Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Kit
THE RAIL STATION WAS PACKED TO the brim with families waiting for their loved ones to arrive.
They bustled around me as I leaned against one of the painted black lampposts, and excited chatter almost drowned out the sound of my heartbeat thundering behind my bloodshot eyes.
I kept my gaze on a swirl in the marble flooring, hoping the steady surface would be less nauseating than all the movement around me.
Too much to drink and not enough sleep had caught up with me this morning when I’d dragged myself out of bed and to my typewriter.
Whether I liked it or not, I had commitments and deadlines to meet.
Drinking myself silly over a kiss wouldn’t cut it as an excuse.
The phantom pressure and slide of Gus’ plush mouth so soft against mine came back to me, and I rubbed my lips together to get rid of the sensation.
Comfort had never been his strong suit; physical action over words had always been his instinct.
He’d grip my shoulder or arm in public, hold and kiss me in private when I was ragged around the edges.
That was what he’d done last night. He’d felt sorry for me and tried to fix it the only way he could think of.
Only I didn’t want his pity. Or his kisses.
I didn’t need the reminder of how good it felt.
My memories were already stuffed to the brim with the feel of Gus’ smile melting under my mouth, laughter turning to hunger.
The desperate crashing together of two boys with a multitude of urges to satisfy and not nearly enough solitude.
It had been ages since I’d been so worried doing the wrong thing would make him stop, remind him we shouldn’t be doing this, and in the end, I’d panicked.
The shock and silent hurt on Gus’ face stayed fresh long after I left, keeping me awake in spite of the alcohol I’d tried to forget with.
Exactly the same as I was trying to forget how my heart slammed off my ribcage when he pulled me inside his house with gunfire still ringing in my ears.
How the rush of peril when those shots went off and the mad dash to his door were the most alive, the most real, I’d felt since I’d stepped off the ship in port.
What was wrong with me if I couldn’t feel properly unless my life was in danger?
I had enough terrible dreams to last a lifetime. And still, I kept wanting to throw myself back into situations necessitating my life on the line. Was I so eager to die? Was that it?
I didn’t tend to think so. But I was starting to wonder. Maybe living with ever-present risk for so long had altered me in ways that weren’t remotely desirable. Addictions came in many forms.
Like being near August North.
Well, I’d broken that habit once. And even though it would rip my heart back out of my chest, I could do it again. We’d find Ted and Mary-Alice, and then I’d flee the darn country. Get far enough away to outrun the destruction of my heart.
Not even I was deluded enough to quite buy that, but the importance of my work overseas might allow me delay to it for a while.
The whistle of an approaching train screeched and brought me back to October 1933, riding from Munich to Dachau for a press tour of the concentration camp.
The SS guards examining my permit and credentials before they led me inside the heavy gates guarding the entrance.
Prisoners dressed in grey smocks and trousers forced to smile for me and lie about the horrific conditions.
I’d never shake the haunted looks in their eyes or my own powerlessness.
They were Jewish civilians, socialists, union leaders, clergymen, and social democrats, among others, guilty of nothing more than existing or opposing the fascist Nazis.
The entire visit had been a farce. Before I arrived, rumors had swirled of prisoners being tortured, flogged, beaten, murdered.
The denials the Nazis gave were nothing more than lip service, but there wasn’t a lot for me to report on when I was prohibited from entering much of the camp or speaking privately with any of the prisoners.
When I left, I’d felt a defeated certainty that most of the people held against their will within those walls would be long dead before I set foot in a camp again.
Especially when the world governments were so hell-bent on appeasing the Chancellor.
The same rage I’d felt all those years ago, the same impotent desperation for the world to do the right thing, burned beneath my skin.
Idealism and my desire to live in a just world were only sharpened by experience and the surety we could have stopped so much of the carnage if we’d reacted to Nazi aggression sooner.
I reminded myself we were fighting now—far too late for so many—but it didn’t ease my righteous anger.
