Powers (34 page)

Closets ran along the wall across from the windows, all closed, all austere six-panel off-white paint like her kitchen and her meditation room. Wooden chair on either side of the bed instead of tables, the one on his side—well, the side where he was lying, he couldn’t really claim it as
his
—looked like the ones he remembered from her kitchen. The other didn’t. So she didn’t keep two chairs in her bedroom. Which also fit what he knew of her.

Clothes folded on that chair, his. Cleaned. How long
had
he been sleeping, anyway? His bladder suggested, quite a while. He sat up. Where did she keep her bathroom?

One of the “closet” doors stood ajar about six inches, a signpost out of character with her obsessive tidiness. Tiled wall visible next to the doorjamb. QED, bathroom.

Bathroom large, off-white tile and fixtures, large soaking tub that
could
have taken two friendly people, separate shower. Again, nothing left sitting out on the sink top or toilet tank, no toothpaste stains or hair in the sink.

Tidy. Compulsive tidy. He tended more toward casual. Or, to be more truthful, a slob. That could be a problem. He dared to poke into the mirrored cabinet, just in case she kept a razor, conscious of a week or two worth of stubble. She hadn’t complained, but . . .

No razor. Everything inside the cabinet just as neat.

Back in the bedroom, dressing, the pants and shirt smelled twice-washed but still carried the memory of stains. Like she said, blood “sets” if you give it half a chance. Apparently, the same went for hydra goo. He found rips mended with the tight precise handstitching of someone who had learned to sew long before the invention of sewing machines. That added some further hours to the answer for the “How long have I slept?” question.

He finally noticed what woke him up, an indication of how groggy he still was. Food. More specifically, the smell of gourmet cooking—lamb, onion, something the Western world generically called “curry”—turmeric, coriander, cumin, touches of cinnamon, ginger, cardamom. He wasn’t ignorant enough to think that what he smelled came out of a jar labeled “Curry Powder.” She’d have her own range of blended spices for each specific dish, if she was any kind of cook. With variations that depended on the season and the weather and what she thought his aura needed.

His nose told him that she
was
a serious cook. It told him to follow that smell. His stomach agreed. Vehemently.

Delicious smells wafted his way through one of the “closet” doors. No, not a closet but a corridor leading to the middle room, the meditation room, dark now but with enough light spilling in from the kitchen to guide his feet. He wondered what,
who,
he’d find there, which Detective Lieutenant Melissa el Hajj, Goddess of the Mountain Winds.

Mel. Definitely Mel, of all her multiple personalities. She was wearing a narrow
shalwar kameez
in thin blue silk, pants and top clingy enough that he could tell she wore nothing under them. He remembered the shape and touch of her hard stringy body in the night.

And remembered other things. They’d been . . . excessive. Product of a couple of centuries of celibacy, at least on his part, and she’d responded with a ferocity that told him she’d also been a long time between lovers. He expected bruises. Worth it.

He hoped he’d lived up to her standards. She hadn’t mentioned Hani in any of the random noise, anyway.

She turned, not that he’d made any sound, probably sensing a change in the air. “Just to clear this out of the way right from the start—half dead, you’re a better lover than he was on his best day. Or night. You have much more stamina, and he couldn’t let go of some cultural baggage. Inhibitions. Whole different league. You should turn pro.”

He blinked at her mind-reading, and then thought of something lost in the fury and haze. “Should we have been using birth control?”

She laughed, a touch of bawdy cackle in her tone. “I’m a few thousand years old. All that time, I’ve never gotten pregnant, and that’s not for lack of chances. Contrary to what some guys on the force might think, I don’t have ‘that time of the month.’ Don’t worry about getting stuck for child support.”

Then her eyes narrowed. “Of course, I don’t think I’ve ever screwed another god before. Who knows? Maybe we’re just not fertile with humans.” Another wicked grin. “We’ve got two families of babysitters downstairs. They’d fight over the chance to help raise a Mel-baby.”

How many arms did that statue have, anyway? Durga instead of Kali? Also a warrior goddess, but Maa Durga, mother goddess . . . more protector than destroyer. But Durga
was
a mother, and she just said she’s never been pregnant . . .

