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Tess's Athenaeum.

New seasons. The shop is empty, for now: no girls. She has sent them away. Soon they will return to clear out the dust, throw open the windows, welcome the fresh air. Changes. Springtime, with her rooms redolent of struggling green shoots and chirping harmonies. Or so she hopes.

But today, a brave new dress. A quiet song. Tennyson. Dickinson.

Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower,
We feel that we are greater than we know.

In the kitchen, stacking china. Sorting patterns. Placed away, behind glass, gleaming out. The sun drops away, slips behind, and she moves to a new fire. Not much longer, an indulgence: but deserved.

Deserved. Warmth. Peace.
 
Still holding onto feminine styles, but simple colors. Solid patterns. Springtime heralds floral patterns but she wants none of them today. Instead, several crates have been removed and sent away. The girls have packed them up, driven them off. New space in the stacks, but room for what? She'll think of something. She leans over the counter, pen grazing over lips, tapping against teeth. Contemplative, certainly, but perhaps a bit idle.

Spring plays outside the windows. Bright but damp, the garden is richly dark and patiently awaiting new harvests. Flowers? For all the insipid prints she passed over when slipping on her dress, she adores their fragrance and vitality in bloom. Then pen comes down and hands enfold one another on the surface of her counter. The register is silent next to her. Sunlight streaks in through windowpanes only recently dried.

Quiet breathing.

Tea, then.
Lazy Sundays.
 
And so it began.

Thin worsted wool whispered, fabric brushing against fabric. Pinstripes, thin and white, stood out against charcoal. A triangle of blue, collar points sharp, neck closely fitted, creases crisp, waited just above the top button of the jacket. A knot of creamy silk, ivory with tiny blue squares, thick and snug and cinched up firmly, fell in perfect drape to brush the silver buckle of an inch-wide black leather belt. Finally, tightly stitched, age-softened, split-toe, leather-soled black bluchers hugged purposeful feet, carrying the man towards his destination.

Gripped in his left hand, below the end of one charcoal sleeve, below the thin band of blue from his shirt cuff, and below the glint of stainless steel from his clamshell-banded watch, was a black leather briefcase, somewhat battered but well maintained. It swung back and forth in counterpoint to his steps, not in large swings but in tight, compact, controlled arcs, the weight of the bag and its contents balancing the force of his strides.

He had a particular destination in mind, today – a place he had once visited, but ended up leaving before truly satisfying his curiosity. It had been a place with great promise, one that he had enjoyed a great deal, but it also held some closely guarded secrets, secrets he intended to delve into more fully. It was time.

A few minutes of walking from the train station brought him to his destination. He smiled slightly, a quick flash of white in the salt and pepper of his short beard, as he thought of his previous visit – if nothing else, the weather was far more agreeable today. He mounted the steps leading up to the heavy wood door, pressed his index finger against the button for the bell, listened to the two-tone chime echo through the space he knew to be behind the door. A short time later, the door opened to reveal a pretty, raven-haired girl – though, on closer examination, her left eye appeared to be swollen and purpled, if fading, and her smile showed a predatory mien that seemed out of place with her demure attire. She leaned on the door, partway in and partway out, regarding the man standing the Athenaeum’s front step.

Tuesday. Of course.

“Hello, Monsieur Dry Toast. Why are you here?” she asked, her voice carrying just a hint of unfriendliness beneath the singsong lilt.

The man’s dark eyes narrowed, his expression shifting from surprise through to anger. “I am here because I wish to be here, Tuesday. I do not think that your mistress would want me interrogated on the threshold.” As he spoke, he placed his left shoe against the door, to prevent the girl slamming it in his face. He couldn’t completely believe that she would, but he knew enough of her dark, fae nature to know that he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, entirely put it past her. “Furthermore, that name is not yours to use.”

She gave a grin with very little good humor in it, then again that singsong voice, like the schoolyard troublemaker, called out, “I’m just guarding the treasures, Maître PS. Maybe my mistress isn’t home, today.” Her eyes looked him up and down, and the tip of her very pink tongue slipped out to moisten her lips as her red-lacquered fingernails ran up and down the hard wood of the door. “Maybe you have to deal with me, today.”

He took a deep breath before answering, and leaned forward to put his shoulder against the heavy door. “Tuesday, I have neither the time nor the inclination today to give you the beating you obviously deserve. You have a total of two choices. You can try to shut that door on me, and face the consequences that will result. Or, you can open that door and let me inside. Rest assured, I’m coming in, whichever you choose.”

The raven-haired girl scowled, and her hand paused in its travels. She sullenly muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “Spoilsport”, and swung the door the rest of the way open with a bit more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. “Come in, come in, then. Don’t spend all day on the doorstep.”

The man on the doorstep moved. With surprising speed, he stepped into the Athenaeum, whirled, and caught the fae girl by the throat, pinning her against the bulk of the door, now behind her. He held her there, her feet just off the ground and her eyes widening, and moved his face to just a few inches away from hers. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled, pitched for her ears alone. “You would do well to remember your place, darkling. This is your mistress’s home, and you live here by her sufferance. Her guests are your guests, or at least this one is, and not your playthings. You toy with me, and you’ll be broken. And not in a way that you’ll enjoy.”

He lowered his arm, returning her feet to the floor, and watched with a wry smile as she sidled away from him, one hand rubbing at her throat and an expression on her face halfway between murderous and something smokier. “You’re no fun at all,” she complained.

A small sound alerted him to another presence in the room, and he turned to notice the second girl - the bright, seelie one - sitting almost silently in a chair, her eyes wide and her mouth open in an O. He smiled to cover his surprise at finding her sitting, watching, and so silent, and addressed her. “Friday, go and fetch your mistress. And take your troublesome sister with you, before she gets hurt. Again.”

The briefcase was settled onto a convenient chair, and the man began to patiently wait.
 
Back in the stacks, a breeze blew down the shelves with aged scents accompanying. The book covers were rough and felt coated with film, reptilian. The shop's owner stood on a crate, sifting through the contents of one row in particular. Cookbooks? No, architecture. How thrilling. With a thump she tossed the Vitruvian folio in her hand back into wooden confines. Appreciative of clean lines and gorgeous buildings – certainly, but they were not anything she desired to read in detail. At least, not at that moment.

Her auburn hair was pulled back that day, in a sleek and curling ponytail, bangs falling in a wave across her forehead. The windows in the kitchen and various preceding rooms were flung open to catch the wind that so invitingly beckoned into her labyrinthine store. A fresh smell came to her, earth overturned in the garden. She should have been out there on her knees, digging in patches, planting fresh tendrils. Curling her fingers into the dirt. She hopped down onto black stilettos with a sigh. Filtering sunlight drifted around her, although the corners beyond were still shadowed. The stacks of books caught noise and absorbed it better than padded walls.

A tapping noise made her look up from the next shelf she had bent to examine. Whispered argument. A voice snapped, “Let go of me!”

She peered around into the path along the wall and saw Friday struggling to pull a recalcitrant Tuesday beyond the corner to the kitchen. What a shock.

“What are you girls up to now?” She asked, quite already bored with the scenario.

“Miss - ” Friday began.

“Quiet!” Tuesday hissed.

Tess looked up. Tuesday had clapped her hand over Friday's mouth and looked positively furious. Red nails gleamed against Friday's blushing cheek.

“Oh, Tuesday,” she sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead. “What's the trouble? Have you finished what I asked?” She didn't acknowledge the restrained Friday. Squabbling girls. Friday's eyes bulged momentarily and there was a scuffling movement.

“You—”

A squeal, and then the girls broke apart, Tuesday looking in awe down at a freshly bitten hand.

Tess arched a brow, impressed in spite of herself.

“Yes, Friday?”

Friday glanced once at Tuesday, seemingly shocked by her own boldness. She spoke, her voice tripping all over itself, “The Maître is here, to see you. He's got a brief--”

“Oh, who gives a shit about the briefcase, you stupid slut?” Tuesday had recovered, and was leaning moodily against a bookshelf. “Stop acting so doe-eyed about every fucking thing.”

Tess looked beyond them into the main room. Indeed, there was the man himself. It wouldn't do to blush in front of the girls, and Tuesday's eyes raked over her face in a very predatory way. No use railing against her very nature, but it would do to remind her of the ladder rungs. Not looking away from the visitor, she began a slow walk towards the entrance. “Tuesday, take Friday and go play in traffic somewhere. I don't want you girls back until I call for you.”

She paused next to the black haired young woman, only then moving her eyes to the slender throat that quivered with indignation. Her own crimson nails came up, alighted on the flesh marked red, stroked gently. Tess laughed. A brutal touch had been recently handed out.

“The front door, I think. No skulking out the back when you so like an audience.”

Tess leaned closer, breathing in Tuesday's perfume. The green eyes darted away, lashes falling shut. In pain?

Not yet.

The nails dug into the skin, arcing neat half-moons into its pliant tenderness. Her fist didn't follow: only the pressure from the tidy claws pushed down. Tuesday whined, twisting down towards the floor.

“Please, I'm—I'm sorr--”

Tess laughed, heartbeat already pulsing from the promise of a new visitor. “Who gives a shit about your apologies, sweetheart? Stop looking so...” A further harsh scratch, and then a shove as she pushed Tuesday out from the wall and ahead of her. Friday followed meekly behind. “...hungry, about every fucking thing. Out. Go now. Don't get all excited and think I'll remember this vengefully later. I haven't forgotten your business with Cat.”

Tuesday clasped a hand to her throat, and reached out for Friday's faithful grip. The blonde girl timidly pressed a kiss to her mistress's cheek, which was rewarded with a smile, and then led Tuesday over to the door. Tess straightened her dress and followed them. She shooed them out: Friday's face was contrite, Tuesday's griefstricken. A sardonic wave at them through the glass, and then she pulled the blinds. It wasn't until she heard their heels tripping down the cobblestones that she turned to her guest, leaning against the door with her arms crossed behind her back.

She looked apologetic for the intrusion, but her eyes took in his suit and expectant posture with a wary sort of comprehension. When she spoke, her voice had lost its cutting edge, but instead assumed the role of hostess.

“Hello, Monsieur. I see you've met my girls. I trust they didn't give you much trouble.”

She could have stayed by the door, but instead moved from her relaxed posture to stand nearer to the window. The sunlight at her back felt reassuring. Her gaze traveled from his beard to the crispness of his attire, the luster of his watch. Her hands shifted, caught her elbows, crossed in front of the white of her dress.

“Welcome, again, to the Athenaeum. May I offer you some refreshment? Anything in particular you were hoping to find?”

A small smile on pink lips.

“I suppose I never did ask what book you were looking for at our last visit. Something rare?”
 
A smile crossed the man’s face as Friday bodily dragged Tuesday from the room in search of the Athenaeum’s owner, the little blonde proving surprisingly strong as Tuesday writhed, hissing and spitting like an angry cat, in her grip. He leaned forward, hands resting on the back of the chair that held his briefcase, his senses taking in the richness of the Athenaeum – the feel of warm leather, the scents of old books and fresh air combining into a very pleasant combination, the rich velvet upholstery of the settees and chairs with the brass furniture nails as counterpoint.

