Page 7 of Unholy Gambit: Checkmate in Blood
“Would you like my arm, to be sure your knee’s okay?” He bent his arm and offered it so she could hold his forearm.
She hesitated, studying him, and her thoughts told him she was considering his intent — help, or pity?
And her martial brain, the one that made her a rising international chess star, decided someone who’d rip the head off the bad guys rather than killing them the normal way wasn’t likely to pity someone recovering from knee surgery.
She grasped her small, warm hand around his arm, and he should’ve gone into her head, a slight mental adjustment to keep her from noticing he was the same temperature as the air around them.
But he didn’t.
He let her feel it. Let her register the difference.
And his Aurélie held on. No pause. No shock.Acceptance.
So he took a few moments to feel her heat wrapped around his forearm.
His heart doesn’t have to beat, and yet, it skipped into action.Hard.
A slight inner adjustment, and it smoothed out.
“It feels like I’ve always known you,” she said quietly, “and yet, I don’t even know your name.”
“Axel.”
“My friends call me Aury.”
“You’ve been my Aurélie for so long in my head, it’ll take some time to get used to thinking of you as Aury.”
“How could I be yours?”
“I’m not sure it’s explainable, but I can try when we have some privacy.”
* * * *
Aury felt as if she was inside a vision, coming face to face with the man who’d appeared in her dreams a thousand times. More, probably.
Except this time, the man standing in front of her was real. Cold, but real.
Cold as in no emotions, but also physically cold. His arm was like touching granite on a cool, fall night — and this night fit the bill.
She was bundled up in flesh-colored long-johns, a fleece-lined tan unitard, and layers of zombie clothes. The ancient wool coat had been a thrift-store find after the mall’s coats were all too fashionable, and she was happy for its warmth.
He didn’t seem to know what to do with all the pipe-pieces when he took the chair from its sack, so she took it from his hands, quickly assembled it, and found a flat spot of ground.
“Sit, so I can do your makeup.”
He sat, and she went to work, brushing on the super-dark contour she’d bought just for this purpose, to make her look hollowed out and dirty.
As a test, shethoughtat him. It stood to reason he’d erased her memories, and that was why she dreamed him but didn’trememberhim.
If the dreams were accurate, he’d known what she was thinking all those years ago, so it seemed logical he’d hear her if she aimed her thoughts to talk to him. Her heart thudded once,hard, like it wanted out of her chest, but she kept her face neutral and her brush steady. No point letting him see the gamble she was taking.
You haven’t aged a day in eighteen years, you can overwrite memories, and you can rip the head off super-strong monsters.
He didn’t respond, so she tried again.I don’t think you’re Thor or Loki, or anyone of that ilk. You don’t feel like an angel, and demons don’t usually rescue children from monsters.
He looked at her with interest, and she didn’t think she imagined feeling him in her head, listening, but she couldn’t be certain. She took a moment to consider whether there was an opposite to vampires. Buffy, she supposed.
The only other thing I can think of is vampire, but the thing that attacked Maman was a vampire, if my dream is correct. That would make you either Van Helsing or Buffy.
