Anson did not set start until the afternoon. His head pounded from both the drink and the deep gashes on his face. Calder and Sonny must have wiped the cum off him, but he was still caked in sweat and dried blood so they hadn't fully washed his person. He walked nude to the bathroom -- it was not as though another soul would see him -- and was so sick to his stomach it was a relief Calder had not met him there. When he washed the water at his feet tinted red, and when he dried and inspected himself in the mirror he was deeply unhappy with his findings.

He had already darkened beneath the eyes, and one was a little swollen. A gouge sat at the bridge of his nose, which seemed uncanny, like it had been broken and reset. Bruises and hickeys blossomed from his jaw to his collarbone: if one could only see this part of him it would seem he spent the night prior having fun.

And actually, he did, for the most part. It was thrilling, what Calder did with him. To him. Up until he lost the fight. He did not enjoy feeling like a game piece, nor did he relish his ignorance of the rules, the means, or the end. At least the other players wanted him alive. There was an advantage Joe and Robert didn't have.

His burgundy sweater came high enough to disguise most of the bruising, and a cravat fashioned from a handkerchief covered the rest. He wanted to look passable for a trip into town, a trip that first led him down the grand staircase and past the reception desk, where he only greeted Sonny with a passing wave. Sonny didn't return it, only responded with a knowing look that confirmed what Anson had suspected. For a moment he wondered rather oddly if, in the effort to carry his body up the stairs, Sonny had him by the head or the feet.

Outside was the worst sort of snow, fine and light and picked up by heavy gusts and swirled all over the damned place. He could barely see five feet in front of him, and walked to his car with an outstretched hand. Only one side needed a wiping, since the wind blew the rest away, and he cleared that part of it with his sleeve before hobbling in, bent by the cold, and started her up curled in the driver's seat. It took several minutes of blasting the heat to get him upright, and several more to shake the ice from his rear windshield.

His was a foolhardy mission, with no reasonable goal at the end. He had no desire to actually visit Ruth, but this was what Anita had advised, and he wanted to see if she did so for only the romance or if maybe the florist was another piece of the puzzle. Another creature playing the game. But to get some flowers, present them to Sophia, to involve a near child in the madness he was facing was ludicrous. He stood with his toes at the abyss: to woo her would be to drag her right to the edge with him. The interest he had in her was platonic of course, and then scientific. Anita pushed on his end, but was she doing the same to her? She could be jerked around at this very moment like a marionette and he wouldn’t know it.

The drive to the Flower Shoppe was slow and painful, but of course his was the only car out, a boon to his poor visibility. He could not imagine a highway in this, the trucks as big as they were becoming, the drivers so brash now, the lights distractingly bright. Nor could he imagine the way to Heath in that little shack up the winding mountain pass. But three days had flown by in a whirlwind, in blood and brains and death and cum, and his love must have been waiting for him. Just one visit to Ruth. Maybe the snow would settle then.

He parked anywhere. There was no need to find a space, no need to move off to any side. He was likely still in the road, but no matter. A light shone in from the shop, and he rushed to get in, his feet sliding in the powder, but when he tried the door it was locked. As he knocked a shadowed figure appeared beyond the curtained glass, and he waited a long, shivering moment until Ruth swung the door open and he barrelled in.

“Sorry, sugar, I've got a towel rolled up at the gap.” She said breathlessly, laughing a little as she replaced the towels she’d cleared away for his entry. “I’ve gotta keep this cold out! My little mites can’t stand it.”

Her blonde curls flipped as she turned to look at him with a coy smile and shining eyes. Her face fell. He shrugged with a grimace: his appearance was jarring, he knew, especially now to who he once was.

“You’re right. It sure is cold.” He said, and she nodded slowly, likely trying to find her words. “Especially when the snow gets you all wet.”

“I have a fire.” She motioned stiffly, her hand a little awkward, and Anson blinked.

“I’m sorry, Ruth, are you open? I don’t mean to interrupt your private life.” He said, and she laughed, seemingly a little relieved at the politeness of this.

