Page 13 of Night in a Waste Land

He stood and whirled in an instant, wings opening wide, blocking off her view of whoever stood in the aisle – protecting her, she realized. He was shielding her from the interloper. His tail lashed against the flagstones, and he growled like an animal; a deep, resonant, big-cat sound. An unmistakable threat.

“Whoa.” She recognized Lance’s voice. “Easy there. It’s only me.”

The growl repeated, and Beck didn’t back down.

“Beck.” Rose ducked under his wing and climbed up onto the pew on her knees. Lance stood halfway down the aisle, both arms lifted, empty palms toward them. Beck had his head ducked, and his teeth bared, fangs long and gleaming in the candlelight. “Beck, it’s okay. It’s just Lance.”

When she glanced toward him, she saw that Lance was staring at her, brows lifted in silent question.You gonna do something about this?Canyou?

She shuffled around and put her hand on Beck’s chest; she could feel the growl, like the chug of an idling engine. “It’s okay,” she repeated. “He’s a friend.”

Beck glared at him a moment longer, eyes glassy with aggression; nothing about his expression was human in that moment. It wasn’t even the thrill of the hunt she remembered from before; this was a predator with prey in its sights.

I don’t feel changed, he’d said only moments ago.

But he was.

Finally, Beck snorted, and straightened. Closed his wings. Standing, with the hooks linked behind his neck, it fell around him like a cloak. It made him look imperial, regal; a fitting look.

He schooled his features to a mask of polite disdain. The growl died away. “Lance,” he said, coldly. “A friend. Of course.”

Slowly, Lance lowered his hands, but made no move to come closer. He darted another look toward Rose, uncertain, questioning.

“Tell me, Lance.” Beck said his name like it was a form of bacteria. “How did you manage to go from one of Castor’s thugs to being Rose’sfriend?”

Lance started to answer, but Rose dug her fingertips into Beck’s chest and said, “He was working undercover back then. It’s a long story, but he was never one of Castor’s people, not really. He’s military.”

“A Rift Walker,” Lance added, “if that means anything to you.”

“He is.” Her chest tightened, and she breathed through it. “And so am I.”

His eyes widened, and his gaze slid toward her, gilded and burning. She felt his pulse give a hard bump beneath her palm. “Well, then. I suppose you’d better explain from the beginning.”

~*~

She’d known all along that there were things she wasn’t going to tell him, when he asked about the five years he’d missed. She had always been so honest with him, before, but there were times when secrets were a blessing. When they prevented hurt, and preserved love.

She’d known that, but she’d been fixated wholly on the ritual. The sacrifice. The crazy chance of it all. And now here he was, and he wanted answers – some of which she couldn’t give him.

She relayed what she could. Told him about Lance getting her out of Castor’s mansion that night. About the way, even then, the cracks were already appearing in the fabric of the world; hell open, and the Rift on the verge of cleaving the sky again.

Told him about going back to the house. About finding Kay. She stumbled over that bit when she was reminded of the fact that she hadn’t tried to drag Kay’s body to the car; hadn’t tried to give her a proper burial.

“It wasn’t her anymore, sweetheart,” Beck murmured, his hand warm and grounding on the back of her neck.

She told him about Lance’s offer to join up, and about the way, after a few weeks on the streets, amidst the rain, and the screaming, and the fighting, and the ugliness, she’d sought the recruitment office.

“It was a way to stay alive,” she explained. “A way to maybe, one day, get you back. I knew you weren’t dead.” She lifted her face to seek his gaze, and found it troubled, poorly-disguised. “And now here I am.”

“Here you are.”

“I came as quick as I could.”

“I know you did.” He fingered a strand of hair that had come loose from her braid. Coiled it around his finger, his expression softening fractionally. “You learned that it suited you, though, didn’t it?”

“What did?”

“Soldiering.” He let the hair slip free, and drew his hand back into his lap. “You’re a ferocious little thing. You needed an outlet.” He nodded. “I understand.”

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