Moments passed, and then a small parade emerged from the back of the store, Tuesday at its head. The unseelie girl, for so he thought of her, looked stricken as she headed for the front door, hand in hand with her sister. The raven-tressed one sported a fresh scratch on the side of her neck, quite clearly visible from where he stood, as well as slowly rising crescents in a distinctive one-four pattern. She also seemed to be favoring her right hand a bit, keeping it curled and at her side. Clearly, the owner had not taken kindly to Tuesday’s attitude. Behind Tuesday trailed the girl Friday, all smiles and sunshine, but with an underlying hint of steel that he found surprising. She had been able to take charge when necessary which, he understood, was somewhat contrary to her nature. He was sure that Tuesday would make her pay for it, later. Things acting outside their nature were inherently interesting, and he watched them make their way to the door with frank curiosity before the final member of the trio made her own appearance.

At first sight of her, auburn hair pulled back, black-and-white sleeveless dress setting off the paleness of her skin and the bone structure of her face, he felt something catch inside him, deep down somewhere dark and fiery. She shooed the girls outside, his gaze on her all the while, then turned back to him. As she turned, he could see something shifting behind her hazel eyes, as if she could see into him. He wondered what she made of what she saw there.

“Welcome, again, to the Athenaeum. May I offer you some refreshment? Anything in particular you were hoping to find?”

A small smile on pink lips.

“I suppose I never did ask what book you were looking for at our last visit. Something rare?”

His grip tightened on the back of the chair, knuckles whitening, fingers leaving evident depressions in the cognac-colored leather. Questions at once both sincere and…something more. And that smile.

“Yes, I did meet your girls, and no, they did not give me much trouble, or at least, Friday gave me none, and Tuesday no more than I’d expected.

“Thank you for your welcome and your offer, Tess, but no, I’m not here for refreshment.” Taking a deep breath, he straightened, releasing the leather to slowly recover its customary smoothness. Hands by his sides, he took two steps closer to her before stopping near the center of the room, standing in such a way that she was no longer completely backlit by the sunlight streaming in through the window. He could see her face, now. Good.

“I am, however, here for something very rare. It’s not a book, but I think it’s here, nevertheless.”

He was confident that he’d read her correctly, that he had at least a basic understanding of who and what she was, but there was always at least a small chance that he’d made a mistake. Good he may have been, but he never assumed himself infallible. The legion was at his back, XIII Gemina, sunlight glinting on their helmets. The river flowed before him, sunlight making it dance as the opposite side beckoned, tempting, forbidden. It was now or never. He cast the die.

“I’m here for you, Tess.”

Full stop. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but carried an urgency that was missing before, and he slowly advanced on her until he was standing directly before her, close enough to touch. His movements were precise, each foot placed deliberately, his path chosen to bring him to her just as he spoke his next words.

“I’m here to take you.

“I’m here to make you scream. To hurt you. To make you kneel. To make you crawl. To make you beg.

“I’m here to use you as a plaything. Some of the games you may enjoy. Some of them you may enjoy a great deal. Some of them you may not. But they are my games, and I think that will be enough to make you want to play them, anyway.

“You have one opportunity to say no. If you say no, I’ll turn around, walk right out that door, and you won’t see me again in your home.”

He slowly, very slowly, raised his right hand and extended his index finger to rest lightly on her chin. This close, he smelled faintly of aftershave and leather, and his skin was warm. “But I don’t think that you’re going to say no. I think you’re going to say please.”
 
“I am, however, here for something very rare. It’s not a book, but I think it’s here, nevertheless.”

There were birds outside the windows. She had wondered when they would arrive, if they would ever call. Winter had stolen over its boundaries, misting everything with gray. It seemed that the garden would never be planted, that the earth would go long without tilling. But then all at once, the sunny creatures had returned: pulling prizes from the ground and singing notes that trilled around her store of knowledge. Sweet drops of noise in a room that was newly silent, for all that her Athenaeum was never a place for riotous sound. She stood, still, close to the window. A patient pillar of a girl, vigilant of his demeanor. She had watched his hands gripping the supple back of a chair, had felt her own arms cross closer together in response. Not mulish, but careful, alert. The lower light of the room still held him. He made his movements with purpose. Two steps. She resisted the urge to back away. She listened. The birds outside obligingly paused in their chorus.

“I'm here for you, Tess.”

It was her nature to fence around a subject until it was poked full of holes, giving her a glimpse of what lay beyond. His plain dealing was all the more powerful. Her hazel eyes, an unsettling match for the color that played in her hair, tracked his progress as he moved closer. Before she had met his gaze: the pleasant proprietress, entertaining a guest. The distance had made that seem safe, appropriate. Merely a formality. Now she dropped her sight instead to the floor, and then to his legs, watching as the sun first lit his limbs and then spread up the material of his suit. Clean lines.

He was very close now.

“I’m here to take you.”

Her lips parted, but nothing else moved. Not yet.

“I’m here to make you scream. To hurt you. To make you kneel. To make you crawl. To make you beg.”

At that, her head tilted to the left, but only just. Her throat trembled as she swallowed.

“I’m here to use you as a plaything. Some of the games you may enjoy. Some of them you may enjoy a great deal. Some of them you may not. But they are my games, and I think that will be enough to make you want to play them, anyway.

Hands falling from elbows then, her fingers caught at the lining of her black sheer underdress and held. Loosely, relaxed, but anchored. Her neck stayed long and steady, though her face was tilted away from him yet. She felt her teeth come down, drag on her lower lip, and that lush skin gave easily to their insistence. Small movements. Tiny increments. Nothing she had done was overt.

“You have one opportunity to say no. If you say no, I’ll turn around, walk right out that door, and you won’t see me again in your home.”

Her eyes darted to his position then, and she might have said it was at that moment she felt truly caught. But as his finger came forward, as his hand drifted to her face, her eyelashes moved to show quite clearly the progress her gaze made. She would look while she stood proudly in her heels, if a bit girlishly nervous. As he touched her, she met his eyes with her own. The polish was sloughing away. It was a dangerous place, in the sunlit spot she claimed. Always simpler to stay put together in her pretty dress, in her dainty shoes. Pauline Réage watched from the shelves somewhere. And so the fear was trampled by something raw, something that made her exhale with a very quiet noise at his next words.

“But I don’t think that you’re going to say no. I think you’re going to say please.”

And so she seized it, that swimming feeling of dark opportunity that made her feel weak down to the bone. Strong, though. Resolved. She might have dallied but, no, for -

“Yes, Sir,”

- almost bitten out, with high color in her cheeks. But she ground it down, feeling it test along her want, run directly to where his finger still rested on her chin. When she spoke again, her voice was shakier. She held onto the promise of abandon. It was there. And as much as it grated against her nature, she would look him in the eye when she made the bargain.

“Please stay, Sir.”

Feeling the rise of goosebumps along her arms.
Speaking, once more: very quiet, this time.

“Please... use me, Sir.”
 
The man had never hunted game.

He never saw the pleasure in killing, though he understood the desire of those who wished to be divorced from the industrial production of meat. He had never hunted, but he had learned to stalk at an early age, had spent hours barefoot in quiet woods, practicing. The key was moving slowly enough. If you moved too quickly, the animal’s eye would be drawn to you, and the game was up. But if you were slow and methodical, if you picked up your feet carefully, set them down just as carefully to make sure that there were no twigs that would snap, no mud that would slip, you could sometimes get close enough to touch a deer.

He had applied those lessons in his own life. Move slowly. Move carefully. Consider. Plan. But every now and then, there was a time to throw caution to the wind, a time for unfettered action. This, then, was one of those times. As he spoke to her, as he watched the reactions move through her – pale arms crossing, then uncrossing and grasping at her underdress; eyes moving around the room, but not the quick darting of panic; the bite of her own lip – he knew that he had been right. The knowledge sent a jolt of adrenaline through him, a frisson of dark energy that pooled in the base of his spine.

“Yes, Sir.”

And then, and then, her eyes rose to meet his. The hazel orbs, filled with longing and need and fear, seemed big enough to drown in.

“Please stay, Sir.”

"Please…use me, Sir.”

He closed his own eyes as she spoke the last, and if the previous sensation had been a shiver, a jolt, this one was a blast, a thunderclap, an explosion. He could, and would, hear those words echoing in the vault of his mind for a long time.

His eyes flashed open, capturing the tableau of girl and dress and bookshelves and window and sunshine, the torrents of spring, recording the details to play back later. For now, it was time for transitions.

The finger that had rested on her chin now began to travel down, over her chin, across the smooth, soft skin under her jaw, and down the front of her neck. He touched her slowly, deliberately, inexorably, down to the hollow of her throat, pressing against the pale skin as he went. He traced first her left collarbone and then retraced his path to trace her right, pausing only to dip into the hollows between the bones and the muscles of her neck.

Finally he stopped, his hand now resting lightly at the base of her throat, thumb to one side, fingers to the other, and he began to squeeze. He started slowly, and combined the compression with downward pressure from his hand.

“Kneel, Tess. A girl should beg from her knees,” he instructed, his voice low and quiet.

As he forced her down, his other hand rose to take a handful of her hair near the nape of her neck, pulling it down and back, tilting her chin upwards so that she had to remain looking at him as she knelt. When her knees hit the floor, he stepped around to her side, pressing her cheek against his soft woolen trousers and the warm, firm solidity of his thigh, beneath.
 
When his eyes closed, her chest longed to fill – greedily, stockpile oxygen. It was a nervous reaction, a desperate routine that she repressed. The finger on her skin was a reminder. She would keep her breathing sedate, measured. Or, at least, she would attempt to. She could not still the tiny shudder that ran through her like a thrumming wire as his trailing descent to her throat began. The birds behind her sent rippling notes over folios and atlases, collections and encyclopedias. Reading lamps. Guestbook. Table of contents.

Definitions.

Think of words.

Her lashes were long against her cheek as her eyes dropped to his arm, sheathed in its sleeve. She didn't think she could wait, patient under his touch, but as ever, she surprised herself. And he, as ever, would collate these small tip-offs to later entwine her. He traced her collarbone with effortless delicacy. A blush stole over her cheeks. She was raw: slowly she had gathered the ropes of her submission and woven them into a skein, only to cast them out again and again. It was like that now. He traced that thin line indelibly over the surface of bone.

Relinquish.

Her neck lengthened ever so slightly under his ministrations. She longed to press her palms to her cheeks but she kept her hands at her sides. She looked up at him again, at the shadow of his beard and the curve of his lips, the teeth that she knew lurked behind them. Much easier, if she didn't meet his eyes. Always easier.

Accede.

She felt her fingers flutter gently as the curve between his thumb and forefinger compressed the soft skin of her throat. A reflex compelled her to swallow against that unyielding arch, but she felt as though that tunnel was restricted to the size of a straw, for all the clearing it did. She couldn't keep her lips tight any longer – they cleaved to the anxiety in the recess of her mouth, the air flow he confined.

“Kneel, Tess. A girl should beg from her knees.”

Succumb.

She wondered if her limbs would creak in protest, would fight with cracking of bone and tendon and angry joints. But no: her legs were supple and smooth as she bowed under his command, yielding down to her knees next to the charcoal pillar of his leg. Her heels bent around her toes with the gleam of black leather sharp and striking next to the ivory skirt. The shining auburn of her hair was very bright against the dark material of his pants. She had known he would have her on her knees. She had clung to the ceremony of greeting, which he had performed with a perfunctory eloquence – and she, a kind of literary boniface. She felt the hardwood planks under her knees. They were warm from the sunlight. As his hand met the back of her head she shut her eyes, blurring the defined illumination of her store into sequestered dark. Safe, for a moment. Her hair pulled into his grasp, slipping away from its taut style into a faithless tether. Turned up then, like a flower to sustenance, graceful on its stem.

Obey.

