Page 36 of The Devouring Time

I retreat to the bathroom and find myself once again fighting the impulse to avoid the mirror. Too wrung out to battle my own mind, I keep my eyes averted as much as possible while scrubbing the soot from my hands, neck, face, and hair.

When I return to the living room, Adrian is hanging up the phone. “George is in surgery,” he reports. “Cleo’s going to arrange for some fresh clothes for us. In the meantime, I think a nap will serve us best, eh?”

Any soldier soon learns to get rest whenever the opportunity presents itself. “I can stretch out on the couch.”

“No need—we’ll throw a couple of extra sheets over the bed and sleep in comfort. It’s a big bed,” he adds. “Cleo grew up having to share what was little more than a cot with two of our sisters, so the room to spread out is a necessity rather than an indulgence in her mind.”

I should probably demur, but I don’t. He offers me a hand and pulls me off the soft couch. For a moment, we’re startlingly close, almost chest to chest. So near, I can see that his brown eyes have a corona of dark gold around the pupil. My heart beats faster and my mouth goes dry.

He steps back and lets go of my hand. A bit disappointed, I follow him to the bedroom, which is sumptuously appointed: Persian carpets on the floor, rich curtains blocking the lone window, a French-colonial style bed, and a vanity covered with powders, creams, and perfume bottles.

We spread an extra sheet from the linen closet over the satin bedcovers, then add a second to cover ourselves. Adrian begins to casually remove his suit, and I force myself to look away. When I glance back, he’s down to his undershirt and drawers. “Cleo will have someone to clean our suits,” he says. “I’ll pay her back, don’t worry about that.”

I unbutton my shirt, telling myself I’m being foolish. I was in the army, for heaven’s sake, used to being around men in various states of undress. There’s no reason for my pulse to quicken or my hands to tremble.

When I’m down to my underthings, I hand my suit to Adrian, who says, “I’m just going to fold these on the couch, then clean up a bit myself. Try to get some sleep.”

I lie down facing the wall and pull up the second sheet. Closing my eyes, I resolutely tell myself to sleep. Water runs in the bathroom, then the mattress sinks beneath Adrian’s weight. I listen to his breathing for a while, then shoot a glance back over my shoulder, even though I know I shouldn’t.

He’s only pulled his side of the covers up to his waist. The undershirt clings to his muscular shoulders, and I find myself fascinated with the strip of skin exposed between its collar and his hairline. I wonder what his warm brown skin tastes like, whether a soft breath on the back of his neck would make him shiver or moan.

My thoughts are getting out of hand. I face the wall and squeeze my eyes shut, determined not to think about the man on the other side of the bed. The man I could easily reach if I just rolled over.

Eventually, my pulse slows enough for me to slip into sleep. My dreams give me little rest, however, quickly becoming nightmares.

I’m back in France, slogging through what was once a forest. Shattered trunks protrude from earth churned into gray muck. I’m covered in mud after hiding in holes whenever the whistle of shells comes from above. There’s even grit between my teeth, and I try to spit it out, knowing the mud is mixed with human flesh and blood atomized by the shells.

Emerson is beside me. Older than me by a year, but just as inexperienced when it comes to warfare. Except this is the dead version of him, the one who appeared out of the fog while I stood watch, his eyes glowing with hellish light.

I try to flee from him, but the sucking mud clings to my boots. Then, as happens sometimes in dreams, the setting changes. The mud becomes stone, and I’m no longer trudging, but gliding smoothly up a long ramp to the top of a ziggurat. At the top waits a terrifying creature with five great, multi-faceted eyes, a long trunk-like appendage lifted as if in greeting…

“Sterling, wake up.”

My eyes fly open. I’m still lying on my side, facing the wall, but Adrian’s hand rests on my upper arm. “What?” I ask groggily.

“Sorry, you were moaning in your sleep.”

I roll onto my back to find Adrian propped on an elbow over me. His expression is one of commiseration; perhaps the war left him with disordered dreams as well.

I try to recall the creature I glimpsed, but it’s already fading into a confused impression of eyes and trunk. The tusked horror at Cleo’s must have inspired my damaged mind to invent it to torment my dreams.

“It was nothing,” I say. “The usual nightmares.”

He smiles down at me, and I’m suddenly aware of our position. In a bed, separated by inches. Him over me. I could reach up and draw him down so easily…

A knock sounds at the front door.

Adrian rolls over in a single move and snags his gun from the floor beside the bed, where he must have left it when he laid down. Holding it pointed at the floor, he stalks out of the bedroom, the thick carpet muffling his steps. I follow him, pausing well back from the door while he peers out the peephole.

After a moment, his shoulders relax, and he unlocks and opens the door. “Harry! Did Cleo send you?”

The man who enters is a big fellow, though not quite as heavily muscled as George, holding a cowhide bag. Like Cleo, his features bear an unmistakable resemblance to Adrian’s. They hug each other, then Harry steps back and raises an eyebrow at Adrian’s attire—or rather, lack thereof. “I guess you do need that suit Cleo asked me to get.” He glances at me. “Both of you.”

Heat rises to my face, as though we’ve been caught in a compromising position, even though it’s nothing of the sort.

“Thanks, Harry,” Adrian says. “Come on in, and I’ll make you something to eat once I’m dressed.”

“I don’t have the time. Next time you’re in the city, you’d best call me first. Are you going to see Mama?”