Chapters / Previous / Next
Chapter 10
“I’m not Crafter, Lijah.” Elsa stood in the middle of the great room of Lijah’s cottage, arms across her chest, glaring. They were arguing. It had been what, twenty minutes since they’d crossed the threshold. Enough time to shrug out of coats, kick off boots, swap gloves, and blow noses. He had her stare at a monitor and recite a numeric code, her biometrics the last elements needed to activate her own personal access to his computer system. Limited access to be sure, but enough to interact with his bionic house and make them something hot to drink while he scurried off to check his security system for breaches. All good, deer, as suspected.
He’d tripped on the ottoman coming to join her at the hearth, dropped a log on her foot stoking the fire, his clumsiness returned, from, she guessed, sharing the space of his otherwise solitary refuge. Logistics managed, fire blazing, they might have snuggled on the couch, eased into their reunion. Instead Lijah laid out a course of action, a series of experiments, predicated on a blatantly false premise.
They should have stayed outside. The turn of events was far more maddening than this particular point of contention. About which he was wrong. No question. But that he needed to have the debate now, that she allowed herself to get pulled into it? Typical, ridiculous, infuriating.
“You know for a fact you’re not Crafter?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Elsa calmly, making a show of her self-restraint, secure in her superior position.
“Prove it,” he said, then turned and crossed the room.
Elsa called after him. “What do you mean, prove it? It’s a fact; I’m not Crafter.”
He opened a drawer and rooted around. “Facts are demonstrable. You said that you know, for a fact, that you’re not Crafter. What’s your evidence?”
“Evidence. You mean, other than every waking moment of my life?”
Still turned away from her, Lijah cocked his head and spoke to the room. “Yes. I mean, other than the story you’ve heard and the story you’ve told yourself every waking moment of your life.” He continued rifling.
Story. She set her tea on the side table and flopped down on the couch. The word was as good as any for what she had understood of herself and the world she lived in, a story she now understood to be full of half-truths and open to interpretation. Granny’s version had her taking up the mantle, selflessly crusading for the Enlightenment. Lijah’s version had her in possession of powers like his, her job to discover them. Her version? She would keep her past true and her future wide open. She’d live according to the values she’d been raised on, and she’d have love, adventure, discovery. Mostly, her version had Lijah sitting on the couch next to her.
But no, he needed to prove her Crafter. Now. Immediately. No, easy transition. She shouldn’t be surprised. They seldom bothered with preamble. He seized on a topic, wrung it for all its worth; she pulled it apart, fashioned her own theory. They argued. Knowing him, he had some reason for pressing the point here and now. Some reason other than perverse pleasure. Knowing her, she’d figure it out eventually. She watched his search from across the room: quick, decisive, eager. He was enjoying himself. She relaxed, letting her head rest on the sofa back, the familiar pattern allowed her to settle in, make the transition.
He stopped his rifling, turned, and faced her. She lolled her head to the side to address him.
“Lijah, when I pick something up, it’s just an object.” To her not being Crafter was as simple and irrefutable as ice is cold and water wet.
“I should think so.” He held up a large gold coin, an old one, a doubloon, if she were to guess. “The question isn’t whether an object is an object, but whether you’re Crafter. Have you tried to read a coin? Have you proved to yourself, that you are not Crafter? Or have you decided that, because your power is Knower, you can’t be Crafter. That’s not evidence; that’s assumption.
“I’ve picked up a coin before. Nothing happened.”
He sat back against the chest of drawers, at ease, confident. “Have you? Bare handed?”
“What? A coin? Literally?” She thought about it, redirecting her gaze back to the ceiling. “Maybe. I don’t know. Probably not. We’re gloved since infancy. But I have picked up objects without gloves or sheath. I didn’t read anything, Lijah. I don’t have that power.”
“Try it” said Lijah, flicking the oversized coin at her.
It landed on the seat cushion beside her. Elsa sat up straight, looked at him blankly.
“You don’t have to bare your hand,” he said. “Remove your sheath, drop the coin in your mitt, and try to read it.”
“Is this what you did with the others. Your experiments. What else did you have them hold?” Okay, that was crude, but really, could he give it a rest?
“I’m trying to prove a point, Elsa. Or if you prefer, give you an opportunity to prove yours.”
Elsa sighed. Standing up, she turned her back to him, removed her mitt, stripped the sheath from her hand, then replaced the mitt. She tucked the sheath out of sight and turned back to face him squarely. She held out her mitted but unsheathed hand, wrist forward, and dropped the coin inside.