The light was a comforting pinpoint beyond her closed lids. But kneeling had solidified the circumstances, set the tone to one that surrounded her like immovable stone. Her eyes opened. She was a girl at his feet, not the prettily coiffed bookseller that had welcomed him. She could feel the trembling start, inching up her ribs and down her arms. Her hands were clasping her thighs, but one left its familiar place to rest against the fabric that so headily filled her senses. She knew it was a gamble, but for now, she would take it. Steady on. Let go.

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, in a voice that she had meant to be pleasingly full and husky. She had managed only the barest of speech. She cleared her throat minutely. Her eyes held his face whole, and she felt unnerved. Take comfort on your knees. And so she did. Hand on his leg, red nails winking in jeweled tones against the pinstripes, and a pair of lips that asked for the things he had come to offer. The things he would seek to tear from her. “Please, Sir, will you use--”

Give ground.

Don't falter, don't stutter.

Back again, and letting it burst instead of troubling what it sounded like. She wanted it. Why not ask? “Will you please use me? Let me—No, whatever you want, please, Sir? As Sir would like to u-use me...”

Biting her lip, her cheeks reddening.

“A girl. Will you please...”

Submit.

“Let a girl please you, Sir? Use me, Sir. Please!”

The words flew from her mouth, faster than she could control. They hung there, and she had no way of knowing if he would pluck them up or let them fall. That was the point. She never knew. Her thighs clenched.

Please.
 
Her words hung there, in the empty air between them - frail things, insubstantial, made of mist and longing, but words, ephemeral though they might be, carried great power. These words in particular carried power, from her mouth to his ears, from her own control to his. With her words, with her tentative hand on his thigh, with her wide eyes and shortened breath, she offered herself to him.

Muscles bunched beneath the sleeves of his suit jacket as he hauled the slender young woman upright, one hand still around her pale neck, the other now resting at the base of her skull for additional leverage. Amusement danced in his dark eyes as her feet scrabbled for purchase on the wooden floor, her dark shoes skittering and sliding along the warm planks. He held her on her toes, leaned in to whisper in her ear, breath hot against sensitive skin.

“Your offering pleases me, Tess. I accept it.”

His senses, now hyperaware, threatened to overwhelm him with input. The sound of her breathing – fast, shallow, almost a pant - overlaying the chirping of birds and the metronomic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. The feel of her skin and hair under his hands – soft, supple, cool, but slowly heating from her blushes and the contact of his own skin. The location of the nearby furniture in the room –a low couch to his left, a coffee table directly behind Tess, and the leather chair to his right with his briefcase sitting on the seat.

Turning abruptly, his grip on her neck tightened as he began to move towards the leather chair. As a consequence of his hands around her throat and at the back of her head, Tess was bodily dragged along with him, forced to move quickly on uncertain feet if she didn’t want to fall, and pulled inexorably along with him regardless of whether she fell or not. When he reached his desired destination, the soft, supple leather chair that he had recently gripped so tightly, he released her without warning, then turned his back on her to pick up his briefcase. He turned back, sat down, and lightly ran his hands over the leather of the case, his eyes on her and burning with hunger.

One hand rose from the battered black leather, index finger extended and pointed at the ground next to his leg.

“Down.”
 
From a few months ago.

“Over there.”

“Why--”

“I fucking said, over there.” His fingers dug into his palms, the tendons of his wrists standing out in arrant profile beyond the cuffs of his ragged hooded sweatshirt. Sure, he was bedraggled. Sure, there were circles under his eyes so dark that his sockets looked bruised. He smelled of smoke and motor oil.

She.

She was sitting underneath the window, with starlight flooding in over her shoulders. The distance between them was a trifling matter of five paces. He could jump that space in a second, send her heartbeat reaching for drumline perfection. In the black and white of the moon, she could have been anyone. Maybe she was just his girl, or at least she could be - for a couple of hours. He shook out his hands, and shoved them into the deep front pocket of his shirt. The lines of the windowpane cut across his face and cast his expression into shadow. He wanted to watch as she finally started to move from the safety of light to the isolation of the corner. Any other night, he may have made her sweat up against the glass. But not that night.

Her breathing was unsteady as her pale legs bent underneath her cautious frame. The sweater she wore brushed against the window sill and caught, making her twist to free it. Some spindly fuzz of trailing threads was captured between her fingertips, and she held the sweater fast before snapping the strings free. He could tell she was relieved by the distraction, but that was coming to a close. He had time. The clock had stopped the minute she had placed the last crate in her car. It had stopped when he had moved from the shelter of the tree next to the residence, into the living room – its bare expanse still startling him when he recalled the previous furnishings. His furnishings. His house. Their house.

Anyway, he was back now. She had come back up the walk for her purse, to lock the door and maybe reminisce over the past that lay in the rooms rendered empty. And she—she was such a slight thing, all purple and blue underneath white flesh. The wispy dark of her hair curled neatly into his hand as she bent to recover her bag by the door. He had shoved her into the wall, and shoved hard. Something came loose inside him then, some terrific burst of glee and rage and righteous answer. It felt right. It almost had a taste. He knew her skin would taste sweeter, even if it was salted with fright. All of that fear and animosity he saw in her eyes, he knew he had mirrored it in his own when she had broken it off. It had felt like a physical blow, a sickened gut that couldn't fight for air. A wound. And so when she had rubbed at the bruises that were surely forming on her elbows – thin skin, after all – he couldn't have felt more high. It was only fair.

Or so he thought, until he saw her making the clumsy movements to stall whatever future awaited her in the corner. She delayed by picking her garment free. She drew one long, steadying breath. What was she storing it up for? If he wanted to, he could pull it out of her lungs. Bare hands, wrapped around that slender throat. His own neck trembled as he swallowed. Not so controlled, anyway. No, he really wasn't. But that was alright. He had time. He could let loose in one ferocious burst. He shifted his feet apart, his already planted stance becoming that much more imposing. He wasn't small himself. Hadn't she felt safe before? She used to curl up like a pretty ornament next to his chest, whispering in a voice that he had made breathless – how many times could a girl come before her legs gave out? He never knew.

Focus. Fair. What the fuck was fair? He let her walk of her own accord, instead of dragging her. Because he wanted to hurt her. That was the idea.

The movement of his body made her scamper the rest of the way to the murky gloom of the walls' confluence. He knew he could follow leisurely and stealthily, but instead he paced his footsteps right behind hers. Bearing down on her, he caught the little whistle of anxiety that shrilled like a teakettle from her mouth before his hand clamped down on it. The blitz of his arms wrapping around her midsection forced the pale round of her face – previously peeking over her shoulder – into the flat of the wall. Her feet kicked out, back, into his shins. He snorted, amused. That euphoric feeling was back, warming his skin like an old friend. The tapping of her ballet flats into his jeans was ineffectual – its only purpose was to establish desperation. Make a show of it. She proved that she fought the good fight.

“Oh, oh. Mhm.” His mouth was pressed up against the shell of her ear. His words conducted straight inside. “Keep that up. Get all tired for me.” The veins of his arms corded against the pearl buttons of her dress. Skimpy little sundress. The cups of her bra patterned in lacy mounds on her skin, and the slight curve of her breasts were visible as he arched his grip away to peer down. She groaned into his hand, breath hot and moist on the inside of his fingers. It made him sink his teeth into the softer flesh of her earlobe, reacting without reason or fear of consequence. Harder, feeling the skin squeak slightly underneath the sharp edge of enamel.

It wouldn't be much longer now. He released her, wishing he could see the marks of his bite but instead settling for darting his tongue over them to feel the grooves he had etched.

“Do you remember when - “ His tone was conversational, low in pitch and betraying only the slightest hint of effort. He was hitching her up, knocking her legs apart with his knee. He wedged it into the walls, effectively trapping her between his immovable body and the corner. “ - you were my baby, Annie? Do you remember when I used to get you wet? Make you come on the phone when I was on those away jobs? God, I used to miss you so much.” His hand clenched tighter around her cheeks, and the timbre of his voice hardened briefly. “Scream and I'll break your fucking arm, and that's just for openers. I'm real pissed off, Annie. I'm barely holding on. I'm taking my hand away from your mouth now.”

His hand left her mouth and stayed at her throat, while the other passed down the flat band of her stomach and dug in between the spaces left by the buttons on her dress. She made no noise at first. He heard her skim her tongue over her lips, the wet and thirsty sound of it. He had plenty for her to drink. He closed his fist on one side of the fabric, and prepared to tug. It was then that she spoke, finally, in a voice made tiny with helplessness.

“Why?”

He paused mid-action, already feeling the seams stretch and give in complaint under his ministrations. A thought occurred to him, one that had been simmering since he had caught her. It was time to chase it, to make it known. The hand ripped to the side, as buttons popped free and skidded in bouncing arcs over the hardwood. Both of his hands reached up to the low collar of the dress and parted the garment with heedless greed. He murmured, as his fingers found the waistband of her panties and her body tensed up against his, “Well, lots of reasons. Here's a better thought for you.”

His thumbs sank down into the cradle of her hips, then the little path left along the top of each thigh. He pressed the calloused pads of the rest of his eight fingers onto each inner thigh, mercilessly kneading her skin while the heat behind the cotton of her underwear crept out to tell tales. She was breathing fast now, pointless little sobs emitting like bread crumbs to follow. After all, he wanted her to sing out. He could drink in that fear. But she was still waiting, poised to listen. He could have laughed out loud at her curiosity. Abruptly, he stopped squeezing her thighs and raked his hand back up the front of her body. It tangled deeply into her hair and he slammed her cheek once into the wall, not hard enough to daze – but wickedly enough to make sure she didn't think she deserved to know the question.

“I left the front door open. I moved in between the corner and the wall.”

His free hand cupped her hidden sex, almost tenderly.

“You had a choice. You could have gone either way. And here you are. Babygirl in a nice little box.”

Two fingers pushed aside the flimsy barrier, and touched skin that was slick. Welcoming. The triumph in him soared and he couldn't keep the laughter from shouting out.

“You remember, don't you? You remember every fucking thing I used to do to you. You miss me. Don't you?”

The hand moved from her hair to her chin. He nodded her head up and down, synchronized puppet movements. Her cheek felt wet against his arbitrary skin. Victory.

He whispered to her then, almost tenderly, “Tell me. Tell me and I'll make you my girl again. Tell me you want it.”

The pause could have been five seconds, five minutes. He had time. He was willing to share. He had drawn his fingers back from their sanctuary, and he felt the trembling of her hips betray what she sought. Waiting, and waiting. All this time, his arms were iron. He knew they always would be. It was what he wanted from her. He understood that now.

Finally, the choked voice spoke. The sob. The pleading. The need. It was all there, up her throat and out her mouth, right into his ear. “Yes. Yes, I want it. Yeah. Please, I do.”

As though a switch had been hit, he moved back from his bolstering position and let her drop. She let out a cry of fear and frustration as she fell, before he whirled her around to face him. Her dress hung in tatters on either side of her heaving midsection, and her thighs showed great clawed marks. He had seen enough, or not even close. But it was time.

“Fucking right, you do. Now open your legs, and don't take your eyes off me.”

The slap rang out across her cheek before his mouth came down on hers. Her tongue tasted as sweet as he remembered. It was only as he was lowering his lips down her ribs that he realized there hadn't been any bitterness of fear or apprehension.

The only thing he had tasted in her mouth was the honeyed spark of freedom.
 
Old story.

Some nights he was in the city across the river. Some nights she knew he wasn't sleeping, some days he wasn't eating. The songs weren't getting written. The goals weren't being kept. The ashtrays on his floor and on the porch were full, overflowing. The house wasn't a mess because he had nothing to mess it up with. He had a couch, a table. He had some blankets for the couch, some scattered clothes and change. There were some spent lighters. Sometimes there was beer in the fridge, or some apples. The freezer needed defrosting and the sink in the kitchen leaked.

