Page 35 of Love, Nemesis
He was taller than her. Stronger. Leverage and speed would be her advantage. She could snap a knee first, an ankle maybe. No matter how strong or big someone was, joints would always be joints.
Ana broke out of focus, blinking as she realized a much more likely possibility. The man was just some type of war aficionado, foolishly sporting the ROSE brand for the social shock and mystique. The type of people who came to see Evira’s circus were no doubt part of the deviant culture of The Ocean’s War fanaticism, after all. All true supporters of the Riders of Saint East stayed in hiding. She knew a handful in the State, but one would have to be a victim of foolish and ignorant fanfare to actually wear a ROSE symbol in public.
She settled back into her chair, looking around as she rubbed her neck. The idea of coming to see Evira after her flashback a few days before must have put her on edge with her past. Now she was imagining En Sanctans in the crowd. More than that, she thought she’d seen a supporter of the ROSE.
She laughed inwardly at herself. Next thing she knew, she’d see an actual Rider of Saint East walking through the crowd. Of course, they’d all died in the Burning of the Strike, but with the way she’d been feeling lately, why not?
“You looked like you were sizing someone up.” Jasper interrupted her train of thought, slipping a drink onto the table beside her as he sat back down from his trip. He leaned over as if to catch her line of sight. “Five-six, one-hundred and sixty pounds, oh—and a gimp leg. He wouldn’t last five seconds, I bet.”
Ana glanced back, but the man was lost in the crowd. Jasper appeared to be watching another man making conversation near one of the far away tables. She forced a laugh.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Myself. Life.” She took a sip from a cup on the table. “All of this stuff with Evira has me on edge. I swore I just saw an En Sanctan with a rose on his glove,” she said, feeling guilty for how intense her reaction had just been. The man was probably just another run-of-the-mill deviant who didn’t know what he was doing. “I was really close to getting out of my seat.”
“Oh, yeah. I saw a booth near one of the tents with black finger paint, telling kids they could pretend to be a Strike. Lots of those types here. Granted, I didn’t almost confront someone. What? Did you see the person stealing cake or something?”
Worse. She thought she’d seen an En Sanctan stealing cake.
“Something like that. It’s not important,” she said, finishing her drink.
Three pieces of cake, with his dirty, bloodstained hands.
She reeled herself in again.
“There will always be cake stealers,” she said, lifting her glass as if to toast him.
“Let there always be Statesmen to stop them.” Jasper raised his glass back. “You should meet Jonah, by the way.” He waved someone over from where he’d just come.
Ana prepared to introduce herself.
She scanned the crowds one last time.
Chapter 9: Fire & Wine
AGAINST THE COMMON understanding of beauty, the wrinkled lilac dress accentuated her like a river around stones. The loose fabric shifted with every subtle movement, announcing the careful placement of toned legs and strong hips. There was something very intentional in her movements. There was also something vulnerable and exposing in her physical strength, Lethe observed, in that he could see her body move, from the tug in her arm to the very flickers of muscle through her legs against the dress.
He could see a sharp tenderness in her fingers as she pinned a sunlit curl behind her ear. And a muffled boldness in the way she scanned the crowds with wary eyes but loose posture.
Her dark hair washed over the curves of her shoulders and back, a wild sculpture of the wind. A breeze rolled her hair over her shoulder, and she moved her fingers over the columns of her throat and then her ear as if it had whispered something to her. Her eyes flickered back toward the crowd and he witnessed for a second a wildfire in her eyes, and then saw it muffled again, perhaps by rules akin to campfire stones she’d carved from some social or religious convictions.
The man next to her leaned over and whispered something. Her expression broke into a laugh, a bright flare of broken restraint before she recoiled again. She was a picture of the pulling tides, an embodiment of inner tension that made conflict seem like an art. He wondered how fragile the balance was.
“Hey, are you going to finish your drink?” Cal chirped, and with his voice, the singing, the crowd, the noise of it all flooded Lethe’s focus.
Lethe leaned back in his chair, tugged from the closest he could feel to a meditative state. He released the end of this thumb, trapped between his front teeth pensively. His hand fell back against the empty plate on the table.
His eyes were still on the woman. He’d caught her looking first, staring daggers, which had caught him off guard. She’d been so focused on his hands when he’d picked up the piece of bread that she hadn’t seen him notice her.
He’d wanted to approach her then, ask what her problem was, but thought it better to watch and wait. Her attention differed from curiosity, lust, or hatred. She looked at him like she wanted to challenge him, and that sent a steely shiver of anticipation up his spine. Now, he savored the pleasurable hum of it. Admittedly, a bit of a glutton for some things, he was reverent when it came to power.
It wasn’t the kind of power that came from mutations, though he liked that too. This was the power of the human spirit, forged through conflict—two persons sharpened against one another by friction. That was his meaning in life, to always be sharper, and it was always a pleasant surprise to spot another knife in the crowd.
He saw all of this, but there was one final detail that, above all of the others, incited him to approach her—the circular brand of an En Sanctan slave. Exposed on her collarbone, she seemed to wear it without any qualms. In fact, he hoped that she might even wear it with the stoic pride of a survivor.
“You ate your cake with your hands?” Cal blurted out, reminding Lethe that he was still there.
Lethe rubbed his face, glancing over through his fingers to see Cal examining the crumbs over the plate.
