Jessica Andersen - Spellfire

It wasn’t, though. And she should go.

There wasn’t any danger here; exactly the opposite. She could leave, knowing that Rosa was almost as safe as she would’ve been under Nightkeeper watch. But as David sat in the chair she’d just vacated, not giving any indication that he’d noticed its butt-print warmth, she stayed put, looking at him. Spying on him, really. But this might be the last time she saw him, so she would let herself look her fill.

“See?” he said to the little girl, “I told you I’d be back. You ready to write her another little letter?”

A thrill raced through Anna. Did he mean her?

He dug in the pocket of his lab coat and came up with the little foldaway computer he used—a clever machine with a decent-sized keyboard and the ability to get a satellite uplink almost anywhere, at least according to him. He woke it up, tapped a few keys, and gave a little laugh. “It’s only been twelve hours since the last one. Too much, do you think?”

The thrill turned to giddy, excited warmth, though Anna told herself to take it down a notch. This wasn’t the time to be crushing on her human contact.

If not now, then when? her inner voice of reason asked.

“Ah, heck,” David said, laughing at himself. “Nothing ventured and all that.” He patted the teddy bears near where Rosa’s hand would be. “I hope you’re taking notes, little one. You’ll need to know this stuff in another ten years or so. And don’t think it’s irrelevant because I’m, well, not as young as I was the first time around, or as young as you’re going to be when you start trying it out for yourself.” He looked down at the scant paunch that just barely overhung his belt, sat up straighter until it went away, and grinned. “Well, anyway. Love makes you goofy, no matter what age it hits.”

Anna’s breath whooshed out, loud enough that she was very glad the chameleon shield cloaked sounds as well as her image. Love? She had been thinking of it as a crush, infatuation, interest . . . but love?

Part of her backpedaled hard and fast, saying, No way. This is just . . . I don’t know. A distraction. At most, it’s the potential for something more, something to look forward to. But another part of her yearned toward the word, and toward the idea of a man who wanted her enough to suck in his gut and worry about how long it’d been since his last e-mail.

She stared, drinking him in as he said, “Ah, well. In for a peso, or however that goes,” and started typing out a message.

Her phone weighed suddenly very heavy in her pocket. When was the last time she’d been wanted? When was the last time she had wanted in return? When had she thought about loving and being loved, rather than about the war?

She didn’t remember . . . and she didn’t remember it feeling like this before.

With Dick, it had been more about being awed by his quick mind and caustic wit, and feeling so very normal when she was with him. Their love had evolved in a series of kite-flying dates—he designed and built them when he wasn’t being a brilliant economist—and their marriage had stayed solid for more than a decade. Eventually, though, infertility had undermined the foundation, boredom and lack of communication had knocked out more of the bricks, and his infidelity had eventually brought down the walls. Or maybe her being a Nightkeeper had more to do with it than she wanted to admit. She didn’t know anymore, wasn’t even sure she cared.

She had truly loved Dick while it lasted. But even back when she’d been falling for him, her feelings for him hadn’t been anything like this. They hadn’t hit her like a funnel cloud of champagne, surrounding her with fizzy, tickling bubbles and making her head spin. And they sure as heck hadn’t made her want to tell him the truth about her, about everything.

Don’t even think it.

Maybe she was projecting. Maybe this was one of those, “I’m being deployed tomorrow, let’s shag,” impulses she’d heard about. Maybe when the day after tomorrow dawned—and, damn it, she would let herself believe there would be a day after tomorrow—she wouldn’t be dying to catch him alone and really touch him, more than just the casual brush of bodies in passing. It was so frustrating to feel that contact through the protective gear he still insisted she wear, even though the virus appeared to have entered stasis. She wanted to lose those layers, wanted his hands on her, his mouth on hers, and—

Down, girl.

She blew out a steadying breath as her pulse thudded in her ears. Maybe in forty-eight hours, with the world’s problems solved and her whole life opening back up in front of her, she would look at him and see just a guy who appeared to own three shirts, one pair of shoes, and no comb.

She didn’t think so, though. And for right now, when she needed to believe in so many new, scary things, she would give herself permission to believe in this one, too.

“Too much?” he asked, tipping the small display toward Rosa. “Yeah. I thought so.” He tapped a key, muttering, “Delete, delete, delete,” under his breath.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Anna said softly. It didn’t matter that he was thinking about her, writing to her; he didn’t know she was there, and would certainly be acting differently if he did.

She should go.

And she would. In a minute. Right now, though, she couldn’t pull her eyes from the intense concentration in his face as he typed one-handed, or the way his other hand rested on the teddy bear blanket, including Rosa in the moment. The camp light cast strange shadows, making him look larger than himself, larger even than the room itself.

“How about this?” He tipped the screen again. “I think that’s better. Don’t you?”

Rosa didn’t answer, but the image of the two of them together engraved itself on her mind, looking somehow both fragile and rock solid, and so very worth saving.

Just go, she told herself. You can see them both later. Maybe. Hopefully.

When the thought threatened to depress the shit out of her, she closed her eyes and made the ’port. And as the magic closed around her and yanked her from the room, she told herself not to think about the two people she was leaving behind, not to hash over something that shouldn’t be—couldn’t be—her main concern.

Still, once she was back at Skywatch, alone in her suite, she checked her phone every thirty seconds or so until David’s e-mail came through. When it did, the ringtone made her jump and sent her pulse into overdrive.

Her hand shook a little as she hit the key to bring up the message, and she made herself look away for a moment, partly to prove that she could, and partly to enjoy the anticipation. It was real. He was real, and he was interested in her for real.

Finally, she blew out a breath and let herself look.

Dear Anna,

I hope this message finds you away from the doomsday craziness, perhaps even back in the States. Not that I want you gone, but I’d rather have you safe, even if it means I won’t have my favorite translator to call on, at least not in person. At least not right now. Granted, we’re safe here inside the zone, but the crowds are growing and small riots have already broken out beyond the perimeter. I’ve been out to tend some of the wounded, and I don’t want to see you among them. Please don’t make me.

Ah, I’m messing this up, aren’t I? I don’t mean to be a downer, or to order you around. Blame it on the hours, I guess, or the frustration of knowing that although the virus has stalled, it did it on its own terms, and could, for all I know, kick back on at a moment’s notice. I hate that we’re not making any progress in curing it. Rosa is here with me right now, but there’s been no change. We’re just sitting here, waiting it out. But for how long? Will tomorrow really be the turning point? As much as I’ve tried to level off the doomsday rumors, it’s hard not to think that the tide is poised to turn. I just hope—pray, though I wouldn’t know what god or gods to pray to under the circumstances—that if things do turn around tomorrow, they turn in our favor.