He felt her come—rode the wave as her muscles clenched around him—and then took her over the edge a second time with only a few more quick strokes. He came with that second orgasm, emptying himself into her body, and the feeling of being in her arms, spent, was so lush that he wanted nothing more than to plant some roots around them both and never move again.
But as he lay in her arms, he remembered—and slowly, carefully, slipped back into her mind, searching her spirit for the virus that had infected her.
It was still there. Its progression had stopped, the tendrils hard and frozen, but the threat remained. Nor did it appear that it would be disappearing anytime soon.
Permanent and dangerous. Part vampire. Waiting to become whole.
And no way to know what would set it off.
* * *
Chapter 6
After the age of thirteen, it became quite easy for Six to reconcile herself with the idea of death. She had, after all, taken lives to save her own, and that was utterly justifiable. As was taking the lives of those who were going to hurt others, however remotely. Indeed, she felt very little remorse about her actions. There was no point. Dead was dead. And she would have to kill again, sooner or later. That was the way of it. That was what she had been trained to do. Her life, no choice.
But now, resting in the darkness of an unfamiliar room, she wondered if this new turn in her life was some kind of karma. A killer without remorse, transforming into the physical manifestation of another kind of killer, also without remorse. Justice, or perhaps a divine joke. Maybe even destiny.
Like meeting Joseph? Six glanced at him. He was finally asleep, though lines of distress still cut into his forehead. He was a beautiful man. Six enjoyed nothing more than staring at his face, analyzing lines and angles and curves. Wanting to touch him again, to feel him inside her. She thought about waking him up, but turned aside that thought. He needed to rest. As did she, though that was unlikely to happen.
Six dressed quietly and went downstairs. She found Wenxia in the kitchen, seated at a fine table with flour scattered, small coins of dough rolled into flat circles. A large bowl of ground pork filled with chopped cabbage, ginger, and shrimp sat by her elbow. It smelled good.
"I'll make you tea," Wenxia said, scooting back her chair.
"I will do it," Six offered, and with some direction, found the leaves. A hot water dispenser leaned against the wall; she let the water flow into a little ceramic pot, and breathed in the steam. She let it steep for a moment, then poured Wenxia a cup. The old woman nodded her thanks.
Six sat opposite the old woman, and sipped her own cup of tea. It tasted good, and she felt herself relax as she watched Wenxia work. Her hands were gnarled and brown, but she made the dumplings efficiently, without sign of pain.
"Can I help?" Six asked.
"Oh, no," Wenxia replied, but she said it with a smile, and Six reached over for a dough skin. It had been a long time since she had tried her hand at making dumplings—there was an art to it—but she wanted to feel the sensation of cooking, of preparing, of putting herself into something other than fighting. She thought of Joseph, and smiled.
"Ah," murmured Wenxia. "You do care about him."
"Are you a mind reader?" she asked, startled.
"No need. I saw your smile. Only a man makes a woman smile like that. You care."
Six saw no use denying the truth. Still, she hesitated. "Yes, I do."
The old woman's mouth quirked. "You have to think about it?"
"No," Six replied. "But speaking of such things is… difficult for me."
"You are a product of the state," Wenxia said. "I can see it in your face."
"Does that bother you?"
"No." A dumpling thumped onto a plate. "But it makes you react differently to things some people take for granted. Like making dumplings, for example. You have never spent a holiday with family, have you?"
"No," Six said. "Never."
"Life is isolating enough, but when forced to live under the cold standard of a government machine…" Wenxia stopped. "Well, times are changing. One day, you and your kind will be as antiquated as my own generation. Relics. And no one will remember what was suffered."
"No one ever does," Six said, struggling to press the dough around the meat in the center. "And no one will ever care as much as you do about your own life."
Wenxia put down her spoon. "Joseph would care that much. About you. And if you had any heart in you, you would care that much about him."
Six set aside her dumpling. "He doesn't know me."
The old woman's eyes narrowed. "If anyone knows you, it's him. It's what he does. Something I think you're well aware of."