The Fire King (32 page)

So did he. But as his fingers began to move again, very gently inside her, he felt that tingle in his gut. He remembered the sword, and Tau’s face, and felt something else that was hot and wet against his stomach.

Blood.

I would make a terrible nurse,
Soria thought, standing in the shower.

Karr was, or had been, bleeding from the scar in his side. She had no idea how to help him. And while it would be interesting to have a reputation for being so wild in bed that a man’s guts spilled open, she knew that was not the case here—and if it were, it would be entirely too gross and frightening to ever attempt an encore.

“How is your stomach?” Soria called out to him, rinsing away the last of the soapsuds. She turned off the water and peered around the curtain at Karr, awkwardly trying to towel off, and watched him pull his own formerly white towel away from his bloodstained gut.

Her knees wobbled, and she tried not to think about how it had felt to turn around and see that scar gaping again, with blood oozing free like a running faucet. It was so horrifying and otherworldly that she had almost burst out laughing in that way people do at funerals or especially tragic events. It was too ridiculous. Life was too strange to bring one moment of bliss and then another of chaos. Life had allowed her almost thirty years of innocence, and then in one night stolen it away. Life had given her a gift for languages, and brought her to this odd man who seemed made of magic more than flesh. And life had let her love again.

Soria loved him. Not in some cheap attached way, but down in her bones, with a quiet certainty that felt like the same love she had for being alive. And it terrified her, though she was done allowing fear to ruin the gift she had been given when she had survived that long night, one year past. She had been resurrected in her own way, and had not realized it then. Not until now.

“Karr?” she asked, when he said nothing.

He frowned. “I have seen far too much of my blood lately.”

“But it stopped.”

“It appears so.”

For now,
she wanted to add. There was blood on the floor and toilet. Red, smeared, disgusting. It looked as though someone had been murdered and the evidence poorly concealed.

Karr was murdered,
came the unbidden thought. Murdered. She kept hearing it over and over in her mind, and the longer she did, the more right it felt. Murdered.

But he had committed suicide. He had told her that himself. He’d said that he made the choice, asked for the deed to be done: a sword run through him. And now, thousands of years later, that same spot kept opening and bleeding. Almost like a message, his body’s way of crying out.

Karr began wiping at himself, trying to clean his body. Soria tried not to look at all the blood, but the moment her gaze fell down on that drying crusty floor, a wave of nausea rolled over her that was so powerful it took all her strength not to bend and gag. She gritted her teeth, waiting for it to pass, and found Karr watching her with concern.

“You have this reaction to blood,” he said. “Everyone has some disgust, but you …”

“There was a lot of it when I lost my arm,” she found herself saying—not meaning to, though after the words came out she did not regret them. It felt right, and safe, to tell Karr that much. He had seen. He knew the truth. He had not judged her, or pitied her. Just looked at her like she was a good, strong human being who needed tenderness and love. Just that, to make the pain begin to fade.

Without her right arm, Soria had no easy way to wrap a towel around her body. She didn’t bother trying, stepping lightly from the tub with just one end held over her breasts, while the rest of the towel draped around her like some long loincloth. Karr stared, his eyes flaring golden hot, jaw clenched so tight she thought some of his teeth might crack.

“If I was not in a great deal more discomfort now than I was earlier,” he said grimly, “you would be on the floor with me inside you.”

“Wuss,” Soria said in English, though the thought made her breathless.

She wondered if she was not just a little insane. She had not felt so
right
in years, nor had she imagined she would ever feel this way again. As she turned, Soria caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, her stump front and center, a disfigured little wing that she’d rarely had the stomach to examine so closely, especially under bright lights.

But there was no twist in her gut, no disgust when she looked at herself. She was not so far gone as to say that she felt nothing, because she did suffer one small pang, but she was not afraid to see herself. She was not afraid of what she would feel. And that acceptance, that peace, however small, was such a burden lifted that she could not imagine how she had lived this past year, hating her body as she had.

