Part 12 (2/2)

He fought his way to the hallway, found door upon door before him, each one revealing more ruined and desecrated s.p.a.ce: a gutted bedroom, a trashed nursery, the crib shattered, the plush toys lining the walls ripped to pieces and scattered, their bright plastic eyes blindly gleaming.

The storm crashed and boomed outside. The pounding redoubled with a vengeance, the door groaning from the impact of the blows. He could hear the wood bow and crack, start to give way. Syd turned. . .

. . . and that's when he saw Karen, standing at the head of the stairs: her face an empty mask, devoid of reaction. He could hear the front door cras.h.i.+ng inward, feel the wind that rushed through the house as the lightning flashed and blistered the sky. Karen stared at him, blankly uncomprehending, as something huge and made entirely of shadow ascended the stairs, rose up behind her.

Syd tried to move: the floor held his feet, trapping him. He tried to scream, anger fueling his fear. Can't you see it? Can't you feel it?? What's wrong with you?? He tried to warn her, but when he opened his mouth no sound would come out.

Karen watched his desperate pantomime, her eyes blank as mirrors. He watched in horror as the shadow descended, completely engulfing her. There was a terrible rending sound. He could not watch. As he looked away something soft and moist hit his leg, slid to the floor. Syd looked down.

Just in time to see that perfect mask land wetly at his feet. . . .

Syd jolted awake, completely disoriented. The dream fled in the cold light of consciousness, retreating from his grasp even as he tried to chase it. Karen's face fragmented, wraithlike.

And then it was gone.

Leaving Syd panting, afraid to move, unable to clearly remember why. He lay like that until his heartbeat slowed to somewhere near normal, then let his head sag back into the pillow. He looked at the clock. One-thirty. Jesus.

Nora murmured and curled into him, warm and serene. In sleep there were no traces of her previous emotional holocaust; indeed, the Nora who nestled so peacefully into the crook of his arm was so far from the hysterical creature smas.h.i.+ng dishes in the kitchen as to be another species entirely.

He had to admit her behavior had spooked him: he'd never been close-emotionally or physically-to someone who was so p.r.o.ne to violent mood swings. Nora's explosion had yanked him out of a dead-black slumber, sent him lurching into the kitchen to quell her private rampage. She had wanted only to be f.u.c.ked once he'd finally eased her back to bed. This they had done, despite his fatigue: Nora pinning him to the bed and grinding with such unhinged abandon that he thought he would pa.s.s out. It was fast and furious and over almost before it started, the carnal equivalent of beating drums to ward off evil spirits, an act of desperate intensity.

She punctuated her climax by raking her nails across his chest so hard that she actually drew blood, effectively obliterating Syd's o.r.g.a.s.m in mid-squirt. Then she collapsed, still clinging to him, and fell almost instantly asleep.

Leaving Syd to wonder what the h.e.l.l had just happened.

It was clear that whatever baggage she was carrying around was heavy and full of G.o.d only knew what kinds of secret pain and punishment. It was also clear that hand in hand with her pa.s.sion came the full-blown mother of all tempers. It was bad enough sneaking up on it from behind, dodging shrapnel and carrying a heartful of devotion; he shuddered at the thought of ever facing such anger head-on. He had the feeling that going up against Nora would not be fun.

Oh, well. She was here, she was with him, and he didn't want her to go. Weird as it all was, he could not imagine kicking her out of his bed. What had she said about risk? He decided he'd take his chances.

As Syd turned toward her his stomach suddenly flipped, did a curdling somersault into his bowels. A yawning emptiness opened like a trapdoor inside him, and he felt as though he had been sc.r.a.ped hollow. d.a.m.n, he realized. I'm starving.

It came as a shock, not just the immediacy of it but the depth. It was as though he had never felt this level of pure unadulterated craving before, as far removed from ordinary appet.i.te as a paper cut was from a traumatic amputation. And though he was so hungry that it had come full circle, until the mere thought of food now made him queasy, Syd realized he'd better eat something soon, or suffer the consequences.

He disengaged from Nora, started to get up. His gorge ballooned menacingly. Not good. He sat back down, took a deep breath, thinking not puke I will not puke I will not until it actually seemed to work.

He tried again. Better this time. Nora stirred beside him and slumbered on, oblivious. Pulling on sweatpants, Syd made his way out of the bedroom. His legs were quivering, unsteady as he moved. Syd felt loosely held together, as if any moment he might rattle apart and fly all over the room. He did a quick internal gauge as he reached the midway point between the bathroom and the kitchen, decided that no, he really wasn't about to hurl, but yes, he was incredibly dehydrated.