Quit trying to fit her into the Hindu pantheon. She’s Mel. Not a Hindu in the first place.

Just, Mel. With aspects of other goddesses as needed.

Too much theology on an empty stomach. She dished out the, the “lamb curry” for lack of a precise name, orange lumps of rich sauce and meat over rice. He fetched the chair from her bedroom—if he was going to spend much time here she’d need another chair or two—and settled down to serious eating. While he was moving furniture, she’d popped a couple of beers, Sam Adams, and poured them with a proper head. Yes, those
would
go with the aroma rising from his plate.

The . . . curry . . . woke tears in his eyes. Not that it was hot, not as hot food goes, just enough bite to focus his mind on the flavors, but an exquisite blend of foods and herbs and spices cooked just long enough for each—lamb seared by itself, same with the onions, not stewed in the sauce, so they remained distinct, rice just gummy enough to hold the sauce, some non-ethnic touches like tomatoes that couldn’t have been in her original cuisine.

Non-ethnic original cuisine
bullshit!
Curry isn’t native to her hills. Lamb isn’t. Even the rice. One last time,
quit
trying to classify her. It ain’t gonna work. She’s at least as old as I am, and has lived in as many different cultures. Just savor the food. The moment. The things that go bump in the night.

If she got bored with him in bed, maybe she’d at least invite him over for dinner now and then . . .

He swallowed another lump of bliss and sighed. “How’d you get the timing on this just right? I stagger out of bed, and everything comes together to perfection after a couple of hours of work? Won’t be nearly as good if it sits for even fifteen minutes.”

“I’d hoped smelling food would wake you up. This time, it worked. I’ve finished off three meals by myself, your loss. Second day, now.”

“You must have gone out shopping. That was fresh meat, fresh tomatoes, all the rest. Not frozen or canned. I could taste the difference.”

She laughed again, less wicked this time. “You’ll be meeting the Goddess Mel Support Society soon enough. Bismillah and Lakshmi, downstairs. They heard we were back and, morning after, brought in enough fresh groceries for a small army. Feeding holy beggars, or something. They acquire merit thereby.”

“Muslim and Hindu names . . . ”

“And a tribe of refugee devil-worshipers from so far back in the hills we’re probably half Chinese. Yes. People tend to be more ecumenical, when you bring your own goddess incarnate with you.”

Actually,
she’s
probably what made them ecumenical. Her worshipers didn’t have much choice.

“They heard us. We made that much noise?”

The ribald laugh again. “Trust me, they approve. They’re relieved, even. They worry about their goddess. In their world, people and gods should come in sets. Not necessarily in
pairs,
mind you, they can get creative. But celibacy isn’t natural. My people are rather . . . earthy, is the polite term. They didn’t ask where I was, but they were glad I brought back a souvenir.”

“How long have we been gone?”

“Nearly three weeks.”

Ouch. “Any problems with your job? With the police force, I mean?”

She shook her head. “I’m on medical leave, remember?” She lifted her left hand. “Broken wrist? Not fit for duty? And I think the chief marks any day he doesn’t have to deal with me as a good day. I know the rest of the squad does.”

They’re probably too scared of her to raise questions, anyway.

She looked around at the wreckage. They’d managed to demolish two heaped steaming plates of curry on rice each with just enough leftovers to prove her guest didn’t want more—laws of hospitality observed—and two beers each. Part of the goddess thing, she’d cooked exactly the right amount.

“I cooked, you wash up. Now you owe me a good meal, fair exchange. I figure the grouse and the fish stew come out even.”

Albert took a good deep sniff of the remaining curry before she scraped it into glass bowls for the refrigerator. “What makes you think I can equal this?”

Raised eyebrows. “I’ve cooked in your kitchen. I saw what you had, raw materials and tools. You wouldn’t have all that, care properly for all that, put that much wear on pots and pans and cutting boards and stove, and not be able to use it to good purpose. Besides, you couldn’t have appreciated this,” hefting one of the bowls, “without some talent of your own. I’ve met damn few people I’d cook this for. Too much like work.”