She turned on the water again, feeling for the temperature, and glanced over her shoulder at Karr. His hand was raised to touch her back, hard-jawed wonder in his eyes, though he hesitated when she looked at him.

“Climb in,” she said gently. “We need to wash all that off.”

“My legs,” he said, and smiled. “I have accomplished a great deal sitting down, but standing will be another matter.”

“Good thing you do not have to.” Soria locked the drain, and the tub began filling. “Come on, a bath after a couple thousand years will certainly not kill you.”

Karr grunted, but stood slowly with a wince, transferring himself the short distance into the tub. He sat awkwardly, far too large for the small space, and gave her an incredulous look.

“Hey,” she said, trying not to look at the awful wounds on his legs. “This cannot be worse than having a sword run through you.”

Again, he said nothing. But his gaze darkened, and he tugged hard on her towel. She let him have it, and laughed quietly when he dipped it into the rising hot water and began scrubbing the blood and dirt off his body. The water quickly turned pink, and then brown.

She heard a knocking sound outside the bathroom, and poked her head around the door. Robert stood just inside the bedroom, holding a large shopping bag.

“I found something,” he said. He was all business, with not even a glint of humor in his eyes. “There’s an old man in town who owns several ancient artifacts. Swords, included. He teaches history and archaeology at the local university, though my understanding is that he’s here on loan from Oxford.”

“Oxford? Here, in Mongolia? That’s an odd jump, unless he’s doing research.” Soria frowned, thinking hard. “It’s also strange to travel with a personal collection—especially one that’s valuable.”

“Either way, it’s a start.” Robert tossed down the bag. “There are clothes in there for the both of you. If you can … tear yourselves away, we’ll drive over there and see what we find.”

She almost told him about the blood and the mysterious case of the opening and closing gut wound. She decided on, “I hope you’re not planning on breaking in.”

“My dear lady. I am a professional.” He held up his cell phone. “I called ahead. We have an appointment. Though, if behaving in a law-abiding and civilized fashion is too much of an affront, I’m sure Ku-Ku would be more than happy to kick in the door and make Mr. Mulraney her bitch.” Robert finally smiled. “As the young people say.”

“Young people,” Soria repeated sarcastically, as from behind she sensed Karr struggling with the faucet, the bathwater about to overflow. “You don’t look any older than me.”

Robert’s smile widened, and it was not particularly pleasant. “Get dressed.”

Ulaanbaatar did not wear its Russian influences well. Soviet-style flats—blocks and blocks of them—ranged over wide swathes of city land like gray decaying fortresses, utterly at odds with the piercing blue sky and unrelenting cheerfulness of the morning sun. Even the government buildings, while impressive, were solid and heavy, so ponderous that they seemed almost like an affront to the nomadic spirit of “here and there.”

Robert drove the Land Cruiser into the south side of the sprawling city. On a faraway hill Soria could see among the green grass and shrubbery the pale stone spire of Zaisan Memorial that honored the deaths of Russian soldiers in World War II.

Karr studied the structure—the entire city—with a grave curiosity that was both serious and thoughtful. Perhaps he was uneasy, as well. His face was hard to read, and he looked uncomfortable—all that raw, muscled strength crammed into a tight space. His legs were probably killing him, though he did not complain.

Nor did he give her any indication that he was thinking about what had passed between them. Except for once, when she caught him staring at her instead of the city, a golden glimmer in his eyes that was full of such tender heat she could feel his fingers inside of her again, pushing and stretching. Her thighs shifted, unable to ease the ache that rippled briefly through her.

Karr noticed, though she tried to mask the movement with a stretch. A faint smile touched his mouth—and it was thoughtful enough to make her uneasy. She knew he had concerns. She supposed that she should, as well, though having already faced attempted murder seemed to have put some perspective in her life. It was all about choices. Karr was dangerous, but there was good in him, too.

And she wanted to be naive for a little while. She wanted to trust herself and others again.