“I’m always open for the right customer.” She said, and her smile was genuine enough that Anson stayed. Her shop looked as it always did, glowing from so many candles and lush from so much nature. Red flowers dotted every table, full and dramatic, likely for Christmas. They were celebrating earlier every year, and though he forgot the day and somehow the month he thought it was likely too soon. He turned towards the fire she’d motioned to: it was held in a cast iron stove, next to a few stools and a pile of firewood resting on the ground. She’d pushed some orchids and other exotic looking plants the closest to it, though Anson wondered for their safety without a grate.

“You could get embers bouncing.” He pointed. “Best be careful, Ruth, or you may be in the business of kindling.”

“Then I would have a fire sale.” She laughed, good-natured, and he chuckled along with her. She was always so easy to speak to, no riddles, no chaos. But it was past the point where he could forget his place. The stinging cuts on his face reminded him well enough.

“Did you always plan to be a florist?” He asked, and she glanced away. “You seem to really like what you do.”

“I'm fortunate that way.” She spoke softly, and he barrelled on before she could continue.

“But you're so personable. You make sales just as well as you care for the plants.” He said, and she blushed and waved him off. “I'm serious! If you ever change your mind there's plenty of bibles to deal.”

“Too much travel for me. I've come far enough already.” She looked thoughtful a moment. “Personable?”

He nodded, and warmed his hands when she fell to silence.

“Do you think I'm personable like a shop girl? Or like a wife?” She asked, and must have noted the look of confusion he was quick to hide. “Sorry! I mean, if I think well of a girl I think she might be the wife of a powerful man. A rich man, or an actor.”

“If she chooses.” Anson chose his words carefully. “I’ve just been impressed with your sales, is all. Were you ever married?”

“Ha! No, I’m only thinking out loud.” She seemed to shake herself from an uncommon reverie. “Would you like some tea? I've got a rooibos you may enjoy.” She offered, and he nodded as she fetched a kettle and threw it on the stove.

“Have you had it? It’s sweet.”

“I don’t believe so.”

He watched her run to a cabinet behind her desk and pull out a familiar looking tin. Tea from Sophia, of course.

“I don't know how you got here in this. You're braver than I am.” She said, and he shrugged her off.

“I bet you're plenty brave.”

She blushed again. He stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed at the fire awhile. The kettle began to whistle after a few moments, and Ruth must not have been paying attention, because it went on to an agonizing pitch before she rushed over to take it off. She walked it to the desk with a padded mitt, and he followed along as she poured it into the ceramic teapot, gold with roses.

“You want a long brew for rooibos.” She said, and set the kettle down on a nearby trivet. “Anything I can show you while you wait?”

“Keep me long and show me lots of product. I see how it is.” He teased, and she laughed as she made her way to the houseplants.

“You're too much! But what are you in for, blooms for your pocket? Yours still ought to be fresh. Or you want a friend for your hotel room? Keep you company?” She fished, and he smiled wanly. “I've got Sansevieria. Good for low light.”

“You've stayed at the hotel before?” He perked up, and she paused. “Low light.”

“I have.” She said, and Anson saw the hollows in her eyes more clearly than before. “I -- well, you don't seem the judgemental type.”

“Judging’s for the man in my book.” He said solemnly, and she nodded and stepped closer, her voice low.

“I had big dreams when I was young. I thought I'd make a great actress.” It made sense: she wasn't just blonde and leggy, she glowed from within. “Well, I had -- I had to rub elbows.”

“Oh, Ruth. I would never judge someone for their pleasure.” He spoke earnestly, but she was quick to wave her arms.

“No, no! Not always like that. Just sometimes a girl needs to date around to keep her stomach full. To have a roof over her head for the evening.” She wrung her hands, and Anson understood. He’d heard of this thing before. Broke girls coming to the city, dating who they needed to date, hoping to catch the right break or the right man. So many were lucky to come out the other side of it. He’d never dated like that, and especially never a woman that way, but he could understand the appeal: a shag for a mealticket. For how infrequently women tempted him, were he living a different life he would be proud to have a gal like Ruth on his arm.

“Those were the wild days.” She hummed, and absentmindedly stroked her thumb against a nearby plant. She held it in her fingers like she was feeling for a pulse. Anson wondered at her very being. She was so beautiful, so charming, so how could she come away from all that without a husband? She could’ve had anyone she wanted, if she was given the right to choose him. Single. Single and stuck in this nameless town.

