9
The Pleasures of Hope
“—and I still don’t understand why you were talking to her in the first place. Anyone, even someone as dense as you are, Banyon, could have figured out that bitch was pure trouble.”
Bitch?
Eric blinked, looking around his apartment in bewilderment.
Beth locked the door behind them, then tossed him the key. He caught it unthinkingly and replaced it in his pocket.
How did we get home? It seems like five seconds ago, I was standing onstage at the Dive—
Beth peeled off her dripping jacket and hung it in the closet next to the front door. “—and of course, I’m the one who has to bail you out. Jesus, Banyon, don’t you ever think before you get into these situations?”
Bail me out? What is she talking about?
“I’ve never been in such a shitty situation in all my life, and it’s all your fault. What was that bitch’s name, anyhow?”
Eric realized that Beth was looking at him, apparently expecting an answer. “Uh, who?” he asked uncertainly.
“The bitch. You know, the ravishing blonde. The one who cornered you after the show.” She glared at him. “The man-eater, Banyon. What was her name?”
Eric shook his head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Why do I feel so—wet? He glanced down at himself, and did a double-take, startled.
His boots were completely soaked, his jeans wet to the knees.
When he looked back at Beth, she was sitting on the floor, pulling off her boots and socks, then dropping them in a damp pile on the carpet. He averted his eyes as her pants quickly followed.
Beth stood up, rubbing her hands together. “Christ, I think I froze my patooties off. Can I borrow some sweats for the night, Eric? A blanket would be great, too. I expect that couch gets rather cold at night.”
For the night?
What in the hell is going on here?
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Eric said, more than a little confused. “There’s a stack of clothing in the bedroom, on the dresser. Help yourself.”
As Beth vanished into his bedroom, Eric looked down at his drenched clothes then around at the familiar apartment. Slowly, methodically, he hung his Faire cloak on the hook on the back of the door to dry.
What in the hell happened to me? What happened to my mind? I’ve never blanked out like this before, no matter what drugs I’d been doing. The worst I’ve ever done was fall asleep in the middle of the bagpipe practice.
He sat down, prying off his boots and socks. After a moment’s consideration, he peeled off the wet jeans as well. Beth emerged from the bedroom, wearing a blue pair of sweatpants and a worn Faire shirt that were both several sizes too large for her.
“Hey, Banyon, I thought you might want these.” She tossed an armful of dry clothing to him. He caught it—jeans and shirt—and pulled the pants on, fastening them quickly.
“Thanks, Bethy.” Eric picked up the wet clothing, draping it over the kitchen chairs.
How the hell did we get soaked? Where have we been?
A few feet away, Beth sprawled out on the living room couch, closing her eyes wearily. “I’m glad we managed to get here. For a while there, I wasn’t certain if we could get down Hayvenhurst Street. I still can’t believe how fast the streets over here flood during a storm. A foot of water in less than an hour. Christ.” She opened one eye to look at him, and smiled tiredly. “Thanks for the offer of crashspace, Eric—I’d never have made it back to Tarzana.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. I really don’t remember inviting her to stay over. Not that I don’t want Beth here, it’s just I don’t remember inviting her. And—
And I don’t remember how we got home, either.
He sat down in one of the armchairs, trying to think.
Okay, we finished the show. I was standing on stage, and then—
—and then, here we are, in my apartment. In Van Nuys.
Half an hour’s drive from the Dive.
And I don’t even remember walking out of the club.
What was I drinking tonight?
God, just thinking about this is making my head ache—
“So, what was her name, Banyon?” Beth asked again.
He looked up in surprise. “Whose name?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten her already?” Beth’s eyes were intent upon him. “The Blonde Bombshell. The one who was crawling all over you after the show. Christ, I thought she was going to devour you without ketchup, right there on the dance floor.”
“Bethy,” Eric said slowly. “I don’t know if you’re going to believe this, but I don’t remember a damn thing about any blonde woman.”
No, I do remember something—blue eyes, icy blue, smiling at me. A voice. A voice in my head. “Dream of me, Bard . . . ”
Who did those eyes belong to? The same person as the voice?
And why can’t I remember what happened tonight?
This is definitely too weird for words.
Beth was staring at him, sober and very thoughtful. “What do you remember, Eric?”
