Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
T hey didn’t discuss it over dinner, mainly because other people were seated nearby and might overhear. The meal itself was quite good and the Langham’s dining room was as sumptuous as the rest of the hotel, so perhaps it wasn’t so bad to focus on enjoying those things while they could.
Eventually they were back in their room; in bed, in fact, because they were both tired. It was nice to feel Crow’s bare skin, nicer still when Crow tucked his head under Simeon’s chin and tangled their legs together.
“So,” said Simeon when he couldn’t procrastinate any longer. “Lydia and Edwin told us that some rooks—including my parents—can… grab information from the past and future. Foresee things.”
“Yeah.”
“And I reckon that these episodes I’ve been having, when everything shifts….”
“Is you seeing a different time,” Crow finished for him. “Makes sense. Except I see it too. How come?”
Simeon thought about this. Anything he had to say would be mere supposition, but that was possibly better than nothing. “You’re bloody hard to kill, yeah? And when you get hurt—even really hurt—you heal right away.” He shuddered at the memory of Crow’s mangled body on the side of a highway in Montana. Nobody could have survived those injuries, but Crow had.
“Some kind of angel powers, I guess.” Crow sounded less enthusiastic than near-immortality ought to merit.
“Aye, and when I’ve been close to you, I get some of that as well. I’ve been badly wounded and then I’m right as rain. And I don’t think that’s because I’m a rook. I was dying of consumption, remember? And the Frugises said my family died in a fire. Rooks seem to be roughly as vulnerable as humans.”
Although Crow’s face wasn’t visible in his position, Simeon could almost hear the scowl. “That’s not fair.”
Simeon gave him a little squeeze. “You know better than to expect fairness from life, love. Anyway, my point is that some of your ‘angel powers’ can affect me too. And I’m bloody grateful for it. I think that some of my rook powers touch you as well. When we’re close.”
Crow seemed to mull this over for several moments. “Okay, although that sounds like more than just the fortunetelling the Frugises were talking about. But how do you explain the books?”
“I can’t explain it. But it hasn’t caused any harm. In fact, we’ve quite enjoyed it. So perhaps we can ignore it for now.”
He didn’t get any argument. Crow yawned and Simeon thought he might fall asleep, but a minute or two later a broad, calloused hand was roaming over Simeon’s chest and belly, blunt-nailed fingers running over his hips and flanks and trailing along the creases between legs and torso. He didn’t respond, except to relax his muscles and spread his legs a bit, wordlessly inviting Crow’s explorations .
This felt new. To be honest, every time with Crow felt new, no matter how many times they did this. They could discover each other over and over, it seemed, and never grow bored. Never cease to be amazed at each another’s mysteries and wonders. In a way, that was a bigger miracle than flying or near-immortality.
Soon Simeon couldn’t resist touching Crow back, but Crow grabbed Simeon’s wrists and hauled them up against the headboard, his eyes glinting with mischief.
“Have those books we looked at today given you ideas?” Simeon asked, obediently keeping his hands in place.
“I already had ideas.”
Suddenly Crow rolled on top of Simeon. He kissed the tip of Simeon’s nose playfully, and then settled in for a round of delicious torture, during which Simeon was subjected to fingers, lips, teeth, and finally throat, but wasn’t allowed to do anything but grip the headboard and moan. No, that wasn’t true. Crow also allowed him to beg.
It was all absolutely perfect until Simeon opened his eyes—they’d been squeezed shut so he could concentrate on Crow’s touches—and saw an electric light in the middle of the ceiling and an odd television screen hanging on the wall. At least he thought it was a television; it was very thin.
“Crow,” he rasped.
Crow lifted his head from Simeon’s groin and gazed up at him. “I know. Don’t care right now.”
Well, then neither did Simeon. Especially when Crow returned to his task. Simeon tilted his head back and watched as the room’s décor shifted, as the windows showed darkness or light, as furnishings melted and reformed. It was like flying, except that the rushing sensation was inside him rather than out. His nerves sang as time flowed through him, and then nothing mattered at all except the joining of his body and Crow’s .
“ That was interesting,” said Crow eventually. He’d collapsed half on top of Simeon, both of them sweaty and panting. “It was like a carnival ride. A really sexy carnival ride.”
“We ought to suggest it to Mr. Ame. If we ever see him again.” That final thought made Simeon feel a tad melancholy, so he kissed the top of Crow’s head. And then, in a surprisingly short time, he was asleep.
The house was burning. Flames shot into the wine-dark sky and ashes fell thickly onto the ground. Crow, who wore nothing but jeans, frantically tried to crank a filled bucket out of a well several yards from the house. His skin glowed golden.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Simeon said. “We’ve been over this. You’re not to blame for your grandparents’ deaths.”
Crow didn’t even look his way. “This isn’t my grandparents’ house. It’s your parents’.”
Oh. “Then shouldn’t I be the one to douse the fire?”
“It’s my dream.”
“Aye, but you’ve dragged me into it. Again. You haven’t done that in a while.” Simeon glanced down at himself and sighed. “Couldn’t you at least have given me some clothes?”
Now Crow paused his motions and glanced over. “Sorry. I guess I like you naked.”
“Well, I am nice to look at. But love, why not dream about something better than this?”
“I told you. I can’t control my dreams. They’re…. Dr. Freud said they’re manifestations of unconscious anxieties.”
“You’d think your conscious ones would be enough.” Simeon strode closer, his feet sinking into the deep ash, and held Crow’s arm to stop the cranking. “We both need to get some proper sleep. Tomorrow will be interesting, I expect.”
Crow relaxed against him, the bucket fell back into the depths of the well, and the house continued to burn. It was impossible to tell what sort of house it was—an American farmhouse, an English farmhouse, a mansion in Mayfair, a carnival wagon, a hotel in London. Maybe it was all of them at once.
A vast bird came soaring out of the flames. Naturally, Simeon’s first thought was phoenix , but then he saw that it was black—like a crow or rook. It landed a few yards from them, shimmered, and became man-shaped, although his face was indistinct. Crow whispered: “And I know that the spirit of God is the eldest brother of my own, and that all the men ever born are also my brothers.” It was more of his beloved Whitman, Simeon assumed.
“We need to talk,” Simeon called to the man, knowing it wouldn’t be that easy.
The figure shimmered again and was gone, replaced by an enormous clock. The moon was a clock face, and Simeon understood that each of the stars was a minute or an hour, and that his heartbeat was very like the ticking of a clock. And the burning house was, in fact, made of paper printed with erotic drawings.
“Crow,” he said sternly. “Wake up.”
And Crow did.