“Kit! There you are!” Marion cried. Arms wrapped around my neck and pulled me down into a tight hug nearly as soon as I’d registered her exclamation.
Her long blonde curls obscured my vision, familiar sweet floral perfume enveloping me.
A small bit of the knot in my chest loosened as she pulled back and grinned up at me with sparkling hazel eyes.
She took my hands in hers and squeezed. “I’m so glad to see you. ”
“Not as glad as I am,” I said, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek, then laughing when Agnes cleared her throat. “Hello, Agnes.”
“I’d hug you too,” she said. “But…” She spread her arms slightly, indicating the heavy leather bags she was carrying. Her smart suit and bowtie looked fashionable with her short, meticulously waved dark hair.
Reaching out, I took one from her, then accepted a quick one-armed hug. She’d never gone in for the displays Marion did. The faint lemon and fresh cut grass scent of her magic clung to me as she pulled away.
“Miss me?” I asked, shooting her a crooked smile.
“Not as much as you missed me,” she replied, dryly.
“Obviously.”
Marion threaded her arm through mine and scanned the crowd. “Let’s get out of this madhouse. And you can tell me everything that’s happened since we spoke.”
We dropped off their suitcases at the hotel, and then I brought them to Ted’s for lunch.
As I ladled canned soup into bowls and laid out slices of the fresh bread Tillie had dropped off for me, I wished I’d learned to cook for guests.
Soup from a tin seemed a paltry offer after they’d traveled so far for me. At least the bread was delicious.
“So,” Marion said as I set the food on the table. “Sit. And talk.”
Carefully avoiding her gaze, I took my seat and calculated how much I wanted to reveal. Everything but the kiss. And my feelings of jealousy over George acting protective of Gus.
The ringing telephone interrupted before I could begin. My stomach did a strange flip, though it could’ve been anyone.
“Lovely residence, Kit speaking,” I said as confidently as I could manage.
“It’s Gus,” he said, and even if I’d hoped it was him, I wasn’t ready to hear his brusque greeting. “Look, I finally got a lead, you got a few minutes?”
“Of course. What have you got?”
“It’s Mary-Alice’s family. They own an exclusive gin joint catering to mages in town. The whole family used to be smugglers; they’ve got their fingers in all sorts of criminal business. I’ve been trying to get us in, and my contact finally came through with the password for tomorrow night.”
Disconcerted, I asked, “How long have you known about this?”
“Kit…” Gus strung out my name in a weary, apprehensive tone.
“Jesus, that long?”
He huffed. “Don’t get yourself worked up.
There was nothing you could’ve done to get us in any sooner, and I couldn’t risk you running off on your own and ending up hurt or worse trying to talk to these people.
That face might get you your way lots of places, but it wasn’t going to do you any favours around O’Shea’s. ”
Anger churned in my gut. “I’m not some pretty—” My gaze cut to Marion and Agnes watching me. Agnes raised her eyebrows, and I changed what I was going to say. “I can get people to spill secrets. It’s my job, darn it. I’ve talked my way into worse places.”
“And there’s the big city attitude that’s going to get you in trouble. You think you can do anything you want just because you’re Kit Daring, intrepid correspondent. Well not everyone around here loves you.”
He’d made that clear as day when we split up, so the stab of pain in my chest made no sense. My pulse picked up and my face scorched.
“I think you’re an asshole who’s been waiting to throw that in my face,” I snarled.
Strained silence expanded between us. Reluctantly, he admitted, “Maybe. It doesn’t matter. What matters is it’s over and done. Can’t change the decision now. Are you coming tomorrow or not?”
Unclenching my jaw, I replied, “When and where?”
The conversation quickly ended once I’d been given the details, and I turned to face two inquisitive women who weren’t going to let me get away with brushing off what they’d overheard.
“Sit,” Marion said again, leaning to rest her elbows on the table as she laced her fingers together to support her chin. “Talk.”