He thought about it for a moment. “I remember playing the gig,” he said carefully. “That bastard that attacked you during the break. And then talking with you and Korendil. And—you buying into Korendil’s little war. Me too. Then we played the second half of the show, did the last song, and—and that’s it. I don’t even remember unlocking the apartment door just now. Honestly, I don’t. Bethy, I think I just lost an hour of my life. And—and I know I didn’t drink anything, not even during the break. Well one Scotch, before the gig. That’s all. I didn’t do anything, uh . . . recreational. And I’m not drunk now. Just . . . very, very confused.”
Beth spoke quietly. “You know, this is starting to make sense, if those two were working from some kind of a plan. First, they do something to get Kory out of the way. I don’t know what, but he disappears. Then they come after you, messing with your mind, trying to get you to leave with La Chic Bitch. Then, when I interfere and they think we’re going to escape, they try to kill us both—”
“Somebody tried to kill us?” Eric’s voice squeaked on the word. “Holy shit, Beth, what happened tonight?”
She ignored his words, apparently lost in thought. “Or, at least, I think they were trying to kill us. Probably they were after you. I suspect I was just an afterthought.”
“Oh, that’s terrific. That’s just wonderful! Christ, Beth, what have we gotten ourselves involved in?”
Beth didn’t answer for a long moment. “I don’t know Eric. When Kory told us about this whole thing, how he needs us to help save the elves, I never thought—I never thought somebody would try to kill me.”
She sighed. “Eric, I guess you don’t remember this, not if that woman was screwing magically with your mind, but this elven guy—I think it was the Lord Perenor that Kory told us about—he did something, and I’m pretty certain it was magic. He threw light at me, blinded me, and I nearly crashed the Jeep.” She was shrinking in on herself with each word. “It was . . . real scary, Eric. Scarier even than when mom and dad and I were grabbed by accident by the Greek cops.”
Why, she’s trembling. Oh, Bethy—
He moved closer to her, gently taking her hand. “Listen, you must have done something right. I mean, we’re alive, aren’t we? You got us out of there alive and in one piece.” He grinned weakly. “You know, that’s pretty impressive, come to think of it. I wish I could remember it.”
She smiled tremulously, but it faded. “And I’m also real worried about Kory. He never came back after the show—”
“Hey, I wouldn’t worry too much about Korendil,” Eric said, giving Beth’s hand a reassuring little squeeze. “He seems like a pretty tough guy. Hell, he took care of that drunken idiot that came on to you, and knocked me all over the room this afternoon, too. I think he can take care of himself all right.”
Beth snuggled closer to him. “I know. It’s just I’ve—I’ve never had anybody try to kill me with magic before. When it was happening, I didn’t have time to think about it, or be scared, I just reacted but now, thinking about it, I feel kinda . . . spooked.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” He smiled. “I’d probably be scared shitless, if I could remember what happened.”
“Yeah.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “Eric you’re not going to back out on Kory, are you? I know, we didn’t expect anybody to try to kill us, but he’s counting on you to help him.”
“No. I gave my word that I would help him.”
And I will. I know that now. Whatever’s going to happen, I won’t walk away from him. Especially after this.
Beth smiled up at him. “Have I ever told you you’re one helluva guy, Eric Banyon?”
“No, not that I can recall.”
“Well, you are. And—and I might as well tell you the truth now. You should know this. I’m a practicing witch, Eric.”
He looked at her in disbelief. “You’re practicing to be a witch?”
“No, I am a witch, silly. All of us in Spiral Dance are. That’s part of why we’re together in the band—we’re trying to combine our music with magic, reach out to people, make a difference. Music gets to a helluva lot more people than rhetoric.”
Bethy? A witch. Makes sense, actually. And explains a lot of stuff about her. Well, it explains the things she never would explain, or talk about. The other witches I’ve met, like that group out at the Texas Faire, there were a lot of subjects they just wouldn’t talk about, either. “Well, if you know witchcraft, Bethy, couldn’t you have just done something back to Perenor when he attacked us?”
“I wish I could’ve. But witchcraft doesn’t work that way. It’s a—oh, shit, it’s a pattern, a way you start thinking. Like Zen or something.” She crossed her eyes, and waved her hands languidly. “Like, man, you go with the flow—” When he laughed she continued, a little more seriously.
“It’s not fireworks and special effects. I’ve never seen anything like what that guy did to us before tonight. I can’t do that kind of stuff—and, to be honest, I don’t know exactly what he did. But I sure don’t ever want to be on the receiving end of that ever again.”