The kitchen won. Syd groaned and stumbled forth, careful to watch for any stray frags of gla.s.s. The fridge was just inside the door, and that was good. Hands shaking, he grabbed a half-gallon bottle of water off the shelf, brought it to his lips. A flood of icy liquid sluiced down his gullet, diluting his roiling gastric stew. He kept on drinking until he had drained fully half of it. By the time he was finished he actually felt a little better.

Syd surveyed the refrigerator's contents. Eggs sounded okay; h.e.l.l, maybe he'd even whip up a little breakfast-in-bed action, surprise her with it.

The first order of business was clearing away the debris. The sink and counter were littered with stray shards and slivers of ceramic and gla.s.s, and some had flown clear across the room. It took a good twenty minutes and a great deal of care to clean them all up; the whole time his thoughts jogged between worrying about what was bothering her and imagining what one of the plates would look like sailing at his head.

Once finished, he got the ingredients out and piled them on the counter. His kitchen setup was Spartan, consisting of leftover items Karen hadn't requisitioned for her own needs. There was a big black cast-iron frying pan hanging on a hook over the stove; he took it down, plopped it on the front burner and fired it up.

Next he began chopping veggies, using the big chef's knife that he'd insisted upon taking. As he worked, the frying pan started to smoke on the stove; Syd pinned back the heat, then carved off a hunk of b.u.t.ter and tossed it in. It sizzled and liquefied as he lifted the pan and rolled it, coating the surface.

Setting it down, he pulled a stainless-steel mixing bowl from the cupboard and opened the egg carton. There were six to the count, a neat three-egg omelet each-but then he saw that one sported a gummy-looking crack across its surface.

”Ugh,” he grimaced and set it aside, began cracking its siblings into the bowl with a fluid one-hand motion. Yolks swirled and ran, making a miniature cholesterol whirlpool. He tipped them into the heated pan.

The eggs bubbled and spread, browning at the edges; Syd waited a moment, then folded in half of the cheese and veggies. As they melded together in the pan he got down two plates, quartered an orange, put two slices on each one.

The kitchen filled with cooking smells; as he worked Syd began to realize that his appet.i.te wasn't responding the way it should. Though he was enjoying the process, and the hunger still raged inside him, everything he was making seemed strangely unappealing. It wasn't that the food wasn't good: the eggs and cheese were okay, and the vegetables were perfectly fine. He sniffed the b.u.t.ter to see if it was rancid; it was fine.

Too much excitement on not enough fuel, he figured, shrugging it off. He'd feel better when he got something into his system.

The smells mingled in the air oppressively. His belly burbled and gnawed at him. As he flipped the omelet he actually began to feel dizzy. He leaned over and cracked the door leading to the porch, took a deep lungful of air. Just then a voice sounded behind him.

Syd turned and saw Nora standing by the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his flannel s.h.i.+rts. Her hair was sleep-tossed and wild; the s.h.i.+rt itself was unb.u.t.toned, held closed only by her folded arms. She was bleary-eyed, more than a bit embarra.s.sed.

”Hi,” he said. Silence.

”Whatcha makin'?”

Syd smiled wanly, pus.h.i.+ng his hair back. ”Breakfast,” he replied. ”Well, more like brunch, actually. I was gonna surprise you.”

”Mmm,” she murmured, leaning against the fridge. ”Ain't you sweet.”

Syd moved back to the stove, and as he did she scooted over and slid her arms around him from behind. ”Sorry about last night,” she said.

”S'okay.” Syd shrugged, kept cooking.

”I've just got some s.h.i.+t to deal with. . . .”

”S'okay,” he repeated. She paused, gauging the vibe. ”You're not mad?” she asked.

”I wouldn't go that far,” he said. ”I mean, I don't like seeing you hurting like that. Not to mention it's really hard on the dishes. . . .” He flashed a smile; she didn't return it.

”Anyway,” he added, ”your past is your business, not mine. You want to talk, I'm here to listen. Otherwise . . .” he shrugged, let it go at that.

Nora hugged him. ”You know, you're pretty swell,” she said.

”Well, I'm swollen.”

She snickered then. A good sign. ”I noticed,” she said, burying her face between his shoulder blades as her hands slid down his stomach and into his sweats. Her s.h.i.+rt fell open, and Syd could feel her b.r.e.a.s.t.s press against his naked back. His beleaguered c.o.c.k began to respond in kind.

”Keep this up and you'll never eat,” he scolded.

”Maybe,” she replied. ”Maybe I don't need food.” She bit him on the shoulder. ”Maybe I'll just eat you.”

”Suit yourself,” he said. ”I, on the other hand, will die.”

”Aw, poor baby.” She released him, leaned back against the counter. He finished the first omelet, scooped it onto the plate.

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