“Do you still put out?” He asked, and Ruth released the leaf she held before curling her fist. When she turned to him it was with gnashed teeth.

“You scoundrel!” She went red, and he realized his mistake rather obviously.

“No, no--”

“You -- you ass!”

“Ruth, I--”

“You can very well leave if you’re going to take that approach, Mr. Monroe!” She set her shoulders back and leveled her fists at her sides. Anson somehow knew she could use them well if she needed to. “Go on!”

“I’ve met Calder. I think he likes to play with people. He likes control. Do you still put out? When he makes you?”

“You’re being completely inappropriate.” She said, but the hesitation in her tone was enough of an answer.

“He has. . . associates. Business meetings. Powerful men, I bet. Men with appetites.” Anson continued, his brain whirring like machinery, his thoughts so quick he scarcely had time to corral them. “Did he ever take you across state lines? You could get him on that. You could take this whole thing down.”

“And the powerful men you mention, you think they’d allow that?” She raised a brow, and he paused. “Calder’s powerful, too.”

“He’s gay.” He said, then sucked in a breath. He had no innocent reason to know such a thing, and even if he had he wouldn't like to share it. Even if it were someone like the proprietor.

“Doesn’t help nor hurt me, darling.” She said, and her expression softened when he let out that deep breath. “The tea should be ready. Pour us a cup.”

He nodded then, and fell to silence as he poured the two cups. Ruth came over and took hers without acknowledgement, and they sipped without a cheers. She was right that the rooibos was sweet, but to him it was overly so and came off as medicinal. He might as well have been drinking cough medicine. Ruth seemed nonplussed when he gently returned the cup to its saucer. He wanted to say something to Ruth, the poor thing, but he imagined he was not in the favorable light now that he'd shone in when he first arrived.

“You would've made a wonderful actress.” He finally landed on, and she smiled faintly. “The next Bette Davis.”

“I was never that good.” She hid a little behind her teacup. “Only pipe dreams. I would've been better off a wife.”

“You've still got time.” He encouraged, and her gaze fell to the ground. “Time enough.”

“I'm only useful for so long, sugar. Looks fade, then time's run out.” She said. He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of how to respond. Useful. He didn't like to think of a woman calling herself and her body such a thing.

“This ain't a town, is it?” But it was low and flat and hardly a question. “It's a commune.”

Ruth’s hand was shaking when she set down her own cup. The china clinked rather obviously.

“Are you not yet married, bible-man?” She asked, the same as Sophia once had. His blood chilled.

What was coincidence and what was coordinated effort? Had Ruth already spoken to Anita? He wondered rather inanely at the tone of those conversations: the two were so different, the way everyone here was so different, so unique, so out-there. No one here should have pieced together perfect the way they did. Actually, the only thing he ever saw them all have in common was their love of the bibles he peddled. And it was a strange and known thing that belief swayed people to every extreme imaginable, even when he thought the belief was foolhardy, or pressured, or sometimes even false, like his own. Not like his own though, not really, because his beliefs were his alone, and not leveraged under some strange man's thumb.

Calder had questioned his loyalty. He could dispel the doubt, or he could open up outright. Blow this whole thing wide open, except, well, to whom? With the roads blocked for the season there was no one to tell save those he wanted to protect. Maybe he could warn Heath and Gin. Maybe come Spring they could travel down the pass and come back with some help, get Calder knocked down or get some of the townsfolk out of there. Maybe then he could find Robert. “Find” Joe.

Or maybe a wanted man wasn't in any position to seek help. Maybe just getting them out would be a victory. Was this the way forward? The way to keep Heath? They could run off together. He would just have to tear Calder down first.

“Maybe in the Spring.” He answered, as softly as he could.

“You know we've got a beautiful Spring bride in town.” Ruth raised her brows. Anson took a very long sip of his tea. “Why don't you get her some flowers? Announce your intentions?”

He rubbed his thumb along the faded gold rim of the rose-covered cup. Her gaze was intense and expectant. She was too loyal.

“Maybe. . . Something small.” He managed after a pause. “Like daisies.”

“It's December.” Ruth pointed out, and he snorted. “I have so many roses! Be a man, now, sugar.”