“I hate to say it,” Eric said, shifting slightly to put his arm around Beth’s shoulders, “but if we continue helping Korendil, and try to save the L.A. elves, we’re probably gonna see a lot more of that kind of fireworks.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me, I’ve already thought about it.” Beth sighed, leaning back. “All I can say about it is, well, that Perenor guy may be real flashy with the magic, but I’d like to see how he’d feel about getting bonked by a good old-fashioned baseball bat. ’Cause that’s what I’d like to do to him, next time I see him.”
“Yeah, me too.” Eric smiled, his fingers toying with Beth’s punk tail, a single long curl of dark hair. “Though I wish I could remember that blonde woman. I mean, she sounds like she was real interesting—”
Beth swatted at him. “She must’ve been. I practically had to drag you away from her.”
“Hey, I wasn’t the one making eyes at Korendil earlier in the evening—” Eric waited for Beth to laugh, then he saw the way she was looking away and biting her lip pensively. “You really like him, don’t you?” he asked quietly, obscurely disturbed.
“He’s . . . really something. I’ve never met anyone like him before. It’s not just that he’s cute—which he is, he’s one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen—but there’s also an intensity to him, and such openness, honesty—”
He swallowed, trying to sound more easygoing about this. “Yeah, I understand that. He’s a really special guy—tall, blond, and with pointed ears. Who could resist him? Especially the ears!”
Did that come out as bitter as I think it did?
“Eric—” She pressed her fingertips to his lips, trying to get him to shut up, but he shook his head and continued.
“Beth, you know I’d rather see you get involved with someone who’s more your type like, a human being—but if you really want Korendil, that’s fine.” He took a deep breath. “Really, it is. Besides, I hate to be tied down anyway, right? I hope you’ll be happy. I know I won’t stand in the way. In fact, you’ll probably never see me—mmmph!”
Eric had to shut up then, because Beth was kissing him. A very serious kind of kiss that nearly knocked him off the couch, both from imbalance and the surprise of having a double armful of Beth Kentraine in his arms.
“Uh, Bethy—” he managed, when she pulled away long enough for him to catch his breath. “I didn’t invite you over for this. I mean, I don’t want you to think that I—”
She only smiled and kissed him again. “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much,” she said teasingly, running her fingers through his damp and still-tangled hair.
“It’s just-mmmf,” he said eloquently, as Beth kissed the corners of his mouth, working her way over to his right ear.
He sighed, then gave up any pretense of resistance as her deft fingers began undoing the buttons of his shirt. Oh well, when have I ever been able to deter Beth Kentraine from whatever she wanted to do?
Not that I’m objecting too much to this.
Not that I’m objecting at all . . .
He carefully unfastened the laces of her Faire shirt. Then he moved his hands lightly over her skin, pausing lingeringly at the ticklish spot over her ribs.
Beth, resting her cheek against his shoulder, toying with his shirt buttons, suddenly stiffened in shock, realizing where his hands had stopped. “Eric Banyon, you wouldn’t—”
“AAAAAR! There’s no mercy for you, wench!” he growled in his best bad pirate imitation, and began tickling her unmercifully.
She laughed, twisting and trying to get away from him. “Eric, no, don’t—let me go—ack!” Beth tried to pull free but he wouldn’t let her go, holding her closely in his arms, tickling and kissing her until he couldn’t keep from laughing either.
The laughter faded to silence, and a calm expectation that Eric had never felt before. It’s as if I knew we’d reach this point, someday. Like I’ve known that all along, since the day I met Beth. It’s just—I never realized it until now.
Beth’s dark eyes met his. She was smiling gently. He wondered if perhaps she was thinking similar thoughts. Her eyes are so serious, and . . . somehow open, defenseless. That’s how I feel—as if there aren’t any facades or masks between us, no more lies or half-truths. Just Eric and Beth . . .
She leaned forward to kiss him, a light kiss, barely brushing his lips, but somehow that made the kiss more intense, more intimate and passionate, than anything before. It’s like that kiss is a promise—a pledge—
Eric called upon the last bit of rational thought left to him, wrapped his arms around Beth and lifted her up. She laughed softly as he carried her to the bedroom, and carefully closed the door behind them.
“Mmmm, Beth?” Eric reached out, gently touching her bare shoulder. “Beth, you awake?”
“Ummf,” she muttered, turning slightly in his arms.
No, guess not.
He sat up slowly, looking around the shadowed bedroom. Pale sunlight filtered through the blinds, and he could hear the beginnings of rush hour traffic on the street below.