Lijah waited. He appeared outwardly relaxed – propped against the chest, arms loose and legs crossed at the ankle – although surely, he was deeply invested in the outcome. Did he really think she would suddenly, by Jove, discover the talent? He knew better, he had to. She didn’t pity him, that had never been a part of their equation, but felt sad that this exercise could have only one result. Facing him from across the room, she would honor him and the process by giving it her best effort.
Elsa closed her eyes and focused intently for a full minute before looking up and shrugging. “Nothing.” She moved off to re-sheath and Lijah took a seat on the far side of the sofa. Handing the coin back, she took her tea in hand and resumed her seat on the sofa opposite him. “It’s a nice coin: cool, smooth, and with an oddly satisfying weight. If I gave it a color, I’d say shimmery white, like sunlight on the ocean. But that’s it, a nice relic. I’m sorry, Lijah, you had high hopes.”
“Huh,” he grunted, not looking at her, but at the space between them. “I did have high hopes. What about you? Are you disappointed?”
“No.” She grimaced. “I mean, yes, for you. But I told you. I’m not Crafter.”
Lijah nodded slowly. “I see. In other words, you got exactly what you expected.” He raised his eyes to meet hers; the corner of his mouth twitching.
Elsa harrumphed and sloshed her tea, throwing a pillow at him. “Expectation had nothing to do with it.”
Lijah laughed out loud. “Expectation has everything to do with it. Markings on a page are just markings if not for the expectation that they can be read.”
Elsa landed her teacup on the table, almost spilling it. “Markings on a page are just markings without the ability to read them. Learned ability with respect to reading, innate ability with respect to Power.”
“We’re born with an innate ability to learn any language on the planet. It’s only after we master one that others become more difficult.”
Elsa ground her teeth. “Why are you so sure I’m Crafter?”
“Why are you so sure you’re not?”
“Gaagh! We’ve been over this. A lifetime’s experience.”
Lijah laughed and shook his head.
“What?” asked Elsa.
“The irony. Your hubris.”
Elsa’s eyes went wide. “My hubris?”
“Yes, your hubris. You haven’t lived a lifetime, Elsa. You’re a child who thinks she knows the world without having ventured further than the backyard.”
Elsa flashed with anger. “And you’re a condescending old man who thinks he knows me better than I know myself.”
“Not old,” barked Lijah. “Thirty-seven. With a hundred years of perspective and a strong suspicion that you don’t know yourself fully. If asking you to be open to the possibility makes me condescending…”
“It’s your personality that makes you condescending.”
“And it’s your personality that…” Lijah stopped himself, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. When he opened his eyes, his voice was calm and frank. “And it’s your personality that rises to the bait.”
True enough, thought Elsa, and with that her zero-to-sixty temper dissipated like a puff of breath on a winter’s day. She smiled. “Consummate combatants.”
“Hmm,” said Lijah. “You love the challenge.”
Elsa’s eyes glinted. “And you the aggravation.”
Their gaze held, mutual recognition sparking between them.
“I fear, Lijah, that proving you wrong is the one aggravation you won’t be unable to tolerate. And then where will we be?”
“This isn’t a test.”
“You know, you say that, and yet…”
“Come on.” Lijah reached out a hand to her and gently tugged her up off the sofa and over to the windowsill. He carefully regarded the eclectic assortment of objects neatly arranged in a row. He chose the smooth, fist-sized stone he’d used to meditate while she’d sutured his hand. Rock in one hand, hers in the other, he slowly scanned the room in its entirety, from far-left corner to right, looking for God knew what. His focus swung back to the bed directly opposite. After a moment he squeezed her hand. “Right. Shall we?”
A rock, a bed and now what? As usual, he’d launched down a path and she was left playing catch-up. She regarded the bed: length against the wall, covers crisply tucked, and topped with multiple pillows. It clearly functioned as a place to sit. Which didn’t make it any less a bed. Possibly his bed, or a guest bed, she didn’t know. She hadn’t yet been upstairs and the one time she’d spent the night, he’d passed out drunk on the sofa and she’d curled-up in the recliner. Which only demonstrated, there were plenty of other places to sit and his current choice, felt, provocative.
“You’re suggesting what?” asked Elsa. “A bit of horizontal foreplay with me and your pet rock?”
Lijah blinked. And again. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
Elsa burst out laughing. “Liar.”
“Endorsing, then,” said Lijah. All in a rush he dragged a laughing Elsa across the room to the bed. “An excellent suggestion, that I endorse wholeheartedly, without reservation, or delay and…”
They’d arrived bedside. He hauled her tight to his chest for a tongue-driving, breath-stealing kiss. He pulled back for an instant, as if double checking his good fortune, then hugged her close as he crashed backward onto the bed with a resounding oof. Elsa was laughing so hard she could neither speak nor resist while Lijah wrestled and rolled in an attempt to reverse their positions. The effort was both considerable and graceless given his own laughter and that both hands were full, one with the rock, the other Elsa, but in the end, he managed it. Propped on elbows, hovering above her, he watched in pure delight as Elsa laughed and gasped, trying to catch her breath.