In no world did he want to give this young woman roses, as intimate as that was, and pointed round the shop awhile as he sipped on too-sweet tea and watched Ruth run ragged. First to the mums; then the carnations; then ten other things; back again to the roses just to try and convince him. She pouted when he suggested something more practical like a houseplant, and waved him off when he hoped for a Christmas amaryllis.

“You'd be old and married to gift such a thing.” She said wryly. “But if you're looking for Christmas I've got some mistletoe.”

Anson had never heard so much sing-song, nor had he ever seen that much eyelash batting.

“The roses, then.” He finally conceded, and she took the win with lightened steps and a big smile, as though their previous upset were forgotten.

When he left he had a dozen white roses wrapped in tissue and folded gently within his coat, kept warm by the nervous fire in his chest. The snow had stopped falling, though the wind still whipped it to a frenzy, so that he watched snow lift off mounds in a fine powder and swirl across the white world around him. When he got to his car and turned on his headlights, dimmer now as they were caked with ice, he sat and observed this a moment, noted the opacity of a particularly heavy gust. Snow was different for him, and dangerous, surely, but he knew the greatest danger to be found in this town, and he knew his own drive to stop it, so he got in his car and made his way up the mountain, up to his love and his wife. The trip was slow and painstaking, and more than once he felt his beloved Victoria slip back with a squeal of her tires, but the wind had kept the snow from really piling, so he lived, albeit sweaty and shaking. When he parked his car he didn't think he had exerted himself, but his muscles ached like he ran a marathon and he had to wrench his grip from the steering wheel with white knuckles.

He practically ran to the ramshackle front door, not fully warmed from his tinny little heater, and was greeted to a blast of much welcomed heat when he walked in. The candles danced their usual, the air smelled of garlic and herbs as always, and Gin cut a beautiful figure as she bounced from one table to the next, light-hearted in conversation while she took orders and refilled glasses. He had thought the place would be deserted in this snow, but of course he forgot how a local could be accustomed to such awful weather. He himself had become accustomed to heat and humidity in the old days, and felt some confused nostalgia the first time he ambled up the coast.

The brothers must have hiked over as always, something he noted by the snowshoes at the door, and Dallas and Smiley had not even taken off their waders, so they must have walked straight off their dinghy. Even Anita sat at a full table, bundled in coats and sweaters she presumably crafted herself. She didn't look at him when he entered, but that didn't mean she wasn't aware of his presence.

He made his way to his usual barstool, and felt strangely fond and homesick when he heard the wood creak under him. The sourness in that was a mystery to him, maybe instinct, but it went unnoticed to the rest in an otherwise cheery atmosphere, and he sat and thawed for a moment before Gin arrived with a menu.

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“You know I hardly bother with it at this point.” He turned to smile at her, but she didn't look him in the eye and only vaguely nodded.

“I'll let him know. He'll fix you up real good.” She said, but didn't lay it on thick like she was so wont to do. Normally she would have batted her lashes and dropped her tone, normally she would have made him feel like he was more welcome in her marriage than merely tolerated.

When she left for the kitchen he stared at her go, then held his eyes on the partition. Heath did not appear as he hoped, and in a moment she returned only to pour him a glass of wine. It was a dark red to match the welts across his face, the ones Gin seemed to miss as she sidled away. He took a sip with his eyes still on the partition: it was Pinot noir from the boys, sweet like cherries and oaky from the barrel. Much better than the tea he'd drank earlier. He turned to raise his glass to them, but neither met his eye and only continued their conversation, and after a long moment he turned back around in his stool.

Calder's reach was long. He wondered what could have been whispered from last night to now to warrant this. Maybe nothing. Maybe he was not the first weary traveler to come through here and take a beating. Maybe he could be the last. He looked down idly at his table settings and listened to Gin make conversation with everyone but him on the weather, the food, the Lord. At times he felt there may have been eyes on him, but when he snuck quick looks behind him to the dining room he found no one who would meet his gaze. This was the loneliest meal he'd had at the restaurant since his first little bowl of rice.

Gin disappeared a time or two into the kitchen, and it took everything in him not to lean over to take up a view of within. He felt half a fool for wanting to make such a scene, and that embarrassment kept him in his place. Besides, what he needed now was to play the innocent, just as he had done so many times before. Play pretend like girls playing house. Like everything was normal.