Some nights she would empty the ashtrays into the big trash can outside: one of the old metal ones. No bags, he couldn't afford any bags. Some nights she would sweep the porch. Some nights the guitar would filter out through the open screen – he'd have a cigarette wedged into the strings. There would be a rustling of pages as he crossed out tabs, underlined others. The summer air, if it lingered around, would be temperate enough that she'd sit on the porch wall. Her shoe would skim the weeds that tried to take over the siding – he couldn't afford gas for the mower. The broom would be propped up by the door. Sometimes she would wait for the twanging of notes as his fingers came down hard, “come inside,” and so she would.

Some nights the table lamp would be on and the record player they had liberated from his parents' garage would scratch out melodies: The Ink Spots, Billie Holiday. Those nights were good – he wasn't restless, and she wasn't wondering why she came for a visit. Those nights she'd buy him beer and he'd hold the bottle cold against her neck. Those nights sweat dampened their temples. Those nights the light would stay on, or flicker off. It was beneath notice. Those nights only the crickets stirred the weeds on the wall and her shoes would flop to the floor by the table. Thump, thump. Those nights his hair was dark against her thighs.

Some nights it got cold. Some nights she lay wakeful with him asleep at her back. Some nights the upholstery on the couch was scratchy and raw, harsh on her marks. Some nights she was hungry. Some nights she stole out to the porch, wrapped in a blanket, pilfered one of his cigarettes. The light would come on and stream across the floorboards, the peeling paint and danger of splinters. Sometimes the light wouldn't come on at all. But always, the guitar. Always, the music.

“Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns,” she could have said. Some nights she wanted to. What was a quiet muse? What was a task without end? Never the days, but always the nights. Always night.

But the morning, when the summer was over, and the year began again, the blankets were folded. The guitar was put in the trunk of the car. The table and the couch were sold. He pulled handfuls of weeds and tossed them into the metal trash can. She folded a piece of paper, tucked it into the side of the lamp. Weeks later, when he came home from being on tour – the real house, their house, not a hole to write in – he would pull out the paper. He would find her and the nights would begin again. The nature of a muse.

"'I am your own
way of looking at things,' she said. 'When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation.' And I took her hand."
 
The snow had barely started to melt from its arctic preservation when freezing rain came to bolster the cold. It made for hesitant steps, even in the boots she had selected so carefully for function. Warm, though. Warmer than it had been. She adjusted the canvas bag over her shoulder and hitched an identical container to settle on the same arm. The door to her bookstore was approaching, in all the gloom, and she had to hunt out the key from her pocket. It had been a long time.

Rustling about in her brown wool peacoat eventually yielded a set of keys, revealed to the dim light with a dull glow of bronze and silver. The proper key was selected with a flick of her wrist, left arm aching from the weight of her bags, and twisted impatiently in the lock. Door kicked open unceremoniously, bags dropped, arms shaken, and door shut once more.

The air was musty, unvisited and undisturbed. The books looked the same - if slightly neglected and covered with a film of dust. The old-fashioned register sat imposingly upon its counter and the table of drinkware sat waiting to provide tea. Musingly she thought of providing coffee as well. In any case, it would have to be set to rights. And she had only managed to get so far the last time...

The previous occupants were not in evidence, and she pulled off her gloves finger by finger. A wool coat was necessary, however, for the walk to the heat settings. The gas should still be on - she wasn't that forgetful. A reassuring bump and growl from the furnace followed as she switched the thermostat to heat. The coat was shed onto the pay counter, and the boots were kicked aside. A white crocheted tam was pulled from red and shining waves of hair, which fell over her shoulders in relief. Fingers tousled through the locks before snagging a ribbon from her pocket and securing a bow to hold everything in place. A few other assorted odds and ends were in the pocket of her sweater. She'd need to clean it out, but not now. First, it was time to get dusting.

With one long last look around the winter-lightened reading room, she set off into the kitchen to find the box of rags.

The Athenaeum was open for business again.
 
Mostly put to rights, there is a peaceful quiet in the store today. From the kitchen, there's the slight whistle of a kettle that tells of tea in the near future. A rhythmic, muted thud emanates and the smell of yeast floats in curling tendrils that will eventually settle into new baked bread. The owner must be back there with an apron tied 'round her and a handkerchief covering her auburn hair - flour tends to fly about whether you want it to or not. Closer to the scene at hand, a book is laid open on the counter by the register. One floury fingerprint marks the place she left off, and she might be rather thankful that the poem inscribed is not in its original form of a magazine entry. Such an item would be quite old and not given to perusal by absent-minded day bakers.

Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
When logics dies,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood jumps in the sun;
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.
 
The confounding song had been stuck in his head for some time now - days maybe? - and even now, as he twisted the knob and shouldered the door open, he found himself humming it. The weather was again turning cold, a winter without end, and he was quick to hurry inside, the small table he'd brought with him pulled in quickly so the door frame was free to accept the hastily closed door. A rattle was sent through the walls, almost as if the place had realized his purpose here and shivered in the face of it, and he grinned. He knew she lurked about somewhere, lost in the stacks browsing, reading, hiding...

No, not hiding.

Why would she hide?

Another visit of his, perhaps, another trip among the shelves and perhaps he would come with reason to hide. He doubted she would even then, unless she felt like acting the prey, but today, this visit, his intentions... no, she'd not be hiding.

Whatever the holder of this little space may be up to, the chances that she was still unaware of their arrival seemed slim.

No, not their. The little table he dragged along behind him didn't count as part of them, didn't turn his little excursion from he to they, did it? It was, after all, simply a bit of furniture, a place to set books as he browsed, a place to leave the things he may be interested in or somewhere to stack books as he tried to reach for one trapped beneath those he wasn't interested in.

A table wasn't a they, a them, a he or a she. It was just a piece of furniture.

No matter.

The softshell jacket he'd donned was unzipped, pulled off, folded and laid across the back of a chair. The table... tables didn't get cold. Or, if they did, it was certainty nothing he paid any mind to. No jacket for the table, and so he moved on, dragging it along behind him.

The song still spun through his head, still vibrated along his throat and jaw as he hummed it, careless of his volume, paying no mind to what protests the table may squeak out as it was pulled along behind him.

"Teardrop on the fire
Fearless on my breath"

The words were half-sung, no chance he'd hit the range she sung in, and he moved along through rows and stacks, towers and piles of books. His gait was casual, his interest in the spines and covers his eyes swung past only slightly more so as he worked his way deeper into the Athenaeum.

He knew, as he strolled past books of varying height and thickness, age and color, that the chances of their literary tastes overlapping were not the strongest. Science and religion, some philosophy maybe, and popular fiction were mostly his fare. Your Kings, your Chrichtons, your Grishams. Still, the sheer volume of books here meant something would catch his eyes, send his fingers dancing through pages. It was only a matter of...

His eyes snagged on something and he stopped in his tracks, the table he dragged along bumping his hip. He rolled his eyes and pushed it back away from him a step, then turned his attention back to the book. An index finger extended, he slid it between the top of the book's spine and the bottom of the shelf above, feeling the dense collection of pages under the pad of his finger. Curling the digit, he tipped the book towards him and collected it into his hand.

"Stay there," he said to the table, and released his hand from the dark, curly hair he'd used to drag it along behind him.

Both hands now free, he let the book fall open somewhere near the middle and began to scan the pages, his eyes and his finger working in tandem to skip from passage to passage, page to page.
 
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If it hadn't snowed the preceding day, she would've been out in her damn garden. Even now she could look through the windows and see bravely green grass, growing after a spiteful blanket of white that had melted away in an afternoon sun. Her seeds were scattered on a table in the atrium-slash-greenhouse that she had finally outfitted for garden work. Some of them were run of the mill, some of them were more exotic varieties that she had procured from seed catalogs. At the moment she was running her fingertips gingerly over an ailing snapdragon seedling. No amount of worrying would help it, but she still couldn't help but hover. This would be the third plant of the variety that she'd seen wither in a week. Impatiently she tugged off her garden gloves and flung them on the table, dirt still clinging to their beige sturdiness. It was all getting to be so fucking irritating. The winter dragged on inevitably every year – every new April, snow cascaded down upon the ground that should have been ready for sowing. She gripped the side of the table with hands of misplaced delicacy and stood with her arms apart, bracing herself for – for what? Sunshine? The unfurling of garden abundance? It was enough to make her stir-crazy. She probably was. The girls had been gone for weeks and there was no one around to ease the tug of frustration.

Enough. Using the back of her hand she brushed auburn bangs from hazel eyes and reached around to untie her green canvas apron. It wasn't like she was vain - an old linen blouse and skinny jeans hardly qualified for perfection – but she didn't relish sweeping up grit from the wooden floor of the store later. She had swept her hair up into a hasty knot and now it was time to let things down, to make some tea, to catalog some books. It wasn't a very exciting prospect, but it was familiar. She reached up to hang the apron from the designated hook – and paused. The stillness was total from her fingers at the wall to the line of her leg; she was as tense and focused as a cat about to leap. Someone had entered the store. Someone who was very loud indeed. Someone who didn't care about waking up anything in the gloom of the stacks or the even more shadowed hallways beyond. Sometimes even she didn't think it wise to raise her voice beyond a conversational level. The sounds in the Athenaeum carried, when it was suitable, although there were plenty of unnerving instances where a scream went unanswered. That was a pleasant thought, but no time for it now. Anyway, it was how she heard the clatter and scrape of another in her bookshop.

Idly she rolled her tongue in her cheek, considering, before engaging in motion once more: apron hung, shirt gently brushed with hurried fingers, one long digit tucking back a strand that hung irritatingly close to her earlobe. Her suede flats brushed against the frame as she rounded the corner, closing the glass door with an unconcerned rattle and click. The hallway there had enough light from the main room and the kitchen beyond that she needn't pay attention to her footsteps – but she wondered where the visitors had ducked in. Visitors, a sly thought input, are you getting hungry?

“Shut up,” she muttered.

As she came into the warmth and wood of the reading room she glanced automatically towards the fireplace. There was enough burning there to keep things warm. At the word warmth her eyes cast upon one of the capable reading chairs that she employed for brief customers – those that came looking for no more than some banal volume, some published treasure, some precious book of poetry. None of them were visceral and if any of them had chosen to disappear into her back rooms, she had sent them packing. But this... she ran her hand over the material, and looked towards the stacks. That was interesting. It wasn't remotely bright back there, or particularly inviting, unless you were a reclusive bibliophile – or myself. She picked up the jacket and moved towards the closet, and as she hung it from a hook she knew. The half-caught piece of song, the minor tune of easy enjoyment. She knew that song. Such a pretty song. She bit her lip. This knowledge did little to dispel her curiosity, even if the visit was expected or anticipated. Anticipation was one of the things that she fed the frustration, like a small offering of patience to keep the rampant interest in check. No, now she was intrigued. Now she was opening the strings of the box, gleefully, reaching down to open the surprise.

Pulling the ribbon from her hair, she moved into the shelves.

Once she was there, she found it hard to understand how she had missed the desultory flick-flick-flick of pages. Maybe he wanted to borrow a book. Maybe he wanted to borrow a cup of sugar. And maybe you should watch your fucking mouth. It was on that impertinence that she came around to a section that she knew held various volumes on religion. Particularly interesting were the useless armaments of society at the hands of unbelievers – she wondered if Voltaire would approve of atheism. She knew that he would probably find that all a big joke. Even if she didn't believe in the ideals, they still made for good symbolism and reading. On occasion. Sometimes. Rarely. His back was to her and he was focused on the tome in his hands. And there was something next to him... Oh, pretty! She did love curls.

