1.23. Knuckle Nine

Seth belted the taupe terrycloth robe at his waist and stepped from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. His water-spiked hair pattered errant droplets against the hardwood floor on the way to his bed, which was narrow and creaky in an expensive and antique way, but cozy regardless. The autumn bedspread had been rolled neatly by the baseboard, and he unfurled its fur-trimmed comforter. He was a bundler when he got the opportunity. And this was the nicest bed he’d ever been in for longer than a tipsy tryst and an awkward goodnight.

He’d asked Lisa the difference between a roadhouse and a hotel. She’d laughed and said a few dozen braces a night and some fantastic plumbing.

Across a pair of flickering bedside corpselamps, a darkened ornamental fireplace, and an expanse of plush platinum carpet, the Verdugo sat in her own bed, in the his robe of the his & hers set they’d been provided, trimming her toenails. Her sorcerously suntanned skin had faded back to its unlit pallor, bringing with it her lethal menagerie of tattoos. Long-haired Lisa was gone, reduced to bleached bone and packed away.

“How about that shower, eh?” Annalise asked, back in her melodic Orwinese lilt. “Betcha haven’t had one of those in a while.”

“Sure haven’t,” Seth said, because he wasn’t sure about admitting that had been his first shower ever, in fact. Not a bad gimmick, but certainly not something a place like Prossimo would splurge on when a dip in the river or a warmed-up basin did the job just as well. The doughty men and women of the Low Plainland saved their money for taps that dispensed lager, not water.

“Sorry for switching out on ya. But I don’t, uh… I figured it’d be a bit awkward if it was Lisa.” She shook her hair out and grinned—Annalise’s gappy, crooked grin, not Lisa’s dazzling smile. “Plus the bob is a devil’s shade easier to dry off.”

It hadn’t been awkwardness, with Lisa. Not entirely, at least. “No problem,” he said, and as far as he knew it was true.

“Thanks for bearing with me while I was her,” she said. “That’s the second head who’s been a real dose with you.”

“Dose?”

“Orwinese slang. Means feckin’ annoying.”

It hadn’t been annoyance, either. Now he knew how Annalise intended to address the Lisa situation: she didn’t. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or upset.

“We go to work tomorrow,” Annalise said, “so I don’t mean to mess with your sleep schedule too much. But it so happens I have a deck of cards and a couple of coins. You play much Knuckle Nine down there in Prossimo?

“Not well,” Seth said. “But I’d do a round or two.”

“Brill.” Annalise dropped to the carpet and sat cross-legged, propped on her bedframe, and Seth glanced at where her robe rode up the tattooed softness of her inner thigh, and told himself that this was not the woman who wanted him.

She rummaged in her saddlebag and produced a beaten-up deck of cards and a sable change purse, both of which she opened and dispersed across the floor. Seth took his deck of nine cards and they fell into the rhythm of the game.

It was easy enough, he supposed. With the different head and the different skin. If he just looked at her like a different person, it was easy enough.

But she isn’t. She’s the same. She told you that. The same thoughts in her head even if the head is different. If you’re going to stay sore about what Anna did, you can’t be choosy.

Fine, then. He wouldn’t stay sore.

“I wanted to say that I forgive you,” he said, as Annalise reshuffled the deck. “For the seraph incident. As long as you don’t plan on doing it again.”

“Can’t forgive me yet,” she said. “I need to make it up to you still, don’t I? Told you that.”

“I thought that was just Lisa being Lisa.”

She shook her head. “Sure look, Seth. I do still owe you one. And I would still be happy to hear what you want, if you’ve an inkling. Just wanted to repeat that in a, uh—less drooly way.”

“If you say so.” Seth pointed to a card in his hand. “Got a four of wings right here.”

Annalise hummed in thought. “If you say so. No challenge.”

Seth placed the card face-up. “That was a seven.”

“You little blighter.”

Seth drew a replacement. “When I said stop trying to be my mother, I was angry. But I don’t… it was shitty of me to say. You’ve been very kind to me. Probably…” He paused and rifled through his mind, trying to find something that would speak against what he was thinking. He came up short. “I have to admit, you’ve probably been kinder to me than anyone else has. Saints, isn’t that sad. The renowned kindness of the Verdugo.”

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“Can I admit something back?”

“You gonna tell me you’ve got a jack in there?”

She grinned. “Not that, but now that you mention it, I do indeed.”

“Bullshit.” Seth passed her a coin. “Flip.”

“Heads or tails?”

“Heads.”

She flipped her brace. The stern, thin face of Charles il Nekropoli stared upward from the bedspread. “Bugger.” She put a card face down in front of her from the top of the deck. “Not well, he said. You wee liar.”

“I’m lucky tonight.” He drew a pair of cards into his knuckle-hand. “What’re you admitting?”

“Sometimes, Seth, I do wish I’d been your mother. That I’d been there for you earlier. That I could have kept some of the big nasty world from tossing you about. Or that someone had, anyway. Can’t pretend like I managed it with Tiago and Ofelia.”

“As far as I can tell so far, they’re good kids,” he said. “Not that I’m the expert.”

“Good kids.” She chuckled. “You’re not far from their age, you know. That’s what Tiago would say if he was here. A very defensive young man.”