It wasn't long until his plate was brought out to him, steaming and fragrant, and he thanked Gin quietly as he took in the meal. It looked simple, but exquisite, with greens sauteed with garlic; thick crusty bread; tender and juicy pork. He took a forkful of greens, maybe a blend of collard and mustard, and took a bite to find it pleasantly bitter, with a hint of roasted garlic and a surprising amount of spice from small flecks of red studded throughout. The pork tenderloin cut easily with his knife and fork, succulent with the barest hint of rosemary and peppercorn. The bread was baba, as he remembered from his own jaunt across Italy -- when times were tough he and his father would eat it for a meal. Baba rustico, a hearty white bread filled with scrap meat and covered in cheese. Anson chewed at it pleasantly before he followed it with more meat and wine. He wished sorely that Heath would wander out and ask him how he liked it, and took the meal with his eyes on the partition, as though want alone could summon the man.

It worked. When his dish was near empty Heath slid open the partition a hair, which Anson nearly startled at, then recovered and smiled encouragingly. There was no world where the chef would actually step out into the open, that beautiful reclusive bastard, but Anson hoped his affection was warm and obvious in the grin, and enough to say, wordlessly, that he was there and he was waiting. Heath only stared at him plainly a moment, then closed the partition once more. He waited a moment, like he expected something more, but when the partition remained shut he began to feel spooked.

He and Gin had never treated him so foreign, so strange. And he couldn't imagine they would randomly do so now, especially with his face half caved in. They must have been just as aware of the trouble as he, and much like himself they were lying low and playing nonchalant. It relieved him to know they saw the threat as he did, even if it did cause a deep displacement in his gut. When Gin came around to ask how after him with little enthusiasm, it must have meant Anita's eyes were on them. When she presented him a bill she never would have brought were they alone, it was all part of the show. Who knew who was really trustworthy outside their trio.

When it came time to leave he waved everyone off, though only one or two villagers returned it, and clearly out of strained courtesy. The wind continued its tirade as he made his way back to the Victoria, and snow still clung to the driver's side, but he made no move to clear it. He only got in, pitched his seat back, and curled up in wait. He kept his arms wrapped around his chest and his feet tucked under his ass, and meant to hold that position until all the other diners had left and he could finally speak to his chef alone.

He was there, he was waiting, and he would be patient. Even as he cycled the heat in the car. Even as his fingers went stiff. Even as he nodded off again and again. The diners slipped out one by one, the boys with their snowshoes and Anita all bundled up. When he did his counting in the dark he believed only Dallas and Smiley remained, and right on cue they appeared at the old door of that beat up shack.

And they stayed there. And they stared at him. Anson could hardly see them around the snow and ice stuck to his now cold windshield, but he could see their stillness and their hardened postures. Both straight-backed and both locked on to his car and to him as if, and in Anson's mind this was foolish thinking, as if they were hunting, and he was the prey. The idea disgruntled him, and he turned the key to get the engine going, but that didn't shake them. Smiley, the larger of the pair, advanced slowly in the wind, with Dallas a few steps behind. Anson fastened his seatbelt with half a mind to ram them. Smiley came all the way to his bumper, then to his passenger side mirror, and when their eyes connected he stiffly shook his head.

Anson put the car into drive, still unsure of his motivations. Dallas simply stood there, but Smiley, with the slowest and most subtle of motions, slipped a piece of paper beneath his wiper blades. Anson very wildly recalled a parking ticket his father got when he was a boy, the yelling and name calling to the officer. Telling him later on that he'd need to work a longer day at the mechanic’s to help pay it off.

He eased his foot off the brake, but turned his wheel to the left, away from his intimidators. He had to keep a low profile, he had to keep Heath safe. The blustery snow flew off his windshield as he went, but the paper caught and remained, and he had to fight from staring at it as he made his way down the mountain. It was a pamphlet for the library, where he knew Sophia would be. Was that the reason? They were telling him to go see her, just like Anita, just like Ruth?

The roses still sat in the passenger seat, though their petals seemed more curled and tattered at the edges now. The whole town was clamoring for this visit, and though it was quite late he decided if he made it off this cliff in one piece he ought to stop in. After all, she might not even be there at this hour. It wasn't like he wanted to spend another long night under the proprietor's roof anyhow.

