You fidget nervously on the couch, picking up the TV remote and flicking through several channels before turning it off. In the end you didn’t have the courage to talk to Frank there and then in the aftermath of the wedding, but you did arrange to meet him later. That’s why you are here now, shifting uncomfortably on the couch in the living room of Charles’ home in Olympia, waiting for Frank to speak to you.
You shift in your seat again, kicking off your shoes and curling your legs up under you. The television turns on again with a flick from the remote and you settle onto a news channel. They’re reporting the wedding again. Half a week later it is still filling up the local news. They’re even calling it the Red Wedding, a reference to some television show that was popular a few years ago.
Evidently Joe did a good job, because the newscasters are absolutely convinced it was the work of foreign terrorists. The blatancy of that lie is obvious to you, if only because you know the truth of what happened. The report struggles to explain why terrorists would a small wedding in the middle of nowhere in the mid-west. The best the news anchor can come up with seems to be ‘they hate our way of life’. At least the secrets of the Stellae remain hidden, from the general public, if not Fane.
“That’s a little morbid,” says a voice from above you.
It’s Rosalie. She sits in the seat beside you, drawing her feet up in a mirror of your own pose. Rosalie lies her head on an armrest and sighs loudly.
“Not the way I wanted to remember my big day,” she says in a sad little voice.
You almost say ‘what are you doing here’. Joe and Rosalie don’t live with Charles in Olympia anymore after all. But you stop when you look at her face. Rosalie looks as if she is carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.
“Are you ok,” you ask gently. Unbidden, Eldibria roars in your mind and feels for her emotions. She’s more than a little scared, but it’s a fear of the unknown, of the future. You let Eldibria lap round her gently, carrying away her worries.
“Yes… No…” she admits. Rosalie raises her head and looks at you askew. “Are you using Eldibria on me?” You hold up you hands and smile faintly. “Thank you,” she says in a quiet voice. “Charles was speaking to me and Malaika. With…” Her voice cracks a little. “With Fyodor gone he has to pick a successor.”
Rosalie falls silent. The television continues to blare in the background – a human interest story about a lost cat.
“He chose me,” she eventually says.
“Rosalie, that’s…” you tail off. It isn’t great news. “I’m sorry it happened this way.”
“I am too,” she says with a weak smile.
“I know,” you concur. You keep working away at her emotions subtly, washing away her doubts. “But you’ll do a good job when the time comes, you will.”
“Thank you,” she replies. “For saying that and for making me feel better,” she adds, obliquely referring to emotioncraft. Rosalie hugs you, only stopping when Malaika arrives in the room. She gets up and gives the teenager a hug too.
You turn your senses to the African Stellae. For her, the prevailing emotion is tiredness. The last few days have left her weary and drained. You let Eldibria foam around her, invigorating her and lending her new resolve.
“How are you holding up,” you ask.
She looks at you with dead eyes and shrugs. “Not so well.”
“Did you go to see Hilda,” you ask, still letting Eldibria surge round Malaika. “How was she?”
“She was in surgery when Kali took me to the hospital yesterday,” says Malaika. “The doctors said she was doing well but would need time to heal, but she might not be able to walk again properly.” Malaika looks close to tears and you redouble your efforts with Eldibria.
“That might be true for someone else,” says Rosalie comfortingly. “But Hilda is a Malacandra. They’re tough.”
“I know,” sniffles Malaika. “But…”
“She’ll pull through,” says Rosalie, lifting up Malaika’s chin. “Come on, I’ll take you back to Kali.”
“You’re staying with Kali now,” you ask. Malaika nods. “She’ll teach you to use your prodigies better. She taught me and Rosalie you know.”
“I’m worried about leaving Hilda alone,” replies Malaika.
“Don’t,” you tell her. “Me and the girls will be close by.”
You settle back into the sofa after Malaika and Rosalie leave. Whatever your troubles, at least you are free of the strains of leadership. You flip off the television again and fold your hands in your lap, almost settling into a meditation state. That’s how Frank finds you a few moments later – peaceful and relaxed.
He takes you through the room that he and Joe shared as boys. Although Frank has been staying with Charles, the room looks unslept in. It probably is too: Frank is in the habit of sleeping outdoors regardless of the weather. Only the requirements of maintaining a cover tend to force him into a bed. Frank settles himself at a small writing desk and starts tidying away some paperwork wordlessly. You look around the room as you wait for him to finish. The row of Hardy Boys novels in the bookshelf and the small telescope speak volumes about Frank and Joe’s childhood.
“So what is it Siobhan,” says Frank, setting the paperwork to one side. He stares out the window at the back garden rather than you.
“I wanted… counselling,” you struggle to reply. Now that you are here, this suddenly doesn’t seem like so good an idea anymore.
“You didn’t speak with Father Ed,” states Frank baldly. It isn’t a question. The air of the room starts to weigh down on you, a sure sign of the presence of Lurga. You suppose that means Frank has consented to take your confession, though he says nothing. He merely continues to stare at the dead tree stump out in the back garden.
“I killed three people,” you say, forcing the words out of a dry feeling mouth. “At Rosalie’s wedding.”
For a moment Frank continues to stare out of the window. Then he moves blisteringly fast, pushing his chair back and spinning round till he faces you. You don’t see the blow coming. Frank strikes with an open hand, slapping you across the face. It stings sharply, leaving you to rub at your cheek with one hand.
“That’s it,” he asks angrily. You feel the weight bearing down on you intensify and your legs buckle. “I killed people at the wedding too.”
You tremor a little as Frank bristles in front of your face. You had forgotten how physical he could be with his use of Lurga, and fear forces the words to spill out quickly as you continue. “I didn’t have to,” you explain. “I could just have knocked them out. We could have captured them, interrogated them.”
“Why?”
“I was scared, angry,” you reply, still talking rapidly. “They were going to hurt Bea.”
Frank doesn’t move. His eyes bulge and his breathing is rapid. Then he takes a deep breath. His eyes flicker and he seems to calm himself. “You let it rule you,” he states.
It seems an odd thing to say, given Frank’s rage of only a few seconds ago. In a twisted way it makes sense though. His saturnine temperament is broken only by bouts of anger, but Frank has learned to leash it, control it, as you’ve just witnessed.
You aren’t sure where the impulse come from, but you project a thin cord of Eldibria’s power back at Frank, through the immense pressing force of Lurga that surrounds him and swirl those tempers of his again. His face reddens and his hands clench and unclench themselves. This time you are expecting the slap and catch Frank’s arm before it lands. He stares into your eyes.
The next thing you know, you are pinned against the wall, held in place by the momentous force of Franks will. You gasp as he starts running down your body, reaching up under your jumper till they come to rest on your boobs. He closes to kiss you, his tongue darting about inside your mouth like a rapier.
“Oh stars,” you murmur as he pulls away for a brief second. “Don’t stop.”
Despite the intensity of Lurga’s presence around you – maybe even because of it – your body is on fire, each nerve ending feeling impossibly sensitive to Frank’s rough motions. He kneads your breasts with one hand while the other wanders down your stomach and loosens your skirt. At the same time, your own hands seem to have taken on a life of their, working their way inside the waistband of Frank’s pants. You quiver as you feel his cock through his shorts.
“Oh Joe,” you moan, feeling yourself loosen between the legs.
Suddenly everything stops.
“What did you say,” shouts Frank angrily, taking a step back from you. For a few seconds you are terrified he will hit you again, this time with full force rather than pulling the blows like he did earlier. The anger passes from his face like a cloud driven away on windy day. “I think you should leave.”
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