Part 23 (1/2)

She watched him. These past days of study had been good for him in so many ways. He looked bigger. Like his heart had grown apace with his understanding. She smiled. ”Pretty good thinking, I'd say.”

He would have said more, but there was a m.u.f.fled thump and a thud from the dining room. Kess headed for the dining hall. ”Bee, I told you I'd get you another book when...”

There were almost a dozen men in the dining hall. Eleven large men. Strangers. The north door lay drunkenly off its hinges. Bee, small and silent, was trapped between them and the locked south door.

So stupid! To have forgotten, in the pleasure of Mac's company, the reason for his presence. Kess cursed herself viciously. even as her face drew into impa.s.sive lines.

”Dinner isn't until ten,” she said, cool and calm. ”Cane at eight, Haps at nine. Everyone else until midnight.”

One of the men, with a blue kerchief, snorted. ”We're hungry now.”

”That's regrettable, but not my problem.”

”We could make it your problem,” said another miner, skinny one.

She gave him a disintegrating smile. ”Not you.”

Even as he flushed, another man pushed forward. She didn't step back, but she wanted to. He was shorter, this man. A little broader than the first, a little cleaner than the second. The focus of them all. That he was the lynchpin, she had no doubt.

That she was in serious, serious trouble, she was certain.

”Just like we heard,” he said. Pleasant, affable. ”A hot meal, and a pretty little angel to serve it to us.”

”You've been misled,” she said, her voice calm. Her mind thinking frantically of escape, of Bee, of Mac, stuck in the kitchen. Of Ash. ”This is the Angel's Kitchen, yes. But not the angel.”

”Well, I might just make my own judgment on that,” said. His eyes were pale and dead. ”After.”

Behind her, the kitchen door opened. Mac pressed the handle of a heavy kitchen knife into her hand. Then he stepped up beside her. His voice was steady and strong. ”I think you gentlemen should be on your way.”

There was laughter at that, and Blue Kerchief made a grab for Bee.

His mistake. Kess was on him before he could get there. One hard jab to the throat, and he stumbled. She forced him to his knees, set her knife to his throat. ”Bee.”

Bee flew to Mac's side. The skinny one jerked forward, stopped when Kess drew a drop of his colleague's blood.

”I've been in the Darks for ten years,” she told them, her eyes on the leader. ”Do you really think I spent all that time in the kitchen?”

The leader smiled. ”You wouldn't dare.”

Later, Kess knew, she'd remember. She'd shake, she'd cry. She'd probably throw up: she had last time. But that was for later. Now, without losing the leader's gaze, she put the point of the knife under the man's dirty blue kerchief, and sank it home. Sliced down, across.

Dropped the body as the blood began to spray.

The leader wasn't smiling anymore. Kess turned the b.l.o.o.d.y knife till it lay against her arm and took three steps back. Let them stumble over the body. ”Come on, then.”

She'd evened the odds, but only a little. These were tough fighting men, not scared drunks. But this was her place. And she was not alone.

”Bee, go to my room. Pull the ladder up behind you. Get Ash. Get Johns. Go now. Don't argue, go. Mac, we're back to back. No rules. Do whatever you can.”

Then the world narrowed sharply.

There was a rhythm to knife fighting, one she hadn't forgotten. The first man to test her died swiftly, surprised. The second took a cut, but backed away. She had to follow, to keep them from having room enough to swing a length of razor wire, G.o.ds, don't even think it...

It was a frenzy of slas.h.i.+ng, of ducking, dodging, las.h.i.+ng out in every direction. Of punching, kicking, howling. Of broken chairs, of aching limbs. Of feeling Mac's solid presence stumble, fall...

...He was down, his bright hair splattered with blood. There was a man in front of him. With a knife. And dead blue eyes...

Kess cried out, she knew it. But she couldn't hear. Because a storm erupted in the Angel's Kitchen. A fury of wind, of scouring rain. A desert storm of whipping, blinding sand. Pounding thunder, the sound of a million wings, or possibly screams. And in the center, a fire. Of flas.h.i.+ng teeth, of claws. A bolt of lightning, concentrated into the size of a fragile eight year old...

Then...

...Slowly, warily, wounded, the silence crept back.

Bleeding, gasping, Kess stumbled over something that might have been human, once, to get to Mac. His bright eyes gazed up, saw nothing. His chest was a b.l.o.o.d.y ruin. She sank to his side. ”Oh, Mac. Oh baby. Oh Mac...”

A small hand reached across his broken body, took hers. There was blood on the hand, blood on Bee's clothes. Bee's teeth. But Bee's eyes were dark, and warm. And so very deep.

”Bee,” she said helplessly, ”Mac's dead!” And she sobbed once.

”Yes.”

Kess scrubbed at the tears that kept coming. ”I have to take care of him. I have to...”

”I'll take care of him now.” Bee's voice was like a rolling wave, a distant star.

No wonder, Kess thought ridiculously, I couldn't tell. Not young, not old. Ageless. ”Bee...”

There was a light had it always been there? around Bee, and Mac. ”Ash is coming,” said Bee. ”And Johns, and the rest. Let them help you.”

”But Bee... How...” She stopped, sat down hard. Everything hurt, suddenly. From the inside out. Especially inside. Her breath hitched. ”What do I do now?”

”You keep on. You feed. You shelter. You teach. And you take care of the Angel's Kitchen.”

”Okay,” she managed weakly. Tired. Her muscles were oil, loose and greasy. And there was a slice along one arm that was beginning to burn. Kess struggled to keep her eyes open. She could see stars, and wasn't certain that was a metaphor. ”I mean, where else are you going to eat?”

And Bee smiled.

When Ash flew in, all his shadows behind him, and found her bleeding but whole, in a mess of blood and bone, Kess was still seeing that smile. A smile of sweetness, and strength, with blood on its hands, on its teeth. She could do worse than to live up to that smile, here in the Darks.

She would try.

LAIR OF THE LESBIAN LOVE G.o.dDESS.

Edward McKeown

I strained to read the movie marquee through the rainsmeared windows. The sonics weren't doing a very good of keeping the windscreen clear. Sometimes I think we were better off with the old style solid wipers. A gust blew a clear spot on the windscreen. ”Lair of the Lesbian Love G.o.ddess,” I read aloud.