“Hi. Find what you were looking for?” she asked, clasping her hands behind her back. She didn't think she had surprised him – it was odd how sound distorted back here, sometimes echoed and other times muted. The pace she set as she walked into the not-quite narrow confines was relaxed observation. “I don't think you've really been here before. Never bought anything, that's for sure. I've got some... valuable things.”

She came upon him then, tilting up on her toes to peer over his shoulder at the letters on the page. “It's always nice to see someone with literary interests, and good taste.” She gave a small smile and glanced down at his accompaniment with calm interest, before moving away again. The small of her back touched one of the shelves and the crinkle of paper told her that a copy of Thomas Paine should probably be shifted from its location. The small shrug that followed dislodged some of her hair, and it tumbled forward – seemingly at odds with the sudden calculation that glittered briefly in her eyes. “So. How can I help you?”
 
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There was a knock, when there was never a knock. It made her trot. She fumbled with the noisy lock and then paused, remembering to lean in and look. Feeling her breath in her own face, catching it - she always felt a bit like a voyeur, always a bit guilty, knowing they would see the lidless fish eye turn black and blue. Rude, to peep and not open. She always opened.

Seeing him gave her pause. He stared straight back, as if the closed door couldn't hide her - not smiling, but with a glint of amusement in his eyes - though perhaps it always seemed so, to her. She stepped back. Touched her hair. Hurried to pull the door open on an inward breath, feeling the weakness in her legs, parting her lips, and he blinked at her and said:

"Let's go."

Her exhale was like a rush of water over her. Still, she felt herself turn to look back into the house, felt the tremor of voice in her throat as she trailed off on a token protest.

"I..."

Waiting for him to interrupt, to insist. He didn't even trouble himself to look impatient.

She pressed her lips together and then stepped across the threshold, pulling the door closed behind her. No coat, no shoes. She followed him on cold wet tiptoe as he hummed some eerie melody, back to his car. Sliding into the passenger's seat, she knew she shouldn't go with him, let him drive, give him this control. He might take her anywhere.

He might.

She shut the door with a bang.

Timed to coincide with the roar of the engine, she put in the obligatory: "Where are we going?"

He hummed.

She swallowed and stared out the window, making note of nothing, feeling the thrum in her veins. Nodding to herself as she thought briefly: This is what you will remember. When you regret.

He stopped and parked, and when he got out he didn't wait, knowing she would scramble to keep up.

What choice?

She reassured herself with such thoughts, seduced herself.

It wasn't a house. She had time to glance up at the windows - a shop of some kind, maybe a café.

"Heh," she muttered, tight ringlets spilling across her forehead as she dropped her head to watch for glass or puddles or poop. Relief and disappointment unfurled like sepsis under her skin. Only so much could happen, in public.

At the door, he stopped and turned to her finally. Brought his arm up - for one stunned moment, she thought he was going to pull her into a hug or some such - but then his hand closed on the back of her neck and she could breathe.

"Down." Insistence now - the accompanying pressure and his steady gaze.

"D-ow-n?" As she let herself be pushed to a crouch, to kneeling and then to all fours. Roses in her cheeks as she hit the sidewalk, feeling the pavement bite into her palms and knees. But not no.

He didn't knock, but pushed his way in, humming, and she felt his hand in her hair, insistent now, keeping her tight to his side. She could not quite admit to herself that she welcomed it - even the thin pain as he twisted the locks at her forehead to wrap around his closed fist. Make sense of me. She couldn't quite deny it, either.

He dragged her along, humming and murmuring snatches of song - keeping her with him, but careless of how she managed it. There was a familiar ache in her chest as she scuffled on the polished floorboards - hard on the knees - and she whimpered as he turned corners without warning and she narrowly missed sharp corners of shelves, teetering stacks of books.

So many books. A place like this was comforting - but always, too, she felt an accompanying twinge: something like inadequacy. The smell of books - hundreds of them, like this - it was a reminder that she would never, in her lifetime, read every book. She could chide herself absently, knowing that it wasn't expected of her - but still, the shelves upon shelves of closed covers were intimidating. She felt the tug at her scalp as she slowed, hung back, trying to see some of the titles on the spines, looking for something familiar. He pulled her along.

Brontë, she thought. In a library like this, there will be Brontë - some - any of the Brontës... It reassured her, as she clambered after him. Won't there? Or Shakespeare... She clutched at it mentally, clung to it.

He stopped without warning - and she didn't, earning herself an exasperated glance as he put her again at arm's length. She felt her cheeks flush hot briefly as she watched him pluck a thick volume down from a shelf. Felt the strain as she craned to try to see what had caught his interest - but he held it just out of sight.

"Stay there," he said as he disentangled his fingers to take the book in both hands, and she frowned at the floor because where would she go?

With no desire to look up and see the books glowering over her, she frowned at the floor and wondered briefly if it was his place. He hadn't knocked, but then...winding through the shelves like a maze - if he knew these books, wouldn't he know where to find this one? Why drift aimlessly from one to the next, why not make a beeline? Unless, as she sometimes did, he had only waited to be inspired -

The soft, unhurried pat of shoes - close by, and getting closer - made her catch her breath. Someone. So, not alone. She'd thought - She lowered her head, shaking her curls hard at what she'd thought. Watched the spaces under the shelves for shadows, eyes darting - it was so hard to guess the direction.

She had stooped into a near-animal crouch - not flattering, but he wasn't paying any attention - so when the woman spoke casually from behind and above her, she turned in a fluster, feeling a new strange dread settling into her stomach as she recognized the voice. Her humiliation warmed her face like lead paint as her gaze flitted - he didn't say not to look up - from the fine lines of her ankles to the ribbon caught between her slender fingers, to the silken locks curling gently on her shoulders. Not to her eyes.

Her heart was thumping and she felt a weak, watery smile trembling on her lips. Her place, not his. Like the books, she felt that it ought to be comforting.

Like him, she scarcely noted the little lurker on the floor, speaking only to him as she approached, leaning in to approve of his selection. Feeling safely ignored, she kept her head down but stole furtive glances up at the two of them as often as she dared - until she met the redhead's brief, noncommittal smile of acknowledgement, and looked away in confusion.

If she was at all surprised to find her here with him, on her hands and knees on the floor, she gave no outward indication. Maybe it was normal, here. She didn't know her here, in her own place, and it made her nervous.

What is this? she fought the sudden urge to blurt loudly to interrupt them. Maybe it wasn't anything.

"So. How can I help you?"

She swallowed hard and looked up again, with her too-wide eyes - he didn't say not to - waiting for his answer.
 
The sound of the closet door being pulled open, what he didn't know then was the hanging of his jacket, was the first sign that they had been discovered. Not found, not yet, but their presence was at least known.

Well. His presence. He hadn't even bothered giving his little piece of furniture a jacket, and so no evidence of his accompaniment had yet been left behind. Later, when he finally left this place, was likely to be a different story.

The only part of him that moved at the sound of the opening closet was his eyes, which lifted from the page even as his finger moved along the printed lines, a glance up the row of books, and following quickly on the heels of that glance was a small smile. The clock was well and truly ticking now. Would she call out for them? Just move from stack to stack until she found them? Or did she know this place so very well that even the turning of pages would clue her in to their location? He was actually curious to find out, and so his feet - and consequently her hands and knees - remained rooted to the floor while his eyes returned to the page, his scanning taken up again.

Her approaching footfalls announced her presence before she was at his shoulder, and he threw a quick look at the girl on the floor before the shop's owner was in view. He thought he registered a hint of the surprise, the pleasant surprise, he suspected, in her eyes at the sight of the mass of curly hair near his hip, and an amused half-grin found life on his lips at the sight of this. His finger stilled itself on the page, and then he closed the book in his hands, leaving the digit between the pages to keep his place in it.

He turned some as she leaned on the shelf opposite him, leaving the girl he'd brought bent over parallel with the shelves at his side. A glance was cast down at her, and at the sight of her head turned so she could peer up at the new arrival, he took the book into the same hand that had a finger stuck between the pages, and dropped his arm down, blocking her line of sight with the length of the hardcover. Lifting his eyes back to Tess then, he smiled pleasantly, as if nothing was amiss or out of the ordinary.

"I found an interesting section, at least," he said, with a wave of his empty hand at the stacks around them, "Mostly, though, it just seemed silly that I'd not been here yet, so I thought I'd pop in and say hello. Although, now that I'm here..."

He paused and straightened from where he had leaned against the shelf, the hand with the book reaching out past the girl's head towards her back. His finger slipped from in between the pages, and he laid the tome in the small of her back. Whether because it was off center or because she shifted he couldn't say, but the sound of the book clattering to the floor under her was sudden and sharp, echoing quickly before being absorbed into the stacks never to return.

His eyes flicked to Tess and he shook his head slightly, clearly annoyed that he was being sidetracked. Turning then to face the curly haired girl, he bent at the knees, crouching down so he was on her level, and took a firm hold of her hair to pull her head up. His face was close to hers, his voice low but, given their proximity to her, no doubt heard by them both.

"Tell me something," he began, punctuating it with a sudden slap to her face, the hand in her hair holding steady.

"What good is a table," he said, slapping her again, "if a person can't even set a simple book on it? No good at all, I'd say," he finished, adding a third slap.

Leaning forward on his toes, he reached past her to retrieve the fallen book, then settled back on his heels, his eyes on her face again.

"Open your fucking mouth," he spat at her, ready to set the book down and add another slap if she needed extra convincing. Once open, he pushed the book spine-first between her teeth, pulling her hair forward as he did, until her lips were contorted around the unforgiving rectangular shape.

"Drop it again," he finished, "and I'll be hitting you with it next."

Satisfied, he released her hair and stood back to his full height, his attention once more returning to Tess.

"Now," he said, smiling as brightly as his tone, a sharp contrast to that which he'd just used, "Where were we? Oh, yes. As I was saying, while I'm here I thought perhaps you could assist me in finding something..."

He fell silent, crossing the distance between he and her with a couple of quick steps. His hands lifted, each palm turned outward and pressing to the stack on either side of her head. Leaning forward, his bearded cheek grazing hers, he dropped his voice to a whisper, his only movement before straightening up from her to nod his head, once, in the direction of the girl with the book between her teeth.

His brows were lifted in curiosity when his eyes found the face of the bookseller again, his hands falling to his sides as they left the bookshelf behind her.

"Think you may have what I'm looking for in here somewhere?"
 
She held herself still, which was surprisingly easy when she considered the proximity of her guest. And his plus one. She glanced around the stacks, eyes flickering to dusty – but not cobwebby – eaves above. It was a good section. It was an old section. There were parts of this place that even she hadn’t spent enough time in. Maybe today would change that – maybe today was a page turning over. Weren’t they all? Their conversation had been easy, with a simmering charge underneath it all that elevated her blood. He was placing down the book now, signaling an end to his thought. She leaned forward to speak.

The thud and flipping of tousled pages as the book hit the floor stopped her progress, and she paused with her body at an angle. Like a runner waiting in the blocks, she kept her ninety-degree outlook before letting loose one long exhale. Her posture relaxed, she straightened, and their eyes met. There were stacks and stacks of books around them, filled with more knowledge than anyone would need in a lifetime. For all of that, for all that she’d read, she saw the flat gleam in his eyes and she wanted to thumb the pages forward. To see what would happen next. His fist caught her curls, then his palm caught her face, and her fingers came up to shield the smile that flickered across her mouth. Adrenaline began to trickle through her, enough to encourage the hectic bravery that came with pain - watching it, receiving it, shoving it down a throat. The silence, outside of his harsh direction and the quiet adjustments that the book forced her mouth to make, pressed on them.