The drive seemed even more treacherous as he went downhill: his speed became more difficult to control, and more than once he found his eyes transfixed on the water, that inky abyss that seemed both inches from his grasp and miles away. He had to wrench the wheel towards the right and hug the mountainside, because he slipped a few jaw-clenching times and ended up far closer to the edge than he wanted to be.

He might have held his breath the whole way down. Only when he came upon the village did he feel the pain in his back from hunching nervously in his seat, and stretched awkwardly with little reprieve. By then he reached the library, still dimly lit, and again parked anywhere. The pamphlet could stay, but the roses had to come with him, so he returned them to his coat and rushed in. The cold had only gotten worse with the evening, and worse still when he entered the drafty old building with hardly a respite from it.

David was not at his desk, though this was not unusual for a man so frequently stocking books and dusting shelves. As he walked further into the library the cold hardly abated, so he lifted an oil lamp off a long reading table and proceeded straight back, where he could hear some distant movement. It ended up being Sophia scrubbing out a pot, and his movement caught her attention.

“You look like a restless spirit in these stacks.” She called out, then creased her brow as he neared. “You alright? The shadows. . .”

“It's alright.” He called back, then grimaced when he was close enough for her to take in the view. Her hand dropped the scrub brush and went to her own cheek, then, when she remembered herself, beckoned him over.

“Let me look at it. Maybe I have a bandage.”

She set down her pot and he set down his lamp. He watched her fumble through her apothecary drawers until she found some cotton, then under a cabinet until she produced some of Anita's whiskey.

“If I knew you made drinks like that I'd be in more often.” He said, and her eyebrows drew closer together. “Don't bother with that, it's all scabbed over. No use now.”

“I don't put liquor in often. Just when Anita asks, or a special occasion.” She tucked the bottle away and wiped her hands nervously against her frilly apron. It was a deep, rosy pink to match her bubblegum sweater. “Don't think too poorly of me.”

“No, I could never. I know you're a good girl.” He said, then looked down at his hands, still red from the chill, when she appeared too eager at those words.

“Can I make you a tea?” She asked softly.

“I had some today. I can't recall the name, but it tasted like medicine.” She laughed, caught by surprise.

“A rooibos?” He nodded. “Depends on the brand you buy. I've had some stinkers.”

“It wasn't my favorite.” He leaned against the counter. She took a little step closer, too.

“My parents used to give me the one minute cough cure. Cherry flavored. Did you use that one?” She asked, so close he could study every feature. Her bottom lashes were so long, and her lips were plump and round to match her face.

“I don't remember. I was fortunate not to be a choleric child.” He said thoughtfully. “Were you?”

“I was wild.” She grinned devilishly. “I think they just liked how it knocked me out.”

“I can imagine you young.” He thought of a willful child, one who didn't know how much the world had against her. “I mean, you still are.”

“What did you visit Ruth for?” She asked, and he paused. “Besides tea.”

“Oh, I. . . For you.” Anson unbuttoned his coat and the roses sprung from his chest. Sophia's eyes went wide as saucers, and the way she touched her hands to her own chest was so gentle.

“Anson.” She gasped, “Really, for me? They're beautiful.”

“You can thank Ruth for that.” He said.

“No, no, thank you!” She gushed, then pulled the roses out from his coat, her fingers skimming his chest. She inhaled their scent, then searched for a vase as she hummed to herself. The satisfaction on her face when she found a pitcher to set them in eased some of Anson's upset: someone so young and lovely had to settle his temper, even in these circumstances.

“I was really hoping for a sweetheart’s gift. I mean, if I'm not being too forward.” She couldn't stop smiling as she placed the vase on the ledge behind her washbasin, the perfect spot for her to see it.

“It's no Letterman's jacket.” He said ruefully, and she laughed again.

“I'm afraid I'm a little too old for all that.” She blushed in a way that pained him. “You're a very handsome man, Anson. And I like to think we get on well.”

“We do.” Anson was at least honest in this. “And you've got me matched in looks. No, better. What's your surname?”

“Li.”

“Well, I think you're unparalleled, Miss Sophia Li.”

