“Did you miss me, Evan?” she murmured, fingertips slick with salve sliding over his skin. “I don’t mean today. How old were we then? Fifteen?”
“Sixteen,” he answered.
“Hmm. You asked me if I was afraid of the future. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“Such a . . . human question.”
The fingers of one hand massaging him while the fingers of the other slowly unbuttoned her shirt.
“Not as much as the other one I asked.”
She tilted her head inquisitively. Her hair fell over her shoulder. Her face lost in shadow and her shirt falling open like a curtain drawn back.
“What was that?” she whispered.
“If you’d not been, for a very long time, inexpressibly lonely.”
The coolness of her fingers. The heat of his seared flesh.
“Your heart is beating very fast,” she breathed.
She stood up. He closed his eyes. For the promise. Just outside the circle of light, Grace stepped out of the pants that pooled around her ankles. He did not watch.
“Not so lonely,” Grace said, her breath caressing his ear. “Being locked in these bodies does have its compensations.”
For the promise. And Cassie the island he swam toward, rising from a blood-filled sea.
“Not so lonely, Evan,” Grace said. She touched his lips with her fingers, his neck with her lips.
He had no choice. His promise afforded none. Grace would never let him go; she would not hesitate to kill him if he tried. There could be no outrunning her or hiding from her. No choice.
He opened his eyes, reached up with his right hand and ran his fingers through her hair. His left hand slid beneath the pillow. Above them, he could see the lonely sun stripped of its offspring, shining in the lamplight. He thought Grace might notice the planets were missing. He expected her to ask why he needed to remove them, though it wasn’t the planets he needed.
It was the wire.
But Grace hadn’t noticed. Her mind had been on other things. “Touch me, Evan,” she whispered.
He rolled hard to his right and smashed his left forearm into her jaw. She stumbled backward as he came off the bed, driving his shoulder into her midsection. She sank her nails deep into the burns on his back and ripped. The room went black for a moment, but he didn’t need to see—he just needed to be close.
She may have seen the makeshift garrote of broken wood and mobile wire in his hand, or she might have been just lucky, but her fist closed around the wire and pushed as he drew it tight. He swept her leg with the outside of his good ankle and took her to the floor, following her body down, crushing his knee into her lower back on impact.
No choice.
He summoned every ounce of augmented strength that remained into tightening the wire, until it sliced through her palm and hit bone.
She bucked against his weight. He swung his right knee around and ground it into her head. Tighter. Tighter. He smelled blood. His. Hers.
The room spun around.
Sinking deep into blood, his, hers, Evan Walker held still.
21
WHEN IT WAS DONE, he crawled to the bed and pulled out the broken slat. A little long for a crutch—he had to hold the board at a difficult angle—but it would have to do. He hobbled to the other bedroom, where he found men’s clothing: a pair of jeans, a plaid shirt, a hand-knit sweater, and a leather jacket with the name of the owner’s bowling team, The Urbana Pinheads, emblazoned on the back. The fabric scraped and rubbed against his raw skin, making every movement a study in pain. Then he shuffled into the living room, where he found Grace’s rucksack and rifle. He threw both over his shoulder.