She cocked her head to one side, remembering. “Comes down to it, I knew from your cutting boards. Five of them. Different boards for different foods. I sniffed them. I may have been pissed off at you and Legion just then, but I wasn’t going to insult good food by cutting sausage on a fruit board. Five boards—bread only, cheese and fruit on opposite sides, onions and garlic, herbs and vegetables, and meat. Don’t mix tastes unless you intend it.”

An afterthought: “Oh, and the plastic cutting mat for fish. But you hadn’t cooked fish lately. Probably couldn’t get it fresh enough to suit you. Or fresh enough is too expensive.”

I knew she’d used the right board. Just felt damn glad for the good luck.

As for wear, well, damn few people put enough mileage on a cast-iron skillet to wear the maker’s mark off. She’s got me there.

With a wicked grin she walked over to the corner and opened a cabinet revealing a stereo system,
expensive
stereo, he knew the brand and lusted after it. Speakers must be built into the walls or ceiling—he couldn’t spot them. She punched a button, and Wagner filled the room. The Nibelheim scene from
Das Rheingold,
those tuned anvils, she must have cued up the track and kept it lurking while she waited for him to wake up.

“You’re just playing that to annoy me. Wagner really screwed up the story.”

Her grin widened. “Me, annoy someone? On
purpose?
Never. Or, hardly ever . . . Anyway, I sort of hope you haven’t forsworn earthly love for all eternity.”

Well. “First thing, that doesn’t say a word about hot raw animal sex. So, last night or whenever, that’s not covered.”

She glared at him, the corners of her mouth struggling with a grin.

“Second, Wagner made that up. Yeah, if one of the Lorelei jumped into bed with me, I’d jump out the other side twice as fast. You’ve never met them. Vicious bitches, wrecking ships and then stealing from drowned sailors. That’s how they got the Rheingold in the first place. I
did
swear off human lovers, for reasons we both know.”

Sobered, she stared at him for a moment. “Available evidence says, I won’t grow old and die on you. Because of that, I’m not asking or giving any vows. Just, come by every now and then. I’m okay with a little on the side.” Pause. “Or on my back, on top, standing up, down on hands and knees . . . ”

That ribald grin again, and another pause. “You’re fun, both in and out of bed. A little
strange,
but who am I to talk?”

She waved at the stereo. “Anyway, the leitmotif is because your Seal wants you up and working. It bit me yesterday. Taking it out of the pack when I was cleaning and fixing.”

She held up her right hand, flexing it, a red line across her palm. He couldn’t tell if that had been a cut or a burn, now that it was healing.

She could have used the “Anvil Chorus” instead. But no, it had to be Wagner. Because she is who she is. Get used to it.

She headed through the door, tossing words back over her shoulder. “I need to change out of this harem gear and you need to wash up. Break’s over, back on your head.”

How would she know that I know that old joke?

Because of the
old
part.

And because he found her dish detergent in the logical place, and the scrub pad and the drainer and the dishtowels. They had a lot in common. He only had to try twice to find where she stowed her empty beer bottles before returning them.

And she wasn’t
that
annoying. She’d set up a play list on her stereo, and as soon as the short snippet of Wagner finished, it went on to Irish fiddle and then North African flute with drums. Moroccan? All of it good, if eclectic. He found the speakers, flat acoustic panels set into the ceiling and with some smooth surface that looked pretty much like plaster until you followed the sound to its source.

I wonder what else she has hidden around here. More to everything than meets the eye.

Like in my place.

Then she was back, dressed in uniform coveralls and cop aura again with the gun-belt and radio and all. Arson Squad Lieutenant, from tip of cap to spit-polished boots.

She blinked at his stare. “Don’t know
what
you’re going to do about that Seal, but I want to look official if you blow up the forge or take out power for half the city. It could give us a head start on our getaway. We’re fucking around with Powers Beyond Those of Mortal Men—just being gods doesn’t mean we can’t screw the proverbial pooch.”

Putting on the uniform even changes her idiom.

“Where’s the Seal?”

Mel led him into the middle room, flipped on a recessed ceiling light, and opened a deep closet. She reached inside, not even looking. She knew where she left things, and they’d damned well better still be there . . .