shifting uncomfortably as a bit of straw
poked through her dress.

“
Wise woman.” Charles motioned vaguely over his shoulder.
“Under the loose straw. Blue Star Hard Cider. There's tart, caramel
apple, and original in the icebox. Might be a lager in there, too,
if you dig. Pass me an original. I'll hide it if we see any coppers
running about, but I think they'll be looking at the jetpacks and
cars tonight, not hooved vehicles.”

Clarkin did so, finding the lager for himself and giving
Betty the caramel apple cider she indicated. She watched with
bemused interest as he popped the lids off using his shoe, but
Charles seemed accustomed to the trick. It was the first time she'd
had a Blue Star, and this particular one tasted like a spiked cream
soda rather than a cider. She didn't mind, cupping it in her palms
as the wheels of the wagon clattered down the road at a speed
nearly equal to the motorized vehicles. When one passed, she
thought that the car bounced much more than the wagon
did.

Clarkin grinned. “You're feeling better. I should have
realized you were getting cold.”

“
Hey, Hannah, what you think of the owl?” Charles called in
soft tones which implied more danger than the words themselves
conveyed. Clarkin's expression grew serious, and he stood behind
Charles, leaving Betty to stare after him.

Her
eyes slid down his form. Where before she had only seen him as
lanky, now she saw him as sinewy. His movements were graceful, and
when the wind blew his cape to the side, she saw that beneath his
clothes, he had sculpted muscles, the work of a martial artist or a
runner rather than a heavy lifter. She found herself wondering what
it would be like to grasp that body close to hers, how it would
feel to move with hers and in her. A blush again covered her
cheeks, but this time it was out of shame rather than
embarrassment. She wouldn't entertain any more thoughts like that.
Where the head went, so did the body. So she wouldn't let her head
have any more leeway.

Minutes later, the wagon turned down the road which would run
perpendicular to her own street. Though she'd intended to instruct
them to let her off at the end of her street, the horses already
began their turn and it was not long before they came to a
snorting, tail-switching stop in front of her house. Clarkin
returned, looking at her a little sheepishly.