Intimate Relations, Rebecca Forster [best ereader for manga .txt] 📗

"Enver."

Emi spoke to him in their own language. She told him that he must get through the night. That was all. She told him there was too much at stake to anger this man. She told him that she knew what to do. She, Emi, would go upstairs and bring her down. That way the man would get what he wanted and the artist would not have to watch.

Her husband waggled his head. His large hands went to his face and when he looked again it wasn't at her. His wife turned her head. She saw nothing but empty space. It took her a moment to understand what that meant. The Asian man was gone, stealing up the stairs. Emi pushed her husband, but there was no controlling him now. He knew what was happening. If the artist wasn't going to give the man what was his, that man would take it.

"No. No. No," she whispered, baring her teeth. "Let him have her."

"No. Never."

The artist's voice rose until the wail of it caught the attention of more than one guest. Women paused, men's heads turned. A few smiled thinking that this was the sound of pleasure. Others were annoyed at the disruption of their own.

"Hush," Emi pleaded, near tears as she took his arm. He shook her off. She fell back against the wall, but scrambled up before her husband could give chase.

"I'll get him," she said. "You stay here. Please, Enver. Let me."

"Do not interfere."  The artist took his wife by the shoulders, and looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. "Go change your clothes. You shame us looking like a peasant in your work clothes. Take that scarf off your hair; that smock off your body."

"No," she said. "I will not."

He paused when Emi snapped at him. She seldom angered. Now she was full of fury, shaking with it. Still, it wasn't enough to stop him.

"You're right. It doesn't matter what you look like. Leave me alone. Throw those people out."

With that he pushed past her and bounded up the stairs. Emi's fury became panic; just as suddenly panic passed to calm. The wheels had been set in motion long ago, and to make a scene now would ruin everything. Still it would be even worse if she didn't stop both men from going upstairs. She gathered her energy. She would do what she could.

Emi had her foot on the second riser as she thought through her plan.   The sound of her husband's footsteps as he pounded up the stairs became fainter the farther he climbed. He stopped on the first landing taking enough time to lean over and look at his wife.

"It is over. She stays."

With that he was gone, and Emi collapsed against the wall. She was exhausted in body and soul; she was terrified in her heart. She thought of the Asian man already steps ahead of her husband, and was almost sorry for him. She was sorrier still for Enver, and herself, and for whatever would come after this.  Then she started to laugh. It was a tragedy, yes, but it was also tragically funny. This Asian man didn't know she existed, her husband didn't care that she did, and all because of her.

Emi looked up, but there was nothing to see. Her ears pricked but there was nothing to hear. Her eyes went to the strange and beautiful people in her living room, people whose names she didn't know. She should tell them to go, but before she could gather her strength a sound came from above that turned her blood to ice.

The concrete walls did not absorb it, the narrow stairwells did not bottle it up. Heads went up. The guest's eyes darted here and there as they tried to identify where it had come from, this muted howl of agony. Women moved closer to men who hoped they would not be called upon to be heroic.

The sound was like the roar of a distant train carrying a cargo of insanity. Emi took two steps down. She pushed herself into a dark corner of the alcove where moments ago she had tried to assuage her husband. One of the guests rose from his chair. He smiled as if the sound thrilled him, but his anticipation soon dissolved into a look of confusion.

Worse than the inhuman cry, was the silence that followed. That quiet was huge and filled with something so horrible there was no name for it. Before the wealthy people could decide what to do, the artist rushed down the stairs, ran past his wife, and threw himself into the big room. He fell against one wall and rolled onto another before standing tall and raising his arms to heaven. In that instant, he issued another abominable cry. This one was so deep and long that the guests froze with their eyes wide and their mouths open.

Someone dropped a glass, and it shattered on the hard floor. Collectively, the guests fell back one step. Wild-eyed, the artist staggered around the room.  All the fancy folks scurried away.  His size cowed them. The look in his eyes spooked them. And the fact that his shirt was red with blood terrorized them.

Clearly the party was over.

2

Finn O'Brien caught the call at 2:26 a.m. On a normal day he would be dressed, armed, and out the door on his own. This morning his partner, Cori Anderson, was by his side. She had been in Finn's bed when the call came. She slept alone, grateful that her partner had offered his roof while her home was being tented.

The night before she had arrived with Chinese, an overnight bag, and a litany of complaints about the little buggers eating her out of house and home.  It was costing her a small fortune to kill them dead, not to mention putting everyone out.  Thomas Lapinski had offered her shelter, but she declined. She and Lapinski — attorney at law, brilliant,