Blackjack Wayward (The Blackjack Series) (26 page)

“You know, you smell like a killed cow,” she said.

“Killed cow?”

She nodded, preening a loose strand of hair that danced in her long eyelashes.

“Dead cow,” I corrected, laughing.

“Yes, this,” she said, drinking more wine. “Very dead.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go shower. Just wanted to update you.”

I stood and strolled off, figuring she preferred to be by herself, drinking away her fears that I was going to reach civilization and go off running after Apogee.

“Hey, cow,” she said, standing and walking toward me.

I stopped and smiled.

“I made you a gift,” she said coming up to me, cradling the wine in the glass.

“Oh really?”

“It’s how you see yourself in your dreams,” she said, walking past me and drawing a long swallow of wine. “Come on.”

She led me to the shack and opened the door, sweeping her free hand like a game show hostess at what lay on and beside the bed.

It was my old suit. My clothes, the full Blackjack uniform, including the cowl and cloak. It was simple stuff, but it was my look. She was right: just seeing it made me feel at home again. A black t-shirt, dark green/gray combat pants, and my boots. And it was them, not a simulacrum, not a magical construct. I studied the marred leather, replete with scratches from every scrape I had gotten into from the forests of Germany to the plains of Shard World. They were buffed and polished, but the miles they had carried me bore through and the leather barely shone.

“I cleaned them for you,” she said watching me pick one up and check the secret compartments one by one, finding them empty.

“They must have taken all the toys,” I said wistfully.

“Where were they?” she asked, but that was exactly what I was wondering.

“You conjured them,” I gestured to her.

She shrugged.

“Well, last I remember, I was wearing them at Hashima Island. I woke up later in the hospital in the Sentinel’s Watchtower in orbit, while they were rebuilding my hand and face.” I paused, rubbing the bones I had shattered in my right hand bringing down the walls of Retcon’s fortress. “But you got them, right? I mean, how’d you get them if you didn’t even know where they were?”

“Magic,” she smiled and came beside me.

Wrapped in a bundle beside the clothing were the shoulder and waist harnesses, the repurposed thigh gun holsters I used to house more gadgets and toys, and lying on the bed, straddling my old waist-mounted arrow bag, was my original bow.

I had made the thing from a combination of yew and elm wood, using the same basic method they had used since the middle ages, with some slight modifications to the glues to make the bonding power stronger and faster-drying. It was polished and perfect, like it had been the day the lacquer had dried.

“This thing got scorched back in L.A.,” I said, bewildered, holding the bow like a child. “But how?” I started to ask but checked myself. “Yeah, magic.”

She raised a sultry eyebrow and sat on the bed beside the clothes and gear, watching me checking everything like a child on Christmas morning.

The boots were functional, including the rocket packs, though the fuel reservoirs were both drained and none of the diesel tanks that we had access to in the outpost had the punch of my own special kerosene/jet fuel formula. The diesel wouldn’t even get me off the ground and would probably muck up the fuel injection system.

“You wouldn’t happen to be able to get your hands on this particle accelerator that I built back in Shard World, huh?” I joked, but she barely smiled.

“Kidding,” I said, taking my clothes off.

“No thank you or nothing,” she said, though it wasn’t a question.

“I’m going to thank you after I clean up,” I told her, flashing a wink, but I noticed from her cold expression my charm had little effect on her.

I fired up the cold water and threw myself into the tub, scrubbing the grime, dirt, and smeared scum off my skin. The water that rushed off my body and down the tub was black and milky, partly oil, grease, and lubricants from engine parts, partly dust and silt, all intermingled with my sweat in an odorous milkshake. I rubbed my back when I suddenly felt her hands on my shoulder, making me flinch.

“Shhh,” she cooed, taking the soap and rag from my hands and washing my shoulders and back. I turned as she took her first step into the tub, already nude, and settled behind me, her little body contorted in the tiny space I left her. She tucked her knees behind my buttocks and continued her massaging wash, rubbing my neck and the back of my head as she inched forward, her thin body touching mine from time to time.

