flair of melodrama to her words. “So what is he? Some kind of eternal soldier? Maybe a sleeping Arthurian knight woken in this desperate age to battle the forces of evil?”
“As far as I know he’s a carpenter.”
Susan arched a brow at me. “Who fights ghosts. What, has he got a magic nailgun or something?”
I tried not to smile. The muscles at the corners of my mouth ached. “Not quite. He’s a righteous man.”
“He seemed nice enough to me.”
“No, not self-righteous. Righteous. The real deal. He’s honest, loyal, faithful. He lives his ideals. It gives him power.”
Susan frowned. “He looked average enough. I’d have expected . . . I’m not sure. Something. A different attitude.”
“That’s because he’s humble too,” I said. “If you asked him if he was righteous, he’d laugh at the idea. I guess that’s part of it. I’ve never met anyone like him. He’s a good man.”
She pursed her lips. “And the sword?”
“Amoracchius,” I supplied.
“He named his sword. How very Freudian of him. But his wife just about reached down that clerk’s throat to get it back.”
“It’s important to him,” I said. “He believes that it is one of three weapons given by God to mankind. Three swords. Each of them has a nail that is supposed to be from the Cross worked into its design. Only one of the righteous can wield them. The ones who do call themselves the Knights of the Cross. Others call them the Knights of the Sword.”
Susan frowned. “ The Cross?” she said. “As in the Crucifixion, capital C ?”
I shrugged, uncomfortably. “How should I know? Michael believes it. That kind of belief is a power of its own. Maybe that’s enough.” I took a breath and changed the subject. “Anyway, my car got impounded. I had to drive fast and C.P.D. didn’t like it.”
Her dark eyes sparkled. “Anything worth a story?”
I laughed tiredly. “Don’t you ever give up?”
“A girl’s got to earn a living,” she said, and fell into step beside me on the way out, slipping her arm through mine.
“Maybe tomorrow? I just want to get back home and get some sleep.”
“No date, I guess.” She smiled up at me, but I could see the expression was strained around the edges.
“Sorry. I—”
“I know.” She sighed. I shortened my steps a little and she lengthened hers, though neither of us moved quickly. “I know what you’re doing is important, Harry. I just wish, sometimes, that—” She broke off, frowning.
“That what?”
“Nothing. Really. It’s selfish.”
“That what?” I repeated. I found her hand with my bruised fingers and squeezed gently.
She signed, and stopped in the hall, turning to face me. She took both of my hands, and didn’t look up when she said, “I just wish that I could be that important to you, too.”
An uncomfortable pang hit me in the middle of my sternum. Ow. It hurt to hear that, literally. “Susan,” I stammered. “Hey. Don’t ever think that you’re not important to me.”
“Oh,” she said, still not looking up, “it’s not that. Like I said, just selfish. I’ll get over it.”
“I just don’t want you to feel like . . .” I frowned and took a breath. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t . . . What I mean to say is that I . . .” Love you. That should have been simple enough to say. But the words stuck hard in my throat. I’d never said them to anyone I didn’t lose, and every time I told my mouth to make the sounds, something shut down somewhere along the way.
Susan looked up at me, her eyes flickering over my face. She reached up a hand and touched the bandage on my forehead, her fingers light, gentle, warm. Silence fell heavy on the hallway. I stood there staring stupidly at her.
Finally, I leaned down and kissed her, hard, like I was trying to push the words out of my useless mouth and into her. I don’t know if she understood, but she melted to me, all warm, soft tension, smelling of cinnamon, the sweetness of
“As far as I know he’s a carpenter.”
Susan arched a brow at me. “Who fights ghosts. What, has he got a magic nailgun or something?”
I tried not to smile. The muscles at the corners of my mouth ached. “Not quite. He’s a righteous man.”
“He seemed nice enough to me.”
“No, not self-righteous. Righteous. The real deal. He’s honest, loyal, faithful. He lives his ideals. It gives him power.”
Susan frowned. “He looked average enough. I’d have expected . . . I’m not sure. Something. A different attitude.”
“That’s because he’s humble too,” I said. “If you asked him if he was righteous, he’d laugh at the idea. I guess that’s part of it. I’ve never met anyone like him. He’s a good man.”
She pursed her lips. “And the sword?”
“Amoracchius,” I supplied.
“He named his sword. How very Freudian of him. But his wife just about reached down that clerk’s throat to get it back.”
“It’s important to him,” I said. “He believes that it is one of three weapons given by God to mankind. Three swords. Each of them has a nail that is supposed to be from the Cross worked into its design. Only one of the righteous can wield them. The ones who do call themselves the Knights of the Cross. Others call them the Knights of the Sword.”
Susan frowned. “ The Cross?” she said. “As in the Crucifixion, capital C ?”
I shrugged, uncomfortably. “How should I know? Michael believes it. That kind of belief is a power of its own. Maybe that’s enough.” I took a breath and changed the subject. “Anyway, my car got impounded. I had to drive fast and C.P.D. didn’t like it.”
Her dark eyes sparkled. “Anything worth a story?”
I laughed tiredly. “Don’t you ever give up?”
“A girl’s got to earn a living,” she said, and fell into step beside me on the way out, slipping her arm through mine.
“Maybe tomorrow? I just want to get back home and get some sleep.”
“No date, I guess.” She smiled up at me, but I could see the expression was strained around the edges.
“Sorry. I—”
“I know.” She sighed. I shortened my steps a little and she lengthened hers, though neither of us moved quickly. “I know what you’re doing is important, Harry. I just wish, sometimes, that—” She broke off, frowning.
“That what?”
“Nothing. Really. It’s selfish.”
“That what?” I repeated. I found her hand with my bruised fingers and squeezed gently.
She signed, and stopped in the hall, turning to face me. She took both of my hands, and didn’t look up when she said, “I just wish that I could be that important to you, too.”
An uncomfortable pang hit me in the middle of my sternum. Ow. It hurt to hear that, literally. “Susan,” I stammered. “Hey. Don’t ever think that you’re not important to me.”
“Oh,” she said, still not looking up, “it’s not that. Like I said, just selfish. I’ll get over it.”
“I just don’t want you to feel like . . .” I frowned and took a breath. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t . . . What I mean to say is that I . . .” Love you. That should have been simple enough to say. But the words stuck hard in my throat. I’d never said them to anyone I didn’t lose, and every time I told my mouth to make the sounds, something shut down somewhere along the way.
Susan looked up at me, her eyes flickering over my face. She reached up a hand and touched the bandage on my forehead, her fingers light, gentle, warm. Silence fell heavy on the hallway. I stood there staring stupidly at her.
Finally, I leaned down and kissed her, hard, like I was trying to push the words out of my useless mouth and into her. I don’t know if she understood, but she melted to me, all warm, soft tension, smelling of cinnamon, the sweetness of
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