She leaned in too quick for him to react, with a peck on the lips that was chaste enough for him, but for her must have been her first foray into adult romance. He had to fight the disappointment from his face. There was a thin little line between maintaining expectations and leading her on, and he knew he danced on it with this.

“Sophia. It's not proper.”

“It could be.” She said, her eyes bright. “You can court me.”

“I’m a traveling salesman.” He said, but she didn’t seem dissuaded. “I could court you all winter, but come Spring--”

“You won’t leave.” She said, sure of herself. “I’ve seen men settle here even without a woman. And I think you belong here. I think you belong with me, too.”

“Oh yeah?” He asked, and she leaned in so close their lips grazed. “What’s keeping me?”

She kissed him again, longer this time, and ran a hand through his curls, now too long and wild. Something in him made him deepen the kiss, then bring a hand to her cheek, and another to her waist. She pulled away at this, but he knew from her wanton gaze that he didn’t need to apologize, or defend himself. Rather, she only paused to hop on the counter and sit close to him, the space between their bodies diminished as she pulled him into another kiss. His hand went back to her waist, and the other ran its fingers down her spine. She was so petite, and she fit so well in his arms.

“Sophia.” He pulled back. “Wait, really. This isn’t proper. Let me court you the way you deserve.”

“So you’re a romantic.” She was all flushed, and her voice was hardly a whisper.

“Sophia.” He warned. Her sweater was a little askew, and her apron had bunched along with her skirt. Her hose were a thin, translucent white, but with her legs crossed against his abdomen he didn't glimpse anything more than her knees.

“I know, you’re right.” She said, though she seemed reluctant to release him. “Thank you for being a gentleman.”

“Don't thank me for that. Let's get you off the counter.”

She slung her arms over his shoulders and he tightened his grip on her back to lift her down. She had to uncross her legs, and Anson didn't expect the brief flash of pink garters on a set of milky white thighs that he very much would have liked to put his head between. Sophia pressed herself against him and he lifted her down as promised, but held her there and gazed on her too long. It excited him, her eagerness, and the way it still held even with his hard length pressed against her. Maybe he shouldn't have pulled her off the counter.

“I think -- I could take off my apron, if you like.” She said, her breath tight.

“Just if you like.” He said, against his better judgment. She took it off.

“And my sweater, too.” She said, and his hands met hers at the hem.

“Let me.” He pulled the sweater over her head: she didn't do the bullet bra look he'd seen other men drool for, rather something white and unpadded that showcased dark nipples taut with excitement. She beamed at him and her hair stood up from static and he knew he was a wolf.

“Let me.” He said again, his lips already against her neck, his hands already caught in her hair. He felt her arms twist back as she slipped off her brassiere, then forward to remove his coat. He shrugged it off and moved his hands down to cup at her small breasts and tease her delicate nipples.

“Please,” she moaned, her breath hot on his ear. Her hands fiddled with his belt.

“I think that's quite enough.” David's voice was startlingly loud, and when Anson leapt away from the girl he found his countenance startling, too. He was not the all-knowing librarian in this light, he was a scarecrow in a dark field, like the ones Anson had passed so many times before. The last he'd seen was silhouetted by that flaming barn the real bible-man lived at, and David matched it well as the oil lamp bounced shadow off his grim face.

“Mr. Brown.” Anson began haltingly. Sophia dove behind him and wrapped herself in his coat. “Good evening.”

“Shut up. Stand behind me, Sophia.”

“Oh, I'm sorry David. Don't get mad, I -- I took it too far. I got too excited.” She stayed by Anson despite her very red face. “I shouldn't have encouraged him.”

“Yes, we're sorry.” Anson cleared his throat. “That was unrefined, and especially here in your library.”

Anson suddenly saw a glint of metal by his side.

“Come away from him, Sophia, ‘fore he corrupts you further.”

“He's got a knife.” Anson grabbed her by the arm when she stepped his way.

“It ain't for her, moron.” He said, and Anson's heart leapt into his throat. He couldn't do this here, not with the girl.

“David, I'm sorry. Nothing happened.” Sophia cooed, but Anson didn't let go of her. “I promise this is the end of it. Mr. Monroe can court me regular going forward.”

“I can.” Anson nodded sternly. “You can chaperone, if you please.”