“I’m sorry if I’m being a selfish asshole,” I said, her caressing touch relaxing my whole body. She pressed me forward, bending my upper body toward the faucet and kissing the back of my neck with a soft, breathless touch that tingled across my back. She rubbed my shoulders, digging her fingers into my deltoids and bringing her hands forward against my pectorals. Her touch was tender, arousing all my senses, and she pressed her body tight against mine. Feeling her small breasts, her soft midsection, and her pelvis against my back was like a rush of blood to the skin, a warming counter to the cold water.

I turned to face her, smiling, but she was somber, almost morose, and to keep me from noticing or asking about it, she came closer and kissed me.

Her hands came up to cradle my face, making her the center of my world, her brown and green-flecked eyes the sun in my sky. The gentle caress of her body against mine was in stark contrast to everything we had experienced to this moment, to everything that had passed so far.

We kissed, and I twisted to move above her as she opened her legs to me. I guided myself inside her, pressing her back and using my feet against the other side of the tub to push deep inside her. Instead of goading me on as she had before, using her nails and teeth as weapons, as spurs to drive me faster and faster, this time her touch was gentle, her nature constrained. I have never made love like that before in my life.

Afterward, we dried off and continued onto the bed, our love gentle and measured, restrained and amazing, and it seemed to last forever. Her legs coiled around me, and for a moment I feared that this was the end, that she would conduct some sort of final incantation, swallowing all my life essence and leaving me an empty husk, as she had perhaps hundreds of lovers across the ages. But that fear left a little with every touch, with every caress. Feeling her small body beneath me, quivering in pleasure, swept those worries aside.

When we were done, I held her in my arms, afraid to ruin the moment with words, even when she wept, her tears pooling in my arm. Eventually, she fell asleep in my arms, and I let myself fade, unwilling to let go of her.

I don’t know if it was a dream or not, but a breathless voice flew past me like a shadow in the wind as I succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep.

“I love you.”

Chapter Eighteen

The next morning, Claire was gone.

Not a sign of her or a note letting me know where she had gone. I was laid out on the bed, her gift of clothing lying at the foot in a pile where we had hastily thrown it aside. I put the pants on and noticed a small metal bracelet, constructed of seven disks of pounded steel, wound together with a simple leather band. The thing tingled in my grasp, and not knowing what it was for, I just threw it in my pocket as I finished dressing.

I went to the outpost to find her, but it was empty. A cursory scan of the horizon showed nothing but the usual low trees and scrub.

Last night had been her goodbye to me, the clothes her last gift. I was too wrapped up with finishing the truck to notice her torn emotions, nor did I have the courage to bring it up with her when I suspected something was wrong.

In the end, what future did we have? She was an ageless being, depending on the life force of others to survive, and while I felt her drawing something from me, I couldn’t care less. I had been honest with her, willing to give it all to her when her magic had gone awry, and now that she was gone, I could only kick myself. Instead of settling with her, letting her take me wherever she wanted and enjoying the moment, I listened to Haha and became restless, eager to find out what Zundergrub was up to, eager to rush off to protect Apogee. And for what? What did I owe anyone?

I suppose Claire was right to leave.

I was wrong for her, despite our obvious attraction. I was a boy scout in search of approval, a pathetic lapdog that needed a rubbing behind the ears. Other than some decent sex, what else could I offer her?

It was the same with Apogee. I was completely unsuitable, like a hopeless stalker, self-delusional in thinking a relationship existed. A confused and foolish villain who had the most beautiful, most wonderful being in creation dropped in his lap, by a psychopath no less, and conjured up a relationship. It was an illusion in league with the strongest spell Claire could imagine. I didn’t deserve either woman. I deserved to be left alone in some dusty outpost in the middle of nowhere, forgotten.

Besides, what had I done with my thirty-three years? What could I point to that someone would say was worthy of effort? Nothing. All I had done was make things worse, everywhere I went, and cause pain and anguish to all those whose misfortune it was to cross my path. Influx and Cool Hand were dead. So was Retcon and his daughter. Apogee had almost died.