Beside him, Beth Kentraine was still asleep, curled up against him with one arm outflung across the sheets.
She’s so lovely when she’s asleep. That little smile on her lips, as if she’s dreaming of something wicked. She’s beautiful when she’s awake, too. When she’s happy or sad, frightened or spitting like an angry kitten . . . she’s still beautiful. I think I could fall in love with her, given half a chance. I wonder if she knows that? And I wonder if she feels the same way about me . . .
Eric moved closer to Beth, wanting to kiss her, then shook his head. No, she had one helluva day yesterday between that scum who attacked her during the break and Perenor coming after us later. I should let her sleep.
He smiled to himself, thinking about last night. I could get very used to this, real easy. Playing street by day, Faire on the weekends, evening gigs with Spiral Dance, and nights with Bethy—
Except she said she doesn’t want to get involved with me, when we were talking at Faire. She doesn’t want anything serious.
Well, maybe after last night, she’ll change her mind.
It’s just—I feel that she’s a part of my life, now. With everything that’s happened to us, I think that if she said, “Well, it’s been fun, Eric, see ya around sometime,” I’d just want to die. I’ve never felt that I needed someone so much before.
He sighed, and smoothed Beth’s short mane with his fingers.
I need Bethy. I can’t just let her walk away from me. I can’t—
He stopped in mid-thought, hearing something from the living room. What was that?
Eric listened, at first hearing nothing but the distant traffic noises. Then he heard it again, a faint, low scratching noise, coming from the front room.
What in the hell could that be? Giant mutated Angeleno mice?
He stood up quietly, trying not to awaken Beth, and reached for a pair of jeans, folded on the dresser. Eric padded out to the living room, and looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.
Then he saw the small cat crouched upon the window ledge, peering at him through the dirty glass. The cat’s pale silvery fur was stained with blood, its green eyes shadowed with pain.
Oh, you poor thing. What could have happened to you? You look like you were hit by a Mack truck—
Eric opened the window, and the cat half-fell into the room, crawling a few feet before it collapsed on the carpet, shivering and panting.
I’ll wake Beth up, then call the vet. There’s one on Sherman Way, we can’t take this little guy over there right now.
The cat looked up at him with large, pain-filled eyes, and then—
And then—
Blur of chords, sounded on an out-of-tune organ by a musician pushed so far past exhaustion that he no longer heard what he was doing, no longer cared, no longer really knew—
Eric blinked.
There had been a mutilated tomcat on the floor.
Not now.
He stared, not able to really understand what he was seeing. It had been a cat. Now it was Korendil, lying at his feet.
Korendil, looking very different from the confident warrior who had rescued Beth from her attacker, or the eloquent speaker who had tried to persuade Eric that his story about L.A. elves was no trick. Even different from the shy, diffident creature who, in the end, had pleaded with Eric to help his people.
This was a Kory who had been through a meat-grinder.
He lay in a twisted, bleeding heap on the carpet of the bedroom, and panted, like the tomcat had panted; and his green eyes were glazed with pain. Not surprising, since his leg was slashed from crotch to knee, at least an inch deep. He was bruised and burned, and cut in a dozen places, and he shook like an aspen leaf.
“Holy shit. Korendil?” Eric’s voice sounded incredibly loud in the sudden silence.
At Eric’s words, Kory raised his head. He looked up blankly, then focused on Eric. “Blessed Danann—” he gasped in a hoarse whisper, his expression warring between relief and pain. “You’re safe.”
As if he hadn’t dared hope for that.
“Oh my God!”
Eric glanced back to see Beth standing in the bedroom doorway, wearing nothing but a startled and horrified expression. “Christ! What happened to him?”
“Perenor—” Kory’s words were barely audible. “He knew that Eric awakened me—knew that we were at the place-of-music. I had to draw him away from you, from both of you, he was going to kill you—”
He started to rise—tried to—and cried out in agony. Both of them reached toward him involuntarily. Kory stared at them, his eyes wildly dilated with pain, his hand outstretched, like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline.
“Help me,” he whispered, with what sounded like his last breath.
Eric and Beth touched his hand at the same moment.
Music.
Broken music. Music wounded; music dying.
Eric shuddered as the room faded from around him, to be replaced by something else, an aching pain, a silent scream of agony, and music—
Once, in his first year at Juilliard, one of Eric’s teachers had described Johann Sebastian Bach’s works as “building cathedrals with melody.”