“An excellent suggestion,” said Lijah. “One I should have thought of myself.”
“Lijah, this wasn’t my…”
He stifled her with another marauding kiss. “As I was saying, an excellent idea, for which I’m happy to grant you full credit. Although…” He paused, glancing up and around as if suddenly taking in their surroundings. He looked down at her with a toothy grin. “Although, strictly speaking, the part about you, on this bed? I’ve had this in mind for years.”
Elsa giggled, except, with the way he continued to stare down at her, humor quickly gave way to heat. “And,” she breathed. “And the part about the pet rock?”
Impossibly, his grin grew wider. She’d swear his teeth seemed… whiter… sharper.
“Your job is to hold the rock.” Balancing on one elbow he passed it to her and then promptly pinned her wrist to the bed.
“Hey,” started Elsa, but a sharp shush cut her off like a bark.
Lijah’s head dipped and darted to nip, lick and nuzzle at anything but her lips, all over her face, much like an ecstatic puppy. She tried to capture his mouth with hers, aiming for something deeper, but he was too fast and denied her. When she resorted to nipping back every time he neared her face, he dug his head down, pushed her head to the side, and commenced to slather and suck at her neck.
Elsa writhed, ticklish, hot and helpless. “Dammit Lijah…”
He laughed into the hollow of her neck. He gentled his hold and slowed his pace but insisted on finishing his feast. Resurfaced, hovering again face to face, he dropped a light peck at her lips. “Is this what you want?”
Yes. No. Not nearly enough.
He dropped another, a gentle brush at her lips, a swipe, a lick, trying for painstaking escalation. Elsa was having none of it. She seized her chances, matching each measured foray with a charging advance. In no time, Lijah’s meticulous exploration exploded into a barrage of smothering, take-no-prisoners kissing until a need for air forced him to wrench his head away and drag in a lungful.
“God. Elsa,” said Lijah between gasps for breath. “You kiss. Exactly. Like you argue.”
“Provoked,” said Elsa, equally out of breath. “You provoked me. You always provoke me.” Several breaths later, an afterthought. “Sorry.”
Lijah dropped his forehead to hers, chuckling, still regaining his breath. “God, I hope not. It’s just. I’d like us to live to kiss another day.”
Elsa snaked arms and legs around him and hugged him hard and fast because, God, she wanted that too. Message conveyed, she released him and sagged limp against the bed. Christ, the surge of want, like zero to six hundred. She felt both ravisher and ravished. Exhilarated, undone, exhausted.
Lijah eased back on his haunches, pinning her lower half in place while offering space between them. He studied her from his perch and, at first, Elsa let him. She relaxed into the moment, feeling not so much scrutinized as attended to. As though, for once, she’d garnered his full and careful attention. He had this boundless, hyperactive intelligence, such that even when focused on one thing, even when that one thing was her, some part of him always seemed otherwise engaged. She’d never felt slighted; he had brainpower to spare, a supercomputer tasked well below capacity. But she couldn’t deny the pleasure she took now in having commanded his undivided attention. Quick on the heels of that thought, though, she worried over where his single-minded focus might lead them.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Elsa.
“Everything,” said Lijah, adopting a sonorous tone.
She narrowed her gaze. “That’s not an answer.”
“I’m thinking, that I better be careful.” He paused. “I’m thinking that caution is overrated.”
Okay, that felt good; Lijah found her both dangerous and worthy. She could see the truth in his eyes, and she could feel it. She, this, whatever he planned, whatever happened, felt risky to him, but was important enough to be a risk worth taking.
Elsa frowned. Everything still wasn’t an answer. She needed specifics. Either that or get back to kissing.
“Look, Lij…” was as far as she got.
He clamped his thighs tight to her sides and canted forward. “No. Don’t start. Don’t go barreling off on some tangent.”
Elsa’s eyes turned dark. “Was that being careful or throwing caution to the wind, because I can tell you…”
Lijah silenced her with a pointed stare.
Fair enough, she was barreling. She had, though, her own point to make. She nailed him in the butt with her knee, knocking him forward. He caught himself, a foot from her face. After a moment of frozen suspense, Lijah spoke in a low growl, sounding not angry, but a little dangerous.
“Okay. Done thinking.”
