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Authors: Marjorie M. Liu
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take his proffered hand. His smile widened, though it was tight-lipped, without a hint of teeth. He let his hand linger between us for a moment longer, then dropped it into his pocket. I thought, Gun , but what he pulled out was a wax parcel, which he quickly unwrapped to reveal a small pizza pocket. It looked cold, but he clamped down his jaws upon the soft crust, and red sauce flowed around his mouth like blood.
Mr. King closed his eyes, sighing as he chewed. I stood, watching him. Waiting. Waiting for something to break. He was ready to break, though there was nothing brittle about him. Just a load of dynamite stuck in a dam. Fuse lit.
“Well,” he said finally, around a mouthful of pizza. “This was most pleasant.”
And like that, he turned on his heel and shuffled away, toward the front door—parts of his body wiggling in opposite directions, as though those insects I imagined still fought to be free. I stared, and followed.
Mr. King was already outside when I caught up. I did not touch his shoulder, but matched his pace so that we walked down the steps, side by side. I said, “You had a reason for coming here.”
He glanced sideways at me and poked the last of the pizza pocket into his mouth. Chewing did not stop him from speaking, which was a wet, red, and messy affair. “Merely to see how things stand, to remind myself that worlds may change, but some things stay the same. Like you.”
Again, he wiped his mouth with his tie and stopped to look me square in the eyes. He was quite short and had to gaze up, teetering as he did on his toes. I did not move under his scrutiny, not even to blink—as though that would reveal some insufferable weakness. Instead, I studied him in turn, forcing myself to stay calm even as my heart began to race. Zee shuddered against my skin; all the boys did. Fighting to wake. Hate curling in their dreams.
Gross little man, I thought, suddenly. Do not touch me.
His tongue slipped over his lips, licking them. Hungry, piggish eyes blinked once, slow and drowsy. The scent of onions suddenly reminded me of blood, and it was too easy to imagine that the stains around his mouth had little to do with tomato sauce.
Mr. King pulled a piece of red licorice from his pants pocket and jammed it halfway into his mouth. Again, without another word he turned and walked away, accompanied by the sound of his teeth smashing candy.
I stood, watching him go. Then followed. This time from a distance. I let a Dumpster come between us, just for a moment, but when I rounded the corner, the man had disappeared. Gone clean away, on a street that was empty except for two parked cars in the distance, and a ramshackle line of chain-link fences so battered the next rainstorm might bring them down.
I checked the inside of the Dumpster, but Mr. King had not stashed himself inside. He was gone. Into thin air. Except for the scent of onions.
I stood very still, thinking about that, and after a minute got some young company. Both of us stayed quiet, until finally I lied. “He didn’t seem to want anything.”
Byron replied, “Men like him always want something. Some just take longer to get around to it. Depending on how much they think they’ll have to pay.” He glanced at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Or how hard they sense you’ll fight not to give them what they want.”
“Byron,” I said.
“But sometimes,” he continued, whispering. “Sometimes a fight is what turns them on.”
CHAPTER 5
I lived above the homeless shelter with Grant. His loft was accessible via a private outer door and one long staircase—steep for a man who could hardly walk without a cane. He said it was good exercise. Whatever.
The door stood open at the top of the stairs. Golden sunlight raced through immense windows, chasing the floors with heat. I entered the apartment and felt washed in warmth, steeped in light like dry tea leaves dropped in miracle water. Expanding, growing, shedding flavors—becoming more, and
Mr. King closed his eyes, sighing as he chewed. I stood, watching him. Waiting. Waiting for something to break. He was ready to break, though there was nothing brittle about him. Just a load of dynamite stuck in a dam. Fuse lit.
“Well,” he said finally, around a mouthful of pizza. “This was most pleasant.”
And like that, he turned on his heel and shuffled away, toward the front door—parts of his body wiggling in opposite directions, as though those insects I imagined still fought to be free. I stared, and followed.
Mr. King was already outside when I caught up. I did not touch his shoulder, but matched his pace so that we walked down the steps, side by side. I said, “You had a reason for coming here.”
He glanced sideways at me and poked the last of the pizza pocket into his mouth. Chewing did not stop him from speaking, which was a wet, red, and messy affair. “Merely to see how things stand, to remind myself that worlds may change, but some things stay the same. Like you.”
Again, he wiped his mouth with his tie and stopped to look me square in the eyes. He was quite short and had to gaze up, teetering as he did on his toes. I did not move under his scrutiny, not even to blink—as though that would reveal some insufferable weakness. Instead, I studied him in turn, forcing myself to stay calm even as my heart began to race. Zee shuddered against my skin; all the boys did. Fighting to wake. Hate curling in their dreams.
Gross little man, I thought, suddenly. Do not touch me.
His tongue slipped over his lips, licking them. Hungry, piggish eyes blinked once, slow and drowsy. The scent of onions suddenly reminded me of blood, and it was too easy to imagine that the stains around his mouth had little to do with tomato sauce.
Mr. King pulled a piece of red licorice from his pants pocket and jammed it halfway into his mouth. Again, without another word he turned and walked away, accompanied by the sound of his teeth smashing candy.
I stood, watching him go. Then followed. This time from a distance. I let a Dumpster come between us, just for a moment, but when I rounded the corner, the man had disappeared. Gone clean away, on a street that was empty except for two parked cars in the distance, and a ramshackle line of chain-link fences so battered the next rainstorm might bring them down.
I checked the inside of the Dumpster, but Mr. King had not stashed himself inside. He was gone. Into thin air. Except for the scent of onions.
I stood very still, thinking about that, and after a minute got some young company. Both of us stayed quiet, until finally I lied. “He didn’t seem to want anything.”
Byron replied, “Men like him always want something. Some just take longer to get around to it. Depending on how much they think they’ll have to pay.” He glanced at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Or how hard they sense you’ll fight not to give them what they want.”
“Byron,” I said.
“But sometimes,” he continued, whispering. “Sometimes a fight is what turns them on.”
CHAPTER 5
I lived above the homeless shelter with Grant. His loft was accessible via a private outer door and one long staircase—steep for a man who could hardly walk without a cane. He said it was good exercise. Whatever.
The door stood open at the top of the stairs. Golden sunlight raced through immense windows, chasing the floors with heat. I entered the apartment and felt washed in warmth, steeped in light like dry tea leaves dropped in miracle water. Expanding, growing, shedding flavors—becoming more, and
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