This was a cathedral that had been shattered by an earthquake, or the ravages of a bomb. The soaring arches cracked. The upreaching vaults crumbling. The flying buttresses—falling.
Dissonance. Broken chords. Savaged counterpoint. More of it fading with every moment.
More of it trailing off into nothing, into dissolution.
Dying.
No!
He reached out, reached in, plunged into the midst of it, and began trying to hold it together somehow. He saw, then, how the music was trying to repair itself; how the threads of melody reached for the broken lines, trying to patch them into some kind of a whole again.
But I can do that—
He eased himself into the consort; gave the fading music a strong foundation to rest on, solid chords, the way he played a foundation for Bethy’s voice to soar—
He heard her singing at that moment, wordlessly, but outside the whole. She was lending her support to the music, but from outside. It would be much better if she could weave herself into the melody from within—
He reached out without really thinking about it, and caught her up and brought her in. There was a gasp of surprise that might have been his own, then she was with them, singing strongly, confidently.
Three of them now; three songs that were part of a greater whole. The two songs that were himself and Beth moved to bracket the wounded one, lending it power, keeping it from fading, from faltering, filling in the places it couldn’t—quite—reach.
It was like . . . like doing a gig, with one member having an abysmally bad day. Picking up for him, filling in for him, supporting him.
The third song gathered strength from them, began to join with them—closer—stronger—
Like playing a gig? No, not anymore. This was like the Pachebel Canon, with three voices interweaving, braiding in and out of each other, taking joy from one other and giving it back again, until Eric could no longer tell where his song ended and the others began.
Until they were one song.
And suddenly the music took fire, and now it was Bach again, in the Toscanini transcriptions—no, Beethoven, the Ninth, all the counterpoints fusing in to the one harmony—no, Dvorak, Mannheim Steamroller, Mahler, Clannad, Rachmanioff—
Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Tchaikovsky. Vangelis. Prokofiev. Kitaro. Everything and everyone and none of them at all. It was Eric setting the melody, and the others following with variations of their own. He couldn’t tell where it was going, only it was glorious beyond anything he’d ever heard before—
—pure, untainted, unalloyed song—a melodic joy that raised him to a height he’d never dreamed of—
And then threw him back into reality.
Oh my God, what was that?
Eric shook his head slowly. He blinked, seeing nothing but pinwheels and blobs of light, like he’d been staring into spotlights too long. His eyes couldn’t focus, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, either.
“Holy shit,” he said, after a long moment of silence. “What the hell was that all about?”
“I’m . . . not sure.” he heard Beth say faintly, from beside him.
He blinked again, and finally some of the light-show effects cleared away. Thank God. I can’t deal with that when I’m tripping on a liquid dose—I sure as hell can’t deal with it when I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.
Eric heard the faint sound of something breathing raggedly, and looked down. Kory was lying beside him, sprawled on the floor, his eyes closed and his face gray with exhaustion. He still looked like he’d been through a major war, and come out the loser.
There was a dark, scarlet stain under his leg, soaking into the cheap puce carpet.
The landlady’s gonna love that. So much for my cleaning deposit . . .
God, how can I think about something like that when Kory’s bleeding to death in front of me?
Get your brain together, Eric. First, a bandage, something to tourniquet that wound—
Beth reacted first. She snatched at an old T-shirt lying on the floor, went for Kory’s leg—and stopped short, looking at the slash in the elf’s jeans in disbelief.
The long, hideous slash in his leg was closed. Still nasty-looking, but closed as neatly as if it had been sutured and healing for about a week.
A week, not a few minutes.
But I saw that wound. He was bleeding like a stuck pig, his leg cut halfway open. Something like that just can’t vanish!
Eric stared at Kory’s leg.
It’s impossible.
Finally he looked up, and Beth’s eyes met his across the sprawled body of the elf.
“Eric,” she whispered in tones of awe. “Eric—we healed him.”
“Excuse me,” he said, hearing his own voice shaking, “but he doesn’t look healed, he looks like hell—”
“It doesn’t happen all at once, idiot,” she retorted, already sounding more like herself, with a touch of good-natured annoyance in her voice.
“But—”
“Look at his leg, Banyon! Look at all that blood and tell me that we didn’t heal him!”
He looked at the blood soaking into the tacky carpeting and felt himself pale. He swallowed.
“Look,” he temporized, “let’s just get him patched up and in bed, okay?”
