Busted Flush

He cocks his head to one side. The light glints off his multiple piercings. “You always use the crudest, most distancing phrases—fuck, sleep together. You never say ‘make love.’ Why do you do that?”

It’s strange, but the question takes me aback, and leaves me feeling naked. I fall back on flippancy. “I don’t believe in love?”

“I do.”

I point toward the door. “You have an army of groupies waiting out there.”

“Yeah, but they’re different from an ace.”

The champagne bottle hits the ice with a crash as I drop it back into the bucket. “Curveball is sleeping with John Fortune. Why reject what I’m offering?”

“I love her.”

“My God, you’re a hopeless romantic. What? You think you’re going to win her by limiting your fucking to nats?” His expression darkens and I realize I’ve allowed my disdain to show. How to recover? My mind flits over the past year and the things DB has done, and I see it. Dad was right, there’s something to the Bible. “Though I doubt you’ll live long enough.”

One of his hands closes around my upper arm and turns me around to face him. I’ll have bruises tomorrow. “What do you mean by that?”

“You seem to draw all the most dangerous assignments. You never just hand out food aid or deliver medical supplies.”

“Yeah? So? I’ve got a lot of power. As I showed in Egypt.”

“Do you read the Bible, Michael?”

“What? What the fuck?”

“Of course it’s mostly fairy tales, but those old prophets were pretty perceptive about human nature. It hasn’t changed much in three thousand years. Take the story of David and Bathsheba. Such a romantic story. What people forget is that she had a husband. ‘Set Uriah in the forefront of the hottest battle, that he may be smitten, and die.’ ”

Our eyes lock, and we hold the stare for a long, long time. “He wouldn’t,” DB finally forces past lips gone stiff with anger.

“If you say so. I’m sure he’s your very good friend.”

DB turns away, his broad, powerful shoulders hunch as if he’s trying to protect himself. “I wish you hadn’t come here.”

“Me, too. It’s going to be a lonely night.” And I prepare, visualize home, and teleport away. As I travel the Between I think it’s been a good night’s work.

Just Cause: Part II

Carrie Vaughn

NEW YORK CITY

KATE AND ANA RUSHED to catch the subway. Dinner at Stellar, the posh restaurant at the top of the Empire State Building, was one thing, but a cab ride during a fuel shortage was too much of an extravagance. They rode standing, holding on to one of the bars, talking in hushed voices about this and that, phone calls home, how Ana’s brother was applying to the University of New Mexico and how Kate’s parents were still upset that she’d dropped out of college. They got stares. They always got stares, and a few whispers, “Is that really them? It couldn’t be . . . They look so much like . . .”

Street level was quiet. Perpetually gridlocked traffic had vanished. A few government vehicles, a few cabs, and very few private cars were active. Fifth Avenue might have been a street in any small town. The air actually smelled decent.

As soon as they turned the corner, shouted questions began from the group of reporters waiting outside the Empire State Building. Kate and Ana stood shoulder to shoulder and prepared to run the gauntlet.

“Curveball! Earth Witch! Who’s your pick on the new season of American Hero?”

Be nice, Kate reminded herself. Keep the press on your side. Those were the rules from American Hero, and they still worked. She shrugged and smiled her sweetheart smile. Cameras flashed. “I don’t know, I’m not really watching.”

“We’ve been a little busy,” Ana added.

More questions. Kate couldn’t make them all out.

“Earth Witch! Reports say you collapsed from exhaustion in Ec ua dor. Is it true? How’s your health?”

Ana’s face was a mask, the smile frozen in place. “I’m fine,” she said.

Someone pushed her way to the front and stuck a digital recorder out. “Is the Committee going to intervene to stop the genocide in Nigeria?”

Amid the way-too-personal questions about romances, diets, and clothes, the political ones struck like bolts of lightning.

Kate’s sweetheart smile turned apologetic. “No comment. I’m sorry.”

With the doorman helping to clear the way, they slipped inside, leaving the reporters crowded on the sidewalk.

Ana let out a sigh.

“You okay?” Kate asked.

“I’m sick of people asking me that,” Ana said.

“We’re just worried—”

“I’m fine,” Ana said, her smile tight. It was what they all said. They were all so tough.

They took the express elevator to the restaurant. They were nearly the last to arrive.

John turned to the elevator when it opened; his face brightened. “Kate! Wow, you look great!” She beamed back at him. She’d been hoping for that reaction. She wore a silky, floral halter dress with heels, and her hair was up. That alone made her look about five years older and a ton more sophisticated.