Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

If he was honest with himself, what other scenario had he been imagining? Brewing inside him, he knew, were feelings that did not bear close scrutiny. He was a photojournalist, for Christ's sake, there on an assignment-that was it, and that was what he needed to focus on. The rest was just noise in his head.

He wiped some steam away from the mirror. His gaze was wide but dull-was he skirting the edge of the Big Eye? — and he needed a barber, too. His black hair was thick and unruly and curling over his ears. A couple of guys were yakking in the sauna behind him- from their voices he thought it might be Lawson and Franklin. He splashed some cold water on the spots where he'd cut himself, then took a quick shower and went back to his room.

Once there, he pulled the blinds down tight-he never thought he could hate the sun, but he did at that moment-and got into a fresh T-shirt and boxer shorts. He hoisted himself into his bunk and tried to straighten out the bedclothes; Darryl, he had noted, made his bed every day, but Michael saw no reason to do something at Point Adelie that he never bothered to do at home. He tugged the sheet up to keep the scratchy blanket off his legs, then yanked the bed curtains closed on all sides. Lying back in the narrow confines of the bunk, with the foam-rubber pillow wedged under his head, he stared up into the blackness.

His hair was still wet in back, and he lifted his head for a second to rub it dry. His eyes closed, and he took a long breath to relax himself. Then he took another, slow and deliberate. But his thoughts were still teeming. He pictured Sinclair on the cot set up in the old meat locker-the condiments box had been moved to make way- with a battery of space heaters running and Charlotte tending to his wound. She had needed to put in six stitches. Franklin and Lawson were assigned to keep watch in eight-hour shifts. Michael had volunteered to share the job, but Murphy had said, “Technically, you're still a civilian. Let's try to keep it that way.”

His mattress sagged in the middle, and Michael inched over toward the wall. Regardless of what Murphy thought, someone would eventually have to tell Eleanor about Sinclair. But how would she react? It should have been a simple question, but Michael wasn't so sure that it was. She'd be relieved, of course. Delighted? Probably. Passionate? Would she insist on going to him at once? Michael didn't know if it was wishful thinking, or some deeper insight, but he suspected that there was something in Eleanor that feared Sinclair. From what she had told him of their story-as fantastical a tale as any that he'd ever heard-Sinclair had taken her on a wild and dangerous odyssey… an odyssey that was still unfolding.

But as much as she might love him, was she still as dedicated to that journey as she had been at the start?

He pictured the brooch she wore. Venus, rising from the sea foam. It was appropriate, wasn't it? Eleanor had risen from the sea. And she was beautiful. Immediately, he felt disloyal even to have entertained such a thought-Kristin was barely in the ground.

But there it was. He couldn't deny it any more than he could stop it.

Eleanor's face haunted him. The emerald eyes under their long dark lashes. The rich brown hair. Even the ghostly pallor. She seemed as if she came from another world-perhaps because she had-and he feared for her entry into his. He wanted to protect her, to guide her, to save her.

The bunk itself was as silent and black as any grave.

He remembered his first sight of her, entombed in the ice.

And then coming upon her, frightened and alone, in the abandoned church. But she had not cowered. There was a spirit in her that had never been extinguished, despite everything she had endured.

What was it she played on the piano in the rec hall? Oh, yes, that sad old ballad-”Barbara Allen.” The plaintive notes tumbled through his head.

The curtains at the foot of the bed stirred.

He remembered the blush in her cheek when he had sat down beside her on the bench. The rustle of her dress, with its billowing sleeves. The tapered toes of her black shoes, touching the pedals.

The mattress sagged… as if it were accepting some other burden.

He thought of her scent, soapy but delicate… and the aroma seemed to envelop him now.

He thought of her voice… soft, refined, accented…

And then, out of the pitch black, he heard it.

“Michael…”

Had he just imagined that? The wind wailed outside.

But then he felt a warm breath on his cheek, and a hand touched his chest, as gently as a bird alighting on a branch.

“I can't bear it anymore,” she said.

He didn't move a muscle.

“I can't bear being so alone.”

She was lying on top of the blanket, but he could feel the shape of her body, pressing against his. How on earth had she…

“Michael… say my name.”

He wet his lips, and whispered, “Eleanor.”

“Again.”

He said it again, and he heard her sob. The sound nearly broke his own heart.

He turned toward her, and lifted his hand to her face in the darkness. He found a trickle of tears… and he kissed them. Her skin was cold, but the tears were hot.

She burrowed closer, and he could feel her breath-shallow and hurried-on his neck.

“You did want me to come to you… didn't you?”

“Yes,” he murmured, “yes, I did…”

And then he found her lips. They were soft and pliant… but cold. He longed to warm them. He kissed her harder, and held her close. But the blanket was so coarse, and it came between them.

He shoved it down, and his hands groped in the dark for her body. She was slim as a sapling and wearing only a slip of some kind… something as sheer as a sheet, and as easily dispensed with.

God, how good it felt to touch her. He ran his hand up her naked side, and she shivered. She was still so cold, but her skin was so smooth. He felt the knob of her hip, the flat plain of her stomach-the flesh quivering at his touch-then the soft swell of her breast. The nipple hardened like a button under his fingers.

“Michael…” She sighed, her lips against his throat.

“Eleanor…”

He felt her teeth nibble at his skin.

“Forgive me,” she whispered.

Before he could ask why, he felt the teeth sink into his throat like ice-cold pincers. A hot wet stream-his blood? — coursed down his neck, and he tried to cry out. But he strangled on the sound of his own scream, and he kicked out hard, to free himself from the bedclothes. His hands pushed at her, and kept pushing…

The bed curtains screeched back.

He could see her, rearing back, naked, with his blood on her lips, her eyes blazing…

Bright light shone in his face.

He pushed again, to throw her from the bunk…

And a voice was crying, “Michael! For God's sake, Michael… wake up! Wake up.”

His hands were still pushing, but someone had grabbed hold of them.

“It's me! It's Darryl!”

He stared out from his upper berth.

The lights were on. Darryl was hanging on to his hands.

“You're having a nightmare.”

Michael's heart was hammering in his chest, but his hands stopped flailing.

“The mother of all fucking nightmares, I'd say,” Darryl added, as Michael started to subside.

Michael's breath slowed. He glanced down. The sheet and blanket were twisted around his legs. The pillow was on the floor. He felt the side of his neck. It was damp, but when he looked at his fingertips, they were only covered with sweat.

“You're lucky I came back,” Darryl said. “You might have given yourself a heart attack.”

“Bad dream,” Michael said, his voice hoarse. “Guess I was having a bad dream.”

“No kidding.” Darryl blew out a heavy breath, then turned to take off his wristwatch and laid it on the nightstand. “What the hell was it about?”