Still propped above her, he shifted his weight to one hand and used his teeth on the other to loosen the leather of his tight-fitting glove. Finger by finger he yanked and tugged, working the glove free. Task accomplished, he dropped the now slightly sodden glove from his mouth to her chest like a dog dropped a ball at your feet. Hopeful. Demanding.
His under-sheath was now fully exposed, shocking, even though she’d watched him do it. The sheath was of extremely rare quality, as thin, porous and transparent as a lambskin condom. A ridiculous extravagance. One that perfectly suited him.
Locking eyes with her, Lijah used tongue and teeth at his wrist to find and clamp onto the edge of the sheath. He peeled his hand free with a snap. The inside-out sheath dangled from his mouth. He shook it with a satisfied snarl, then dropped it too to her chest.
Elsa’s mouth hung open. The brazenness with which he’d exposed his hand was as much statement as challenge. He’d made his decision, whatever it was, and he’d thrown down the gauntlet. But oh what a gauntlet. He showed no uncertainty or fear. Quite the contrary, his checks gathered, eyes crinkled, and laughter bubbled up from his chest. He looked delighted to have made his declaration, euphoric to have shed his shackles. Elsa was gob-smacked and nearly breathless, as much from the act as from his elation.
She watched transfixed as he stripped his other hand bare, soaking him in with hyperawareness. How his soft hair tousled as he bit and yanked at the glove. How his face flushed with the effort. How his eyes sparked. And his teeth, how they glinted, shiny, white and wet with saliva. Heat and scent poured off him, rich and heady. She swore she could feel a current of something wild and vital coursing through him.
As soon as the second sheath landed on her chest, though, her thinking brain kickstarted. She latched onto a single fact; both of his hands were bare naked. He’d stripped them, just like that, without preamble or permission. And now what, her turn? Were they really doing this, showing hands? Sure, they’d sexed it up, started down a romantic path, but it was light years too soon. Unless this wasn’t really showing hands, not in the symbolic sense, not in the usual terms of long-term and abiding commitment. This had to be about his research, exploring powers and proving whether or not she was Crafter. Wasn’t it?
He must have seen the question on her lips. “Elsa, please, I beg of you, just go with it.”
When had she ever just gone with anything? He must have guessed that reaction too because he got busy.
He scooped up his discarded gloves and sheaths from her chest and tossed them above her head and out of sight. He yanked her shirt loose from her pants, slid his naked hands beneath her shirt, and spanned hands flat across her abdomen. For a time, he didn’t move, the stillness like a laying-of-hands, a sacred act of reverence. The moment lengthened and swelled with significance.
The quiet pause both stoked and stalled her desire; part of her screaming ‘come on, cop a feel, get on with it’, the other part desperate to figure out what he was doing: showing hands, getting naked, or shit, was he reading her? Could he do that without her knowing?
Lijah slid his hands beneath her back and unhooked her bra.
Okay, right on, getting naked.
He freed her breasts, pushing the bra up and out of the way. Her shirt, though, he left largely in place, keeping her discretely covered. Which was sweet, of course. But quaint and a little disappointing. She supposed, such reserve was to be expected, given his hundred years of existence. That, and his excruciatingly methodical approach to absolutely everything. Then again, the way he’d bared his hands had been neither proper nor meticulous. It had been bold and shameless and obviously practiced. Which reminded her. He’d done this before. His experiments. Thirty women.
Elsa really didn’t want to think about that.
“Here, hand me the rock,” said Lijah.
Wait. What?
He gestured to a spot just past her shoulder. “The rock, hand it to me please.”
A quick squeeze confirmed she still had a fucking rock in her hand. God he was irritating, especially since she had no idea what he was up to. “Why?”
He reached over, plucked it from her grip, and set it on her belly button. She squirmed to see what he was doing, and the rock promptly rolled off.
“Careful.” He scooped it up and set it back in place. “Remember, your job is to just go with it.”
“I thought my job was to hold the rock?”
He laughed quietly, devilishly. “Don’t worry. I’ll hand it back in a minute.”
The rock rested on her soft belly, held lightly in place between Lijah’s wide-spread hands. For a time, like before, he didn’t move. He closed his eyes, and she hers, allowing the stillness and warmth to rekindle the heat between them. When he released the rock to work his hands high under her shirt, Elsa held herself taut and motionless, not wanting the rock to topple, not wanting any disruption.
Lijah slid his hands slowly down her chest. His fingertips brushed featherlight overtop breast and nipple, while underneath his thumbnails pressed hard and deep. He did it again. And again. Each pass a different path, each stroke adding dimension. Time swelled, stilled, became irrelevant. Skin to skin, calloused hands, tingling warmth and contrasting pressures. She felt acutely sensate, present in body while in mind, adrift and senseless. And then just feeling, without body. And then infinity.