Page 21 of Junk Magic

Cyrus wrapped me in towels and carried me to bed, and for once I didn’t even feel like complaining about how many he used. My hair was still wet, although no longer soapy; guess we’d kept at it long enough to rinse me off. Not that I cared about that, either.

I cared about this, I thought, rolling on top and kissing him. And taking my time with it, long minutes of soft nibbles and dueling tongues, and warm sighs and beard burn, but I’d deal with it. I’d deal with a lot for this.

I eventually snuggled up next to the warmth of a squeaky-clean boyfriend, who’d had two baths tonight. And who didn’t seem all that tired. I grinned sleepily, from under his arm.

“You want to go again?” I asked, as his hand found my thigh.

“I want to you to answer the question.”

“What question?”

“Lia.”

It took me a moment. He was honestly that good. And then I remembered, and some of the golden glow faded.

“Let’s just go to sleep,” I offered.

“Mmhm. So you can be off again tomorrow before we can discuss this.”

“We don’t need to discuss it.”

“Don’t we?”

The question hung in the air.

More glow faded. But not that much. I’d gotten blackout curtains recently, because the Corps doesn’t keep regular hours, and I sleep better in complete darkness. As a result, the only light source was my alarm clock, showing just after five A.M. It would be light outside in less than two hours. I did need to sleep.

But, I realized, I needed something else more.

I fiddled with the sheet that was barely covering us. I could see Cyrus’s hand moving underneath it, stroking the still damp skin of my thigh, because he’d missed a spot. I needed another towel, I thought. But that wasn’t what came out of my mouth.

“I went to a laundromat the other day.”

Cyrus was quiet for a moment. I hadn’t told him that that was why I’d been bitching about the towels, because I had to lug them halfway across town to clean up. I very deliberately had not told him that.

“I said I’d get you another washer and dryer,” he finally said.

“Yeah.”

But that wouldn’t change what had happened to the old ones, would it?

Not that anything had happened to them, exactly. As far as I knew, they were perfectly functional, a nice set of shiny new appliances, in white because I hadn’t yet decided what color to paint the laundry room when I bought them. I still hadn’t; I hadn’t been back in there since the incident.

The laundry was just off the kitchen, a narrow little room, but big enough for the necessary equipment, as well as an ironing board that folded down from the wall. I’d been thinking of adding a soaking sink, because potion residue is a bitch to get out, and maybe some additional shelves to hold detergent and such. The house was a new model, never occupied before I moved in, so it lacked the little touches that made a home.

It still did.

Maybe it always would, because I wasn’t sure I even wanted to stay here anymore.

I kept telling myself to stop being stupid, that it had been six months, that it was ridiculous to keep trucking the wash all the way across town when I had a perfectly usable laundry right here.

Only it wasn’t perfect.

Not anymore.

I could still see Adam’s body, so starkly colorful against all that builder’s grade white paint. He had been on his feet, but only because a section of the laundry room door had imbedded itself in the wall through his abdomen. I’d replaced the door, and Cyrus had cleaned up the blood, which had splattered the appliances and poured down the body in wide streams to puddle on the floor.

It didn’t matter. I could still see it, every time I closed my eyes; still smell it, the sickeningly-sweet scent like pennies on my tongue. Still see the glazed, staring eyes of my enthralled student, the one I’d killed.

---