I thought of her in my arms, her blood seeping through my fingers as I held her hand, helpless. I had told her I loved her, but in fact it had been a lie, as had all my longing for her. At Utopia’s mind-prison my desires for her had manifested herself as a bastardized version of Dejah Thoris, demure and available, a fictional fuck toy that was an embarrassment to her memory. But I had ruined even that with visions of jealousy, of my own inadequacy. If my own version of Apogee despised me, feared me, then what did the real woman feel? It was obvious: she thought me pathetic.

I was hanging on to something that wasn’t there, while at the same time throwing away the one person who had shown me kindness and love.

I strolled over to the bar and took a stool, placing it behind the bar so I could be comfortable while still within reach of the Rabbit Flats liquor arsenal.

I know you’re not supposed to mix drinks. It messes with your stomach and often results in a foul belly and an even fouler time. But the residents of this little outpost didn’t have enough of any single kind of alcohol for it to have a serious effect on me.

I wanted to get drunk, and as night was falling over the bar, I wanted to go swimming with those gators in the nearby lake. My boots were a shredded mess, so I figured I could first have a little fun, then use some of the carcasses to provide new leather for my boots. I didn’t have the tools to rebuild them from scratch, but a nice layer of gator skin would make them look good as new.

There was no need for glasses, even for the half-keg of sour beer. I could dig my head under the tap that stuck out of the wall and drink it down in pitcher-sized gulps. The heavy liquor I swigged straight from the bottle, then took great delight in throwing the bottles at the walls, hoping I could lay enough power behind them to do some damage to the structure.

Yeah, I was going to bring down every building in the place, including that shitty shack that had been my home for the last few days. I’d use the last bottles to light the wreckage on fire, then dance naked on the burning embers until morning came.

But I got tired. Not sure if it was the alcohol or the lack of food, but I never got around to breaking anything down. Instead I slunk on the sandy floor, finishing off a bottle of terrible gin, smashing it on my face to a gurgling giggle, and before I knew it, I fell asleep. My position was awkward, so I woke a few moments later and hoisted myself to my feet by grabbing onto the counter. Broken bottles littered the floor and counter, and I saw that there was still a bottle of whiskey left over. It was crap, but I had left it for last. Save the best for last, my old man would say, usually referring to the dessert while we were having dinner. Why was I recalling that at this particular moment?

I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and twisted off the top, suddenly realizing that I was so drunk I was urinating on myself.

“Well, hell!” I said, and took a swig. Then I lost my balance and slammed back on the wall, sliding slowly to the puddle of my own foulness on the floor, laughing and rubbing the back of my head. I downed half the bottle in one shot and belched, looking around for the cap, but it must have been on the counter.

“Fuck it,” I mumbled, then felt a tickle at my left wrist, where I had previously had my special watch.

A slight whistle, barely perceptible, also accompanied the itchy feeling in my arm. When I looked at it, ready to reach over and scratch it, I saw a mass of thin, mucous-coated wires tearing through my skin. They spilled down my arm, coated in blood and goo, and landed in a tiny puddle. It then tumbled over itself away from me.

I tried to grab it, but the mass of wires was too agile for me, hopping over my arm and stretching up to the counter like some malleable arm. It reformed and seemed to watch me, the whistle growing and decreasing in loudness, as if learning to regulate its own volume.

“You don’t see that every day,” I said, taking a heavy swig of the hard liquor and spitting some of it in the direction of the little monster. I missed.

“Pathetic,” the creature said before it rolled off the other side of the counter and out of my sight.

I giggled, pulling another mouthful of the burning whiskey, and closed my eyes, preparing for a long nap. But not even thirty seconds later, I heard the gurgling start of an engine. I tried to stand, but only ended up slipping on my quagmire of urine, sand, and whiskey. Finally, I shambled around the counter to one of the tables, using a chair to get to my feet. When I aimed for the door, my forward momentum was more than my legs were ready for. I lost my balance and broke through the shack’s doors, landing on the sandy ground outside as my half built car raced by.

Attached to the structure, controlling the makeshift throttle and steering control, was the little monster that had torn out of my arm. Even though it was shapeless and amorphous, I could feel it looking at me as it drove past me and onto the street in the distance, headed for Alice.

