A Mischief in the Woodwork - By Harper Alexander Page 0,110
himself up onto his elbow on the bed, and his sheets fell from his shoulders to reveal a bare chest. My gaze caught, and my fingers twitched where they rested on my knee. I clenched them into my skirt.
I could not say if my tone was challenging or geared for a let-down, but either way he seemed to catch onto the seriousness in it. Enough, at least, that he thought about his answer before giving it.
“I think you're a saint, in this age, Vant. You sing flowers into light and slay Albinos twice your size, and disappear into the maw of that godforsaken city only to reemerge, unscathed.”
“But in another age? Would you think of me as a slave then?”
“If you carried yourself as one. Perhaps.”
That was satisfactory, somehow, and I let it go in decent conscience.
“You were born to sing,” Tanen elaborated, even though I had gotten what I'd come for – whatever it was. “Not to work. That's how I see it.”
“Are you saying I'm a pansy?”
A small flash of his teeth in the dark. “I wouldn't dream of it. I don't fancy getting whacked like that other guy. I'm just saying you're a siren. A beautiful siren.”
Since he was being so complimentary, I decided I may as well let him in on a kind secret of my own, for a change. “I wouldn't whack you, Tanen,” I said. At this point, given what I had taken up on his behalf, I figured it would probably be decent of me to let him know that. It was the least I could do, really, for a man I knew was on Death Row – give him the privilege of knowing I would never kill him myself.
“Do you suppose there's a better chance of slaves outliving thirty, these days?” Tanen asked, and the personal tinge of hope that came with the question carried a flattering meaning.
“I don't know,” I admitted. We weren't being whipped to death, anymore, but there was no telling where the current destruction would leave us all. I knew some, but there was still a lot I didn't know. “I just know that, either way, we've all lost a good many summers by now. It's all blurred into one big age of survival. But like you said... If we're surviving just to survive... What's the point in that?”
“So I was right about something,” he teased.
Instead of responding, I found myself wondering if he was getting uncomfortable propping himself up on his elbow yet, and my eyes took in the muscles holding him there. And the lingering slashes and scars that were the healing blows from his encounter with the wardog. And the response that came to me: let his philosophy be an inspiration, in this moment; show him there was a part of me that responded to the idea of wanting to live, rather than just survive. To experience things.
I moved from my seat, crossed the small space between us, and alighted on the edge of his cot. A small hint of surprise lit his eyes, but he seemed to accept the idea fairly quickly that this was in fact why I had come. The lines of his body were just waiting to be traced, packed with the residue of secrets that I needed to aid my intimate project surrounding him. One thing that would do nothing to help me change a person, I was sure, was my limited perspective pertaining to his inner workings. I needed to know the intimate intricacies of what made him tick.
I touched my lips to his, this time, and he drew himself up to receive me. A part of me could not believe I would do such a thing, but it was a distant part, little more than a betrayed echo from my past. I squashed it, not open to dissuasion. I was on a mission, and if anything, I had always been one who was able to buckle down and own a mission.
If Tanen died, it was not going to be on me. I would do everything in my power to see that fate deflected, now that I had been bequeathed with a sense of accountability. And if I failed... Well, at least I would have made up for my prior hostility toward him in the meantime.
My fingers took the liberty of going straight to his chest, eager to make contact. Sparks coursed through them immediately upon resting against his skin, and I drank it up, preparing myself for the