Beth gave him a sharp look. “What, don’t you like the idea that you could have healed somebody, Eric?”
The curious tone of her voice made the words come out that he had been thinking—not words he’d have spoken under other conditions.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “That’s the problem. Maybe I like it too much.”
Beth caught his thoughtful gaze, and nodded. “Yeah. I know what you mean.” She bent down, and carefully got a grip on Kory’s shoulders. “You get his feet. We’d better get him into the bedroom.”
Eric sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, looking down at Korendil.
The elf. My elf. The one who practically got himself killed, saving my worthless hide.
Why would anybody do something like that for me?
Kory seemed to be peacefully asleep. There were dark blue smudges under his eyes, bruises and cuts still visible on face and neck. He was so pale, he looked transparent.
My God, this is real. He got trashed big-time. He can get hurt. He can die . . .
Kory’s golden curls spilled over his pillow and half over his face. He tossed his head and murmured something in that liquid language of his. Eric reached forward and stroked his forehead, automatically trying to sooth him back into pleasanter dreams—
And froze, fingers still tangled in Kory’s silky mane.
What am I doing?
Before he could pull away, Kory opened his eyes, and Eric felt as if he was trapped in that emerald gaze. He only shook himself free when Kory touched his hand.
“Bard?”
“Just seeing if you were all right,” Eric replied. I’m trying to be nice to a friend, that’s what I’m doing. A friend who damn near got himself killed to protect me. That’s all. “Korendil, please don’t keep calling me ‘Bard.’ It doesn’t seem right.” Deliberately, he finished the motion he’d begun, smoothing Kory’s hair out of his eyes.
God, Kory has great hair. I know chicks that would kill for a head of hair like that.
“Would you call me ‘Kory,’ as you do in your thoughts?’ The elf smiled hesitantly. “My friends call me that.”
Eric smiled back. “Sure, if it makes you happy. I’d rather be your friend, anyway, than have you treat me like some jerk up on a pedestal.” I would, too, he thought, resting his hand on Kory’s shoulder. Jesus H. This guy almost died to keep me safe. What did I ever do to deserve that?
Eric patted the shoulder awkwardly. “You just get some rest, Kory. You aren’t in any shape to rescue a cockroach in distress right now.”
“And what will you be doing?” Kory’s eyes followed him as he got up and moved toward the door.
“Well, Beth thinks she’s got a way to keep the bad guys from sniffing you out, so she’s gonna do her thing when she gets back with her stuff. Then we’re gonna go talk to a friend of hers who might know something. We’re kind of short on information. It seems that the Bad Guys know everything about us, and we don’t know jack about them.”
Kory sighed, shifted a little, and tried to suppress a wince of pain. Eric saw it in his eyes anyway, and moved back beside him.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?” He reached toward Kory’s shoulder again. “You want one of us to stay with you?”
The elf lifted his own hand with a visible effort, and took Eric’s. “No. I shall be well enough. Truly, Eric, I will. What I need now is to sleep. But—thank you. Thank you for everything.”
For what? “Hey, you tried to keep those guys from killing me last night, and now you’re thanking me?”
“You saved my life this morning,” Kory replied simply. “Without being bound to do so, by anything but your word to help save my people. Yes—”
Eric shivered, caught in the grip of emotions he didn’t recognize and didn’t understand. He’s right, I guess. It’s just, well, I couldn’t let him lie there and bleed to death. I couldn’t.
It’s funny, though—the way he’s looking at me right now, it’s more than a little embarrassing. Like I’m everything in the world to him. God, if he was a girl, I’d want to kiss him—
Hell, I’d do more than just kiss him. I’d—oh God—why am I thinking these things? About a guy?
“—yes Eric. I do thank you.”
Kory let his hand go, and the moment passed. Eric hesitated, then brushed Kory’s hair out of his eyes again. “Okay, guy,” he said, gently. “Your thank you is accepted. And I’m thanking you, too, for trying to save my ass last night. Now, just get some sleep, okay? You leave the fighting to us for a while.”
Kory smiled, and closed his eyes. Eric patted his shoulder once more, and retreated from the bedroom before something else he didn’t understand could happen to him.
He sat down on the living room couch, his head in his hands.
I don’t understand this at all. What’s going on in my head? Why am I feeling this way about him? He’s an elf, for Chrissakes, not even a human being!
God, I think I need a drink.
Or several.
Or maybe I’ll just finish the whole bottle—