Professor Tom Mulraney lived on the outskirts of the city in a
ger.
He was not alone. Several other families were nearby in their own tents, some with cars parked out front and others with horses and livestock bleating inside rough pens. It was a semipermanent settlement for those who could not stand the crush of the city, with a creek running a short distance away for water. Soria thought of Evie and the other good people who had helped them—those children, the old woman—and a swift pain throbbed through her stump into her head. She was going to make it up, somehow. And if any of them had been hurt …

She did not let herself finish that thought.

Ku-Ku stayed with the Land Cruiser, her window rolled down and her headphones sitting heavy over her ears. There was a motorcycle parked in front of Professor Mulraney’s
ger,
which was larger than the others and had two smaller secondary structures attached in the back. His home resembled a clump of very large white mushrooms.

Women were washing clothes in the river, and they stood to stare as Soria and the others walked up to the professor’s painted red door. Winds whipped at her new long dress: red, with an easy cut that could slip easily over the head. Robert, thankfully, had not provided her with anything that required buttoning or zipping. A long cashmere sweater kept her warm. It was a dowdy though comfortable outfit.

Karr wore loose pants and a short-sleeved shirt. He moved uneasily in clothing, shrugging slightly as though trying to adjust the weight of the material on his back. Shoes had been provided, but that was beyond his limit. Like Serena had done, he went barefoot. He also limped heavily. Robert had given him a cane to lean on, and much to Soria’s surprise, he was using it. She had wondered if he would. Some men would have had too much pride.

A woman answered the door, wearing a long blue robe with a high collar and a silk sash tied around her plump waist. She appeared to be in her forties, and had the look of the steppes about her: a multiethnic hodgepodge of freckles, blondish hair and Asian features. She smiled, and it was friendly, even sweet.

“Welcome,” she said in accented English. “Tom will be here soon. He went for a walk.”

Robert entered first, and then Soria, but Karr froze on the threshold, frowning.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I do not know,” he said, the muscles in his throat flexing convulsively. “I think—”

He stopped, placing his hand over his stomach. No blood seeped through his white shirt, but Soria held her breath for one long moment, waiting. Nothing happened, though, and after a moment he relaxed. Not much, though. Tension still rolled off him, and there was an uneasiness in his eyes that made her afraid.

“The sword?” she asked him. “Do you feel something?”

“Not just that,” he replied, and shut his mouth as the woman approached. Robert stood behind the woman, watching with empty inscrutability. Soria wondered if he had taught Ku-Ku that expression, or if it was the other way around.

“Please,” said the woman gently, “don’t be shy.”

“Thank you,” said Soria. “You have a beautiful home.”

And it was lovely. Clearly, this was a
ger
not meant to be moved very often, because its amenities were rich and tailored, and looked quite expensive. Thick tapestries hung all along the wall, and there were several long couches that looked well used, but also as if they had come out of the showroom of a very expensive store. Hardwood floors, soft rugs, some rosewood benches scattered here and there; and there were porcelain vases filled with flowers. Music played softly—surprisingly, a Chinese pop song—and a large-screen flat-paneled television sat dark near a small, richly carved eating table. Soria had not seen a satellite or solar panels, but she supposed they must be somewhere outside. The air smelled like garlic.

“Tom said to show you into his study if you arrived early,” the woman told them, pointing to another red door set in the wall of the
ger.
“Would you like tea?”

“That would be lovely,” Robert replied. “And you are?”

The woman smiled. “Betty. That is my English name. But I was born Bayarmaa.”

“Bayarmaa,” Robert repeated, speaking it perfectly, without accent. He held out his arm. “Lead us to the study, my lady.”

Soria shook her head at him, and turned to find Karr standing still, his eyes squeezed shut. He looked as though he was in pain or concentrating very hard. Golden light trickled from beneath his eyelids, which would not do for Bayarmaa to see.

“Karr,” she whispered urgently.

His eyes shot open. “I think I am losing my mind.”

“Well, wait,” Soria replied tersely, and grabbed his hand. “Unless you think it is too dangerous to stay here?”

“Not dangerous. Just … strange.” His eyes were wild. “I do not even know how to describe what I am sensing.”