Busted Flush Page 0,17

He worked her shirt off, and she helped, raising her arms, leaning into his touch as his hands slid up her back. He dropped her shirt on the floor, then tipped her back onto the sofa, and it was some time before they actually made it to bed.

Kate heard a voice. She thought she was dreaming, some kind of weird, lucid dream, because her eyes were closed, but she felt awake. Familiarity intruded. John's voice, muttering.

But it wasn't John. He wasn't speaking English. She opened her eyes.

He was looking at her, but it wasn't him. Part of him belonged to Sekhmet, and sometimes she took over. The look in his eyes became older, harder, more experienced. That other gaze was looking at her now, with an expression that was both sad and annoyed. The situation was complicated: Isra the joker had been waiting for a great ace with whom she could join her powers and become Sekhmet, the handmaiden of Ra. But John didn't become Ra. He'd been cured of the wild card virus. Isra might call herself Sekhmet, but she never got the power she'd longed for. There was no Ra, now. Her frustration with John, and with those around him, was plain, whenever she came to the fore.

The voice whispered in Egyptian. Kate wished she knew what she was saying. She was afraid the joker was saying, "This won't last."

Self-consciously, Kate pulled up the sheet to cover her chest. "I wish you'd leave us alone," she whispered.

Isra heard her. "You're children. Just children. You don't understand."

Kate frowned. "That's not fair. After what we've been through, after what you've put John through - "

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. He's such a boy."

"No. You ask too much of him." But how could she argue with something that was so much a part of him?

"You are just a child."

Angry, Kate started to sit up, ready to yell another retort. But John closed his eyes, sighed, and seemed to sleep again.

She touched John's arm. "John? John, wake up." She kissed his bare shoulder, then again, until he stirred.

"Hm? What's wrong? Is it the phone?" He thought Jayewardene was calling with a new disaster. He started to sit up, but she held him back. It was John this time, looking out of his own eyes.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have woken you up."

Only half awake, he stroked her cheek absently. "You okay?"

She thought about telling him he'd been talking in his sleep - or that Sekhmet had been talking in his sleep. She'd told him on other nights when it had happened. This time, she didn't. "I had a nightmare or something. It's nothing."

Then John's phone did ring. They both lurched at the noise. Reflexively, he grabbed it and listened. His frown deepened. Jayewardene. Had to be.

"Got it. Okay. We'll send someone down," he said, then hung up.

"What is it?" she asked.

"There's been an explosion in West Texas. Feds are saying a grain elevator went up, but that's not what the people on the ground are saying."

"What are they saying?"

"Terrorists. Sabotaging the oil."

"Oh, my God. And we're going?" She pushed the covers back. But John shook his head.

"Lilith and Bugsy can go. They can check things out and report back before we've even gotten to the airport."

"But I want to go - they'll need people, there's got to be some kind of rescue operation - "

"We don't know the story yet, so you're not going."

"John, I want to go. If you're trying to keep me safe - "

He smirked at her. "Are you ever going to stop arguing with me?"

"You ought to be used to it by now." She tried on a smile. Hoped he knew she was teasing.

He ignored the phone for the moment, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. Which was just what she needed. She leaned into him and kissed back.

And for a moment, everything was just fine.

Double Helix

AN ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION

Melinda M. Snodgrass

"I THOUGHT WE WERE going to Texas," Bugsy says, seconds after we arrive in the bar on the twenty-eighth floor of the Beekman Tower Hotel. We're still in our party clothes. The blogger surprised me by actually knowing how to dress. Unfortunately the piping on his tuxedo shirt draws attention to his burgeoning paunch.

Through the wide window I can see tendrils of fog swirling around the Brooklyn Bridge. The long gray streamers are like fingers plucking at the guy wires, and for an instant I consider what that music would sound like.

"We