She watched the teeth of the girl dig into the book’s binding. She wondered how long it would take for her to start drooling. A devolution. I wonder if – He was talking to her, and she eased her gaze back towards him. She cleared her throat, trying to banish the image of brutal handprints and tears.

“How I can help. Yeah.”

If her voice was small, she could blame it on the space. It swallowed things. It had swallowed her before.

His steps forward caught her off-guard: she had expected him to do something, cause small shifts or major rifts. It was startling and she felt briefly annoyed that it had affected her as such. She lifted a hand, as his came up, and her eyes caught the flash of his gaze before he settled his palms on a shelf. The hand she had brought up – what for, she could not say – met the fabric of his shirt and clenched only slightly as his beard scruffed her cheek. When he started whispering, she flicked her attention to the penitent behind him. As it was, his lips were in her ear and hers were the barest distance from his. The snort of laughter that his words elicited dropped right into his hearing and as he pulled away, she flippantly pressed the edges of her lacquered nails into the expanse of his chest before tapping them against her mouth. Their breathing stretched into the quiet. Dust motes drifted in the beams of light that struggled to move beyond the front room.

“I do. I think I do, although it’s in the back. I have a room for projects that need attention. You wanna follow me?”

The smile widened before she pressed her lips together – a considering look, a quirk of her mouth. She began to walk from the cramped space they loitered in, a purposeful stride but not particularly hurried. Opening a drawer, she took out two flashlights and tossed one to him.

“The power back there has some weird wiring. Who can say what it’ll look like? There should be some lanterns, but until then…”

A thought struck her and the beam flared over the little book holder.

“The floor might be dusty, back in the dark. I try to stay out of the reading room, myself. Too much desperation. But I imagine you and your pretty mouth will fit right in. Don’t drop that fucking book, or I’ll make you drag your tongue on the floor all the way there.”

She pointed towards a doorway that, while not exactly hidden, didn’t scream out for entry. A slender arm reached up towards a hook on which a skeleton key hung, and she turned it in a creaking lock before tucking it into her pocket with an absentminded air. She felt miles ahead, already. She felt the dark rush up to them, the musty air spread out and seep, and her shoe slid through a fine mist of grime. Their torchlights bounced off a long hallway, at the end of which – quite a ways off – a gray, amorphous suggestion hinted at a conclusion. Although she set the pace, she did it mindlessly. She didn’t bother to check on the progress of the crawling gait behind them. She also didn’t quite dare look at him, even though her eyes kept darting toward the bright circle his flashlight etched before them.

Crushed and filled with all I found
Underneath and inside
Just to come around
More, give me more, give me more

“There,” her voice murmured. They paused about ten feet away, in a hallway that was about twice as wide, from a doorway that was fitted with heavily ornate wooden doors. The windows had bars, as though for decorative effect, but she knew better. The key came out again, and tumblers clicked through whatever passage of entry was required. She tugged, once and then twice, and the groan of the hinges as the proverbial gates swung open was painful and long. She clicked off her flashlight, smiling sidelong at him.

“Here’s the reading room,” She said, sidling a bit too close as she made to go find what he had asked for.

But first… She paused, and hunkered down next to the figure that he had thrown so unceremoniously into her haven. Well, haven of a sort. Her dark. It was all the same, wasn’t that so? She trailed a finger through the curls, winding one springily around and around before letting go of it with a little tug. Her elbows came to rest on her bowed knees, a picture of casual consideration.

“I’ve got a surprise for you. Well, we have a surprise for you. I’ve been saving things, just for you. Do you like surprises? Hmm?”

She reached out and grabbed the book that protruded from her mouth, wagging it roughly in an up-down gesture.

“Oh, good. I’m so glad! Just wait.”

Rising, she wandered over to one of the shelves underneath the window. After some peering, she withdrew several things – a couple of books, a few fat folders. Papers stuck out and wrinkled at the edges. The light in the room stayed the same: shaded, bleak. She didn’t offer to illuminate it. Her own flashlight had been set aside. With a heave, she slammed her burden onto a tabletop. The accompanying noise ricocheted through the space, even more noticeable in the hush. The smile on her face was bright by comparison, and her lips were full and secretive. She came back to stand next to him, drawing the short length of her legs up to perch on a tabletop. One small book was left in her hand. It was slipped into his grasp, and she clapped her hands together, loudly.

“You want to show her? She's been so patient, waiting on those dirty knees.”
 
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Their gaze caught as they stood so close, the movement of parallel thoughts swirling between them, one trying to be sure the tumblers were aligned for the other so the keys would turn together. It would shock exactly no one that knew them that they were holding the same key here, moving along the same wavelength. More alike than different in random and strange ways. His eyes didn't fall at the press of her nails, the movement of her hands, her gaze held as the little table with the book in her mouth waited behind him to see what fresh, fun hell they had dreamed up for her. The thought made him want to laugh, but he held it in check for the moment.

A short nod was given at last, and he angled his body away from hers as she moved, like a door opened a bit to let someone into the room beyond. His eyes alone followed her progress for a step or two, and then he pivoted on heel and toe to bring himself back around to the bit of furniture he'd brought along with him. The book was still held between her teeth, a fact he acknowledged with his eyes alone, through the little drops of saliva that had begun to leak from her - one running a small but growing trail over the top cover of the book, the other creating a pool for the dust mites on the floor under her chin - elicited a low rumble in his throat.

"Mm."

As if he had been told something he already knew, and didn't want to seem rude in not responding at all to the information. As if a scrap of knowledge had been confirmed for him yet again. As if his mind was otherwise occupied, but the moment needed an affirmation of some kind. As if the absence of drool from between stretched lips would've been the far more surprising thing for him to find. As if he turned people into tables holding books in their mouths under the threat of real and damaging violence as a matter of routine.

"Mm," was the only sound he made, and then his fingers slipped through the air and into her curls and took hold, and he turned away to follow.

He was in no particular hurry - really, it may be more true to say it was the opposite, the sharp confusion and fearful anticipation he suspected she felt a thing he was happy to let her swim in for a while, even her dim mind able to conjure up monsters to make her shiver. To make her wet. No, he was in no hurry as he watched the swaying length of red hair and the shifting hips move in front of them, and yet his pace was not causal, wanting her uncomfortable even in this part of it. Being made into an object of use, a thing you simply existed around without giving much through to it's existence, didn't feel enough. Did anything, though?

Maybe there was a book here that could answer that question. High on a shelf, in a corner where the lights flickered and the shadows never quite seemed to recede entirely. A place where the Vashta Nerada of the soul might live. A place he suspected the owner of this wide and deep collection of books might simultaneously hate and find herself drawn to much too often. Perhaps later he'd inquire about such a thing. Perhaps later he'd find out how the both of them fared in such a place. The three of them. Perhaps together, they'd find what evil lurks in the heart of a man.,

Absent, distracted eyes had followed her as she moved to open a drawer, his thoughts placed somewhere distant and deep. They return with a blink at the sight of a pair of flashlights, and a corner of his lips pull back in a small half-smile. They seemed oddly appropriate in their mismatch, the way people seem to just collect flashlights through the years that were clearly never part of a set. A pair of guides through the darkness, so many differences and yet so similar. Oddly appropriate.

He untangles his fingers so he can catch the light with both hands, Little League techniques never really leaving a person, muscle memory where even the mind's memory fails. The batteries rattle solidly in the cylinder, he tests the light on the ground with the flick of a switch. The beam is strong but narrow, enough that he won't fall into a hole or walk into a wall. As for his companion, who can say what her fate will be, really?

The flash of light as the beam from the other flashlight found his chattel drew his attention up, his head a bit cocked to the side as he considered first where the light landed, and then then person it originated with. A grin flashed across his features, his brow arching a bit as a little surge of energy filtered outward from his spine. His grip on the flashlight tightened a moment, an outlet for the urge to grab the curly hair once more and drag her along, hurry this forward. His eyes swiveled back to settle on the book caught between teeth, and instead he saw the girl on hands and knees, her face angled to the floor, tongue turning to dusty sandpaper as it was pushed along in front of her.

Mop, he wanted to say the word mop. Or maybe a string of words, Mop every last inch of that floor, and, with barely restrained delight in his voice, Make yourself useful, you dumb girl. His tongue itched with the urge, and so instead he bit it between his canines and shifted his attention away.

They were off again, flashlight in one hand, the beam bobbing and sweeping with the rhythm of his steps, messed curls in the other, pulling along the object behind him. His light followed her hand as it took the key, followed the key into the lock, all of it done without thinking, random force of habit through the darkness had not taken them fully to it's bosom just yet. He let her pass through the open door first, hesitating just for a moment to watch the way she seemed to dim as she stepped fully into the darkness, more apparition than girl suddenly.

Then they were following along, the darkness around the last of them more complete, caught where she was furthest behind all sources of light. He was happy for this, an unplanned accident that worked out rather nicely, and so he fell in just behind their guide, close enough that their legs would tangle if he was behind her, not so close that their shoulders would touch if he leaned his body over. Poor girl, kept in the dark both literally and figuratively now. His nostrils flared at the cooler air, the undercurrent of dust and absence somehow welcoming, a scent that was both unpleasant and enjoyed simultaneously. Not unlike gasoline.

He hummed then, just above the sound of their footfalls, the song occurring to him suddenly and seeming entirely appropriate now. "I've this sneaking suspicion," he whispered, his eyes sliding over to peer at the darkened face just in front of him though his head did not move, "That things here are not what they seem..."

Her voice seemed to weave through his, and then all three were silent, voices and footfalls and breathing, as they considered the door before them. A destination, yes. A final one? Who knew what evil lurked...

Again he stood just behind, his flashlight trained on the door so she could see as she worked to open it, the sounds sudden and amplified somehow in the darkness, echoing around them to make the hallway seem both impossibly large and vanishingly small, somehow. The third of their little party, the one both simultaneously the focus and the neglected, was kept still in the dark. Still, both literally and figuratively.

Their gaze met again, dark and hidden until the light from the room expanded to find their faces, and his smile mirrored hers. There was violent intent hidden there, terrible urges one didn't talk about in polite company, and again he caught his tongue between his canines as the urge to fling the girl into the room and mark her until she cried ricocheted around inside him. He clicked off his flashlight instead, almost as if the artificial light would be out of place in this room, and then crossed the threshold into it, pulling the girl along with him.

He released her hair once they were all in the room, and shifted the extinguished flashlight from one hand to the other. She was close to him, both of them were, and he wanted to let the flashlight fall to the floor and reach out to them both. Shattered light. Shattered girls. It was the anticipation in him, he knew, the thing that would've had him bouncing his leg if he were sitting, and so instead he gave a silent nod and wandered a few steps from them both while he appraised the room.

I've got a surprise for you, he heard, and turned to find one kneeling in front of the other. He leaned back against a table, crossing one leg over the other at the ankles and absently setting the flashlight down beside him as he watched. He did not believe it would be accurate to describe himself as a voyeur, he would much rather conduct the orchestra than sit in the audience and watch, and yet there was something about what played out before him that he knew he could watch until it grew so dark in the room that all of them vanished entirely.