It hit me. I realized what had happened as I rested my head on a soft pillow of sand.

Mr. Haha.

I awoke because of a tickle, this time on my cheek, and panicked, thinking Mr. Haha had returned and was worming his way into my brain. I slapped at myself, instead pulping a large insect all over the side of my face.

“Aw, fuck,” I said, then was forced to cough up the sand that had piled into my mouth while I slept. The inside of my cheeks were coated with muculent, pasty sand that I couldn’t clear out of my mouth no matter how hard I tried. I dug my fingers in, using the edges of my nails to scrape myself clean.

I had to check, because the previous night was a drunken haze, but running over to the shed confirmed that Haha had left me and stolen the semi-built car. As I walked to the small river outside of Rabbit Flats, I noticed that the scar on my left wrist was also almost gone. Despite my travails, I had little scar tissue on my body. Reaching the water’s edge, I looked around for the crocodiles, remembering something about a half-baked plan to catch one, but the water was still, rolling past an undisturbed shoreline. I walked into the water, dunking my face and clearing all the sand and muck off, looking around for tell-tale disturbances in the water or the sound of ripples dancing toward me. But the creatures either left me alone or had run off, looking for easier prey.

While Haha’s scarred home in my wrist may have repaired itself, I had a collection of tracks and cuts on my right hand that had never healed properly. The scars lined both sides of my hand at the palm, in particular the back of the hand where the injury had been at its worst.

I remember that day when I had smashed my fists into an indestructible wall, desperate to save a woman’s life. My right hand had collapsed, bones snapping and slicing through the skin, leaving the scars that marred my flesh.

Epic, Superdynamic, and all the world’s greatest heroes had bashed themselves against that wall, so dense, so thick that Retcon had thought it unbreakable. I had been on the other side, of the wall and of the fight, and trapped inside the mad doctor’s fortress, while the only person who had ever cared about me lay dying. I had been her only hope.

The scars were a spiderweb spread along the back of my hand. The bones and tendons had healed, but the skin had never been the same. I studied the texture, rubbing my left thumb across the scars, looking for logic within the abstract pattern of regrown flesh. The pattern wasn’t a symbolic map to lead me onward, or some sort of image foreshadowing a potential future. It was a random pattern, meaning nothing more than a badge of service for doing what no one else could: saving Apogee’s life.

I thought back to the whole affair, starting with Dr. Walsh’s offer in the back of a limo sipping scotch, until the final gavel that send me to Utopia’s mind-prison. If not for meeting Apogee, I would be dead. That much was certain. Zundergrub would have finished me on that island, and I’d be an afterthought. She had done more than that, right?

A loud splash in the water in the far shore woke me from my reverie, wondering how long until one of the famous saltwater crocodiles would get brave. I was itching for a fight, eager to unleash on some unsuspecting creature that didn’t know who it was fucking with. I stood, water to my waist at the middle of the river, welcoming as many as wanted to come.

But the creature didn’t make himself known, and if it was around me, the crocodile remained underwater.

“Coward,” I said, spitting.

I brought a handful of water to my face, drinking more of the cloudy stuff, my eyes drawn once again to the mishmash of scars running along my right hand.

I had saved her life, and she had saved mine, so we were even, right? That’s why she let me burn at the trial. Then again, how much could her word carry? The trial had been far from fair, but even the charges I was really guilty of were enough to put me away for a dozen lifetimes. She hadn’t saved me because nothing could. The unfairness of the trial, of having me stand for crimes I hadn’t even committed, was irrelevant. I was guilty. I deserved what they gave me.

Hell, I deserved worse.

I walked ahead, coming out of the river on the far shore, and walked up the embankment. As I cleared the top, a fury of splashes exploded out of the water as several crocs went at each other, re-establishing their dominance.

A line of trees ringed the high ground overlooking the river, and I could see the ruined buildings of Rabbit Flats in the distance behind me, partially obscured by an onrushing sand storm. I blinked and the tiny outpost was gone, and an instant after that, the wind picked up to a howl and I was assaulted by a wave of floating sand that pushed me onward, away.

Closing my eyes, I turned and let it take me.