He laughed then, surprise and terrible glee mixing within him as the book was used as a handle to make her nod her head. Strange, the things one found humorous when they embraced the awful things within themselves. Another short laugh rippled from him at the happy tone that met this forced affirmation, and his eyes followed as she moved over to a shelf, to retrieve what they'd come for. At last. His gaze shifted, from one to the other, watching as papers and books were moved around, watching as a silver string of drool extended down from her chin, snapped in two and rebounded. He wondered absently how many little pinhead puddles she'd left on the way here. He wondered absently if he'd repay her for the book that was probably beginning to have warped, sticky pages by now. Or, instead, perhaps he'd return at a later date, and offer to pay double for that book high up on the shelf, in the dark corner.

Vashta Nerada, he mouthed just as a sizable collection of books and papers were dropped onto a smooth table top. The sound was loud, incongruent with the dim silence. The first of many. She pulled herself up to sit next to where he leaned on the table then, and pushed a book into his hands. His eyes settled first on the book, then lifted to her face. With his thumb he flipped open the cover of the book as he straightened off the table, and his empty hand reached up to her. His index finger pushed to her lips and then passed, sliding across the plane of her tongue as it instinctively rose up to meet him, and then was withdrawn just as casually as it had invaded. Thumb and index finger tapped together once, twice, and then with both of them wet, he flipped to the first page in the book, and turned away from her.

"She kept her smile plastered on as she turned to make her exit,", he began in a louder voice, casual steps carrying him in the general direction of the one holding the book and drooling on the floor, "Recalling the feel of his hand, firm around her wrist when she tried to pull away. She wanted to remember it later, when she went home. She had her hand on the doorknob when his voice startled her..."

He gripped the page in the corner then and pulled, tearing the page out of the binding and letting it flutter, forgotten, to the floor. In the dim light, his eyes found words on the next page, and he started again.

"If he would only leave it there - not even holding her down, but the threat of holding her down, of pushing her into his desk and pinning her there - just so that she could believe that he would, if he felt her try to rise again. If she could feel his hand, neither forcing her nor stroking her, soothing her - just resting relaxed against her, confident that she would not defy him again, she could do this. But he took it away again, and she felt the next several strokes come swift and vicious - always in the same places, it seemed, and she had no time to get used to it - the pain dazzling and bewildering. She was screaming again, afraid she wouldn't be able to stop."

He paused, looking up at her across the small expanse of space separating them, eyes wide and head shaking slowly.

"My, my, what must be happening to that poor girl..."

His eyes dropped back to the book, the page again torn out and dropped to the ground near his feet. Walking again, he moved closer still as he read aloud once more.

"And she should leave. Tell him - tell him to go fuck himself, and storm out of here. He stood there watching her, waiting for her to do it. He'd told her to do it. He wasn't going to rape her. She wasn't worth it.

The moment, the window of moments in which she could have made her exit and still retained a scrap of dignity had passed. She'd hesitated too long, her hesitation had been noted - and even now she stayed pressed against the door, just staring at him.

He had ordered her out. If she left now, didn't he win? If she stayed, did he win? He wasn't going to rape her, she wasn't -"

He stopped just in front of her and looked down into her face, his eyes wide in faked surprise.

"What terrible, terrible things for a person to write," he said, tearing the page slowly as his body twisted to look back over his shoulder, "Wouldn't you agree?"

He laughed, a short and mocking laugh, and let that page flutter to the ground with the rest. Before he continued on, he turned back and reached down to pry the book from between her teeth. He tossed it aside, not watching as it rotated slowly, as it thudded flat against a table top and the momentum carried it across the width and onto the dark floor below. And then he was moving again, circling her as he read once more.

"He slides deep again, and she retches around him and tries to control it. No one has ever pushed his cock into her and made her gag; she doesn't know if it's the reaction he wants, but he holds her still and calls her good girl and begins to move more quickly, thrusting just as deep. It's all she can do just to be steady, keep her teeth covered, try to keep him in her mouth when he pulls out almost all the way. Suck his cock - but he's just using her, just fucking the wet hole in her face. His pelvis begins to slam into her lips, her nose aches as it crashes into his flat stomach and his balls slap against her chin, and she is drooling helplessly, holding her aching jaw open, whimpering and snuffling between his thrusts, trying not to panic.

She feels him stiffen against her and he shoves deep so that her throat convulses around him, and she struggles to obey when he tells her urgently to suck it, drawing him in as she feels the first hot bitter spurt on the back of her tongue. Hold it, he is saying, even as he pulses into her, and she chokes on his semen and works it to the front of her mouth, careful not to swallow. He eases his cock out and tells her again to hold it, and she nods as he turns her tearstained face up to look at him at last."

He is behind her when he stops - reading, walking - and looks up and past her to the table where the other sits, watching. He holds her gaze as this page is torn free, held out from his body and released to waft slowly to the ground, it's path even and somehow still random.

"Such dirty, filthy words," he says with a slow shake of the head, though to which one he speaking he doesn't make any effort to clarify.

"Maybe you have something a little nicer over there? Something.. a little more wholesome? Redeeming? Or, maybe," he says, closing the book and spreading his hands in a shrug, "This is the sum of the parts? Useless if not dirty."

He is behind her still, he remains behind her even as he moves closer, to set the closed book in the small of her back, the spine of it running parallel with her own. No threat is delivered with it's placement, because he is certain none is needed. And then he straightens, and looks back to their host. Between his teeth, he presses his tongue as he waits.
 
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Fall.

The days had lengthened, the weather had warmed, and he was... restless. Bored, maybe, but restless felt closest to the truth of it. He had spent most of the day at a coffee shop nearby, enjoying the scent of roasted beans in the air while sipping from a cup of steaming tea. He wasn't a coffee drinker, never really had been, but the smell still worked for him and it was one of the few places that brewed with loose leaf tea, so he stopped in when he had a free day.

They happened less and less, anymore, but today seemed to be one of them. Lucky him.

He sat in the window, alternating between thumbing through a months old copy of Scientific American and watching puffy white clouds drift across the sky. His leg bounced silently as he sat, some part of him always in motion, a small outlet for the burst of energy always coiled inside him, waiting to get out.

He flipped the page, his gaze skimming across a two-page spread of the Sombrero Galaxy, and then lifted his eyes to the windows again. Lifting his cup, he drained the remaining splash of Ceylon left in the bottom, and over the rim he gazed up the street, watching a car disappear from view. The cup was returned to the table, and he smiled to himself. Rising, he set the white ceramic mug into the bin and dropped the magazine back on the rick.

"Thanks," he said with a nod to the nearest employee, and then he was out the door and back into the lazy spring breeze. Pausing outside the door, he looked to his left in a token gesture of consideration. It was pointless; his destination was already known.

He started off from the coffee shop and in the direction the car he'd watched earlier had disappeared, his pace casual. Just a person out for a stroll. He paused occasionally to look in a shop window for a moment. An antique telescope at a pawn shop, almond cookies in a bakery window, even a couple of bookshops along the way. Nothing grabbed his interest enough to coax him inside, however, until he reached one particular little bookstore.

Pausing outside, he smiled at his reflection in the window, then watched for a moment to see if there was any noticeable activity inside. All quiet. With a final glance up the street, he moved away from the window and opened the little shop's door, the jingle of the bell overhead announcing his arrival. He stopped just inside the doorway, scanning the immediate area as he rolled up the sleeves on the flannel shirt he wore.

Still no activity.

Moving to his right, he slipped a hand into the pocket of the dark jeans he wore, and disappeared between the stacks of books. He was silent as he moved, pulling the occasional book free and flipping through a few pages before replacing it in the empty slot among it's brethren. Gradually, page by page, book by book, he moved deeper into the shop, browsing slowly and methodically... and listening.

Always listening.
 
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Her mother still called it spring cleaning, with a wry undertone to the simplicity. Cleaning never really ended - particularly if you were the one that seemed to sign up for it. Or be signed up. Here, in her own place, no one really expected her to. But she did, anyway, on the off-chance that old circulars took off and she made a fortune on poor Polidori's first publication in New Monthly Magazine. Whatever. It was where she lurked lately, in the romantic stacks. She could have said it was for appearances, the organization, but it was really for her own control.

It had been weeks - months? years? - since another body had lingered in her store. The girls were long gone, and she hadn't time for games of any kind. Even ones that she didn't dice for, herself. All was quiet unless she played music or clattered pans or whistled along to NPR. The glug of water or alcohol into clinking glasses only echoed for herself and her own thirst. Her sheets and pillows and bedroom in general smelled of her flesh: sweet and creamy and smoke. Her hair was still long, long and red, pinned up in a topknot. Loose black thermal circling her collarbone, ratty at the hem. Torn jean cutoffs. Barefoot. Her hands were grimed with book dust and a papercut bisected her left middle finger, but her nails were midnight and sharp.

In the middle of a coughing fit from a storm of dust, she heard the jingle of her front bell. It wasn't like she had been closed, or open, or in between for business. She had just - well, she had just forgotten about exchanges. Money left her hand at the store and she liked it that way. She didn't have to take from others. Nothing that she didn't control herself. Anything else crept too closely to the wellspring of greed that still snuck around her skin and bones. Leaning her forehead against the shelf in front of her, she closed her eyes.

Without thinking about it, she yelled out, "Hey, we're closed in here! You want books, you'll have to go down the street. I just..."

Exhaled annoyance.

"Forgot about the damn door." But she muttered this last, and could be forgiven any rudeness.

She reached back for the stack of gothics in front of her, the weak light from the bulb above her head barely illuminating her progress. Her ears were primed for the returning tinkle of the bell that would signal the absence of her interloper - er, customer. She'd be ready for another day, some other time, just as soon as she got to some of this shit.

But the bell didn't ring again. Instead, she heard a distinct lack of noise. One of those deafening silences that people were so fond of referring to, usually about petty domestic arguments and spats between people who were otherwise SO IN LOVE. Any footsteps that would have heralded someone's progress back into the store - well, they simply didn't register to her. And that was fucking weird. The store had become an extension of her, or maybe always had been, chittering within her like so much machinery. Or vice versa. If there was dust, it was her dirt. If there were secrets, they were her lies. So some stranger inching their way through...

Well, maybe someone had just poked their head in and left.

She couldn't really say why she reached up then, but she did, and yanked quickly at the fraying string that controlled the light. The shelves around her sank into an inky gloom. Only a little afternoon sun from the front of the stores reached this place, just a midway point on the map to the wayback - and back and back. Windows were around, somewhere, but they were covered too, and barely made a dent. She rubbed her elbows and her arms. Not cold. Not now. She'd check it out. And she wouldn't be a wimp about it either. With a brisk (and not that she'd ever admit it, but careful, yes, careful) pace she headed for the front of the store, and light.

Ordinarily, the Athenaeum was a mixed place for her. She struggled with it, battled it, lived with it: corners and hidey-holes and cupboards, hallways and locked doors. It had been so long of her own trepidation that she almost welcomed the thought of someone else's problems, someone else's requests. But she knew that to be complicated, too. A lie that borrowed from the truth. She would be too happy to live in this... cacophony, that she had made. Her fingertips brushed against a yellowed broadsheet, from the 1910s. Its crackling edge distracted her from the silence long enough for something else to ping in her reeling brain - pages. Pages were flipping. And they were close, a few shelves over. She had come within spitting distance of the well-lit stacks, the shelves that were more accessible to those who came to browse. Instead, the pinpointed flipflipflip so leisurely occurring was over a bit.

She felt sick.

Stomach swooping, she wished she had on her Docs, beating her heavy heels onto the floor to lend her diminutive frame some fucking consequence. When she opened her mouth to speak, her lips and tongue were dry. But she would be damned if now, of all times, she let it tremble. In a watered-down version of her full-throated yell before, she called out, "Excuse me? Maybe you didn't hear me before."

A cardinal sin, she was committing now, but since she had sang like a songbird, she moved towards the page flaps. Whoever it was knew her exact place now. The space she walked towards in between the stacks grew darker again.

"We're clos-"

The gloom opened briefly, parting like petals into a slender passage between bookshelves, in a moment that she knew would stick to her ribs if he left her with any.

Because there he was, a book in his hand.

The words wouldn't come any further.
And her hand reached behind her, for something to steady the pulse in her throat.
And there was nothing but air.

And she was afraid.
 
It had grown quiet. More than that, it was silent. Still. The sidewalk outside seemed abandoned suddenly, the foot traffic entirely dried up. The street was empty, baking bare in the afternoon sun. He didn't lift his eyes from the pages of the book opened in front of him, but even the little shops across the street and on either side felt closed, their signs flipped for the day and left swinging on the bit of twine that held them in the window. It was a curiosity, to be sure, but not one he devoted any attention to exploring. Far more interesting was the silence from deeper inside, among the dust and the darkness. He-

Smiled.

The book in his hands was folded carefully closed and replaced on the shelf, it's companions on either side whispering their acceptance of it's return to the line. Tapping his index finger on the book he'd returned, a reprint of The Sceptical Chymist by Robert Boyle, he drifted down a couple of feet. Further into the building. Closer to her. Deeper into her safety.

His eyes scanned slowly, and then he heard the distant shink of a pull-chain being employed suddenly. Reaching up, he pulled another book free. Written on the spine in gold leaf was Recent Advances In Organic Chemistry, and in smaller print after it, Alfred Walter Stewart. In print that was smaller still, brightness that was fragile and delicate, a shine that must be handled carefully lest it crumble to the floor, was written 1909. He let the book fall open in his hands, giving itself over to him, and let his eyes drift across the page.

Around him, the air stirred. It was silent, slow, easy enough to miss if one wasn't looking for it. But one was. One always was. He remained still, his eyes moving as his ears reached out for any sound to grab on to that was outside of the flow of his own warm blood. That grip was found in the murmurs of bare feet on cold floor, a signal of her arrival in the moment before her voice shattered the stillness and gave her away entirely. He didn't lift his gaze from the pages in front of him, even as she found him and, simultaneously, swallowed her tongue.

He was not unaware of the big bite he took from the sunlight that filtered in through the front windows, or the shadow he cast beyond him. Despite not looking up, he was not unaware of the darkness it cast over her, the net of black thrown over her slender form. He left her to hang in that darkness beyond what seemed natural, beyond what seemed courteous in polite company.

He wasn't polite company.

He left her in that dark and quiet while his fingers waltzed with the pages, his head bowed and his eyes eternally moving without a care in the world. He forced her to wrestle with the questions that confronted her, with an overactive imagination that conjured up all manner of horrors faster than he'd ever be able to visit upon her. He plucked her out of her calm, like a baby bird tipped from it's nest and abandoned to the harsh world below. How terribly often the poor things were consumed.

Eventually, he did end the silence. His brows lifting, he lifted his empty hand to the open page, the 144 printed in slightly uneven typeface in the top corner. A single digit moved across the page as he read them aloud, underlining the words as if to highlight them for later.

"These two bodies differ not only in physical properties, but in chemical character as well, as the following data will show."

"Hm," he said then, without looking up. "Hm."

The finger was withdrawn, and the book snapped closed with a muffled thump of pages coming together. He turned partially in her direction, but still didn't favor her with his gaze.

"Go lock your door, then," he said dismissively as he passed by her, and the book in his hand was dropped at her. He didn't pause to see if she'd catch it, or to listen for the thump at her feet if she failed to, the shadow of his form instead stretching out longer, his specter reaching deeper, deeper, deeper, until he turned the corner at the end of the shelf and it disappeared with him.

"Otherwise anyone can just... walk in," he finished, his volume and tone unchanging. He turned again, right instead of left this time, and walked up another row of shelves, his fingertip dragging along the spines of the books, quiet little thup thup thups in his wake.
 
The queasy feeling had dissipated, at least slightly. When he didn't immediately make his intentions clear - well, anyway, she should've still been uneasy. But she wasn't. It was too hard to stay unnerved as he flipped through pages, tick tick tick. Pages were her currency and her mind found great comfort in them. Rationally, she knew they could hold just as much terror and blood as any other pit that she had seen yawn before her. Rationally, she should be running. Rationally, she should be looking for an exit - her exit, any exit, but she wasn't rational, not here. Not in her place. And she knew, then, the weight of his appearance in her space.

He would use rationality to cut her from herself in pieces and tatters.
You really only have yourself to blame.

But as the silence stretched, grew thicker, the feeling came back. It came back and circled, settled. She shifted, pushed herself against the shelves closest to the place where she had frozen. The sharpness of the wood pressed into the skin at the small of her back. Slice. The pages turned. She felt fear, yes, but she also felt a kind of knowing, a long-knowing, a singular truth. Almost like glee. Maybe she would spin out into blood and teeth and desperation, with him here. Disgusting.

When he spoke, her heart clanged in her ribcage.

"...chemical character..."

His feet moved, moved toward her, and she stepped forward once, quickly, away from the shelves. Was this it? Was it now? But he didn't look at her, at the fear in her eyes, nor at her feet which were poised to hop-skip-jump away. Climb over shelves. And she felt something else, something new. Something that had nudged at her when she wove through the stacks to find her intruder, something that began to stir again - maybe had never slept. Present, always. Rise up, be stubborn. Ditch-digger. Betrayal.

And it surged, that wrongness, when he told her to lock the door. The book dropping at her feet made her start, dragging her toes backward over the worn wood floor. She could feel her skin making tracks in the dust. His dig at her vulnerability crawled down her spine and scratched where it touched, searing her face red. Maybe it was shame or the threat of being seen, she couldn't be sure either way.

"...walk in," his voice came again, further away, flat and uninterested. Her cheeks burned, and she kept her eyes on the book on the floor. Dust motes filtered slowly through the barest of light - she felt she could reach forward and cup them in her hands. Let them spill. Instead, she crouched, a minor creak in her knee sounding off as she scooped up the chemistry tome. He had let it just fall away. The binding seemed intact, but a page or two peeked out of sequence from the spine. When she eyed the dark sliver of space he had wandered away into, her eyes were hot.

Don't do it like that. Don't feel like that.

The protest started in her brain and knelled out, picking up speed as she shoved the book back into its place. It grew ever louder as she stalked through the gleaming tranquility of her front room - less tranquil now, she thought, in the fading afternoon light. She rammed the bolt home, armed her newish security system, and paused. Only for a moment. She saw her reflection in the glass over one of her Escher prints.

Leave.

But instead she tightened her knot of hair, and went to track down his meandering progress. When she grew closer to the stacks, she heard his passage - a slow and rhythmic thing, like he was counting books. It was cooler back here. Away from the light.

Stop. Leave. What are you -

"-doing here? You need a book?"

She hung back, hesitantly, but she was too curious. She was too reckless, now, after so long in the in-between. Carefully, she moved to where she could watch the expanse of his back travel away from her, further.

"You could've called. You know, hey, friend, want a beer? Tea? Normal things."

Brave. She still felt brave. It was her store, and he was the visitor.
 
The sound was distant when she did it, he was moving away from her, but still it reached his ears clearly, and he offered a secret smile to the books as he passed them.

Thup thup thup thup went his finger over the spine of each, and then he'd reach the end of the row, turn and change direction, moving from shelf to shelf as if he was a rat in a maze, working, working, working towards the goal. Piece of cheese. Little morsel.

Gobble it up.

Normal things.

Those two words stopped him in his tracks, and he tipped his head back to look into the shadows cutting dark lines in the ceiling. "Normal things," he said to himself, letting the words roll around on his tongue, sticky and annoying like a cheap caramel with the salt and sugar ratio all off. He laughed at the ceiling and pivoted, turning his body until he faced the front again, the rows of stacks reaching out in front of him.

"Normal things?" he asked, louder now, his feet carrying him with purpose past lines and rows and stacks of books he didn't bother to give any of his attention to. "Normal things, Tess?"

End of a row, turn.

He retraced steps, disturbed spots of dust kicked up again as he tread trodden trails. His head was turned, watching.. empty.. watching.. empty.. watching.. there.

Turn.

Her shadow was long, the sun streaming in behind her, and he knew his own must look monstrous behind him. He passed more books, hundreds and thousands of pages, millions of words, an untold wealth of knowledge and thought. Things were no doubt organized here in some fashion, by subject or author or some system that made sense to her, but he was singularly focused on her now.

"...as the following data will show."

Closer.

"Since when have you and I been moved by normal things?"

Closer.

Perhaps it was Biology where he found her. Zoology, predator and prey. Evolution, survival of the fittest.

Stalked by a Mountain Lion.

The Lions of Tsavo.

The Serengeti Lion: A Study of Predator-Prey Relations.

He passed them by without a glance, but they loomed so near. Words locked away, folded tightly shut, their warnings kept secure. They would've whispered, if they could. Run, girl, run. They would've shouted it, if they could. If they knew.

The Origin of Species.

The Making of the Fittest.

The Humans Who Went Extinct.

Less than the length of a single bookshelf separated them now, and still he moved with a head of steam, as if he planned to bowl right through her. A thing, perhaps, she'll find herself wishing for. A better fate. A more positive outcome.

Survival.

Instead, he put his hands on her for the first time. His touch was violent, sharp and sudden, throwing spiderweb cracks into the uneasy calm that had hung around them. The width of his hand spanned the length of her neck, fingers and thumb digging into soft flesh suddenly, painfully. Her throat was pressed hard by the thenar space of his hand, and the knot she'd made out of her mermaid hair proved to be a perfect handle on the top of her head.

Moving her with his momentum, the biceps in each arm flexed as he pulled her off her feet and shoved her back against the stack on his left. The shelves shuddered under the force of it, swaying ever so slightly where they squatted, stuffed full and weighed down.

He was close against her, sharing the same small space of air despite allowing her precious little of it. Still he pressed forward, eradicating any space she had to move. Between her flailing legs he forced his knee until it found the stiff spine of books behind her, and his hips rolled forward, his thigh pushed up between her own.

The knot of her hair, no doubt looking worse for the wear, was released, and his hand moved to her body, filling his palm with the swell of her breast while keeping her back flush with the immobile shelf.

"How about a beer, Tess?" he sneered, his voice rumbling in her ear.

"Want some fucking tea, friend?" he mocked, the muscles in his arm flexed as he kept her robbed of air.

"Something normal, girl? Casual chat? Talk about the fucking weather? Hm?"

He pulled back enough to tip his ear closer to her lips.

"What's that? Sounds pretty fucking stupid now that you think about it? Yeah."

He straightened, and smiled at her, like praising the dog for finally learning what 'sit' meant. And then it dissolved, mocking gave way to menace. He spat into her open mouth as it worked, struggling for every last molecule of air it could take hold of. His hand lifted back to the loosened knot of hair and took hold again, his leg falling away from between hers, and he pulled her from the shelf behind her and all but threw her at the one on the other side of the isle, his hands releasing her as he did.

With a deep sigh, a weary and resigned sound slipping out of him, he turned to survey his work, and shook his head slowly. Sadly.

"Why must you say such goddamned stupid things and make me treat you this way?"
 
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