“Did I tell you to talk? Get your hands off the girl. You think I won't teach you a lesson, huh?” There was something off in his eyes, something deeply rotten and more than just mad. Unhinged.

“Why don't we let Sophia walk away.” Anson spoke slowly and softly, but she crossed her arms.

“Enough of this. Let's all sit down, I can make some chamomile and grovel all night if I have to.”

“He's dangerous.” David said, dangerous himself. Anson had to wonder what he knew.

“Isn't that why he's still here?” She asked, and Anson felt a buzz in his ears. “Isn't that what we believe in? Change? Evolving? Forgiveness?”

David held the knife aloft. Anson heard his swallow reverberate through the room. His wild eyes darted, maybe with thought and maybe with uncertainty. His hand shook violently. This was not the well-read eccentric Anson had come to know, this was a madman, all stirred up inside with heavy doubt. When Anson had guessed the library was a boon to him he'd been right: a boon to a lackey, power and influence and warmth and good books in exchange for loyalty. He sensed a learning opportunity.

“Why don't you let Sophia dress.” He held his hand out reassuringly. “Take me to the priest -- he can decide on me.”

This was the wrong thing to say. David slashed forward with the knife so suddenly that Anson's arm caught it, and he yelped as he got his bearings. Sophia screamed, and he pushed her away as David launched at him, blade high in the air. A punch to the gut took his breath long enough to wrestle him down, and they writhed on the floor together in a dizzying mix of blood, sweat and screams.

“Stop it! What are you doing? Stop!” Sophia shrieked helplessly. “I'll go get someone! I'll tell Calder!”

“Run!” Anson yelled, and nearly took the blade to the face for it. “Don't, David, I'm armed!”

“Don't hurt him! It's only his way!” Sophia cried out. Anson punched him across the face and David reeled, but found himself at Anson's feet. He grabbed the right leg and both men knew he touched metal.

“Don't.” Anson said, low and boiling. Everything moved too quickly; David raised his knife; Anson kicked him in the chest, then drew back and pulled the gun from his sock; Sophia lunged at him and beat against his back with her fists; he turned and the butt of the gun met with her chin.

“Bastard!” David yelled, and though Anson couldn't disagree with him his thoughts turned to the burning pain in his gut, sudden and blinding as it was. The knife had been in David's hand one moment and between his ribs the next, and whatever mercy Anson had shown in Sophia's presence vanished. He was not so worried whether he shot to kill.

“Wait -- Anson!” He heard Sophia cry, but the gunshot sounded over her words, David's eyes went wide, and blood sprayed from his neck all over the three of them. Anson's ears pounded. The gun was heavy in his hands. When David’s limp body hit the floor he vaguely registered Sophia’s screaming.

“It's okay,” he began, but his words sounded hollow. He tucked the gun back into his sock to ease her, and felt goosebumps rise on his arms as she devolved into loud, incoherent sobbing. How drafty was this library? What were the chances one of these villagers could hear her?

“Why? Why? Why?” She asked, garbled, and kicked at him when he had no answer. “My friend!

He was my friend!”

She hit Anson so hard across the back of his head he saw stars, and he groaned when he leaned forward on instinct and further into the blade.

“Fuck!” He wrenched it out and tossed it across the floor. “Get off! Stop fucking yelling!”

She howled something unintelligible and hit him again, and he turned around to do something about it with a glare and gnashed teeth and blood in his eyes. He struck her so hard across the face she collapsed to the floor, and crawled on top of her to hit her again. David’s blood ran into her split lip when she gasped: they always gasped when they were really hurt.

“I don't want this! What the fuck! I didn't want this!” He punched her until her face twisted, and wrung her neck until pink tears slid down the sides of her face.

“How do you know Calder?” Anson grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “How?”

“He can fix this. He can fix everything.” Her eyes were so swollen he could hardly see that puppy dog gaze of hers, the bright and shining admiration gone out to leave just the dull glint of pain remaining. She was no spring bride in this state.

“Were you always a part of this, beautiful girl? Is this all you're keeping me for?” He whispered, his chest tight. She shook her head pitifully. Anson fought a grimace, then closed his hands around her delicate neck.

“Jesus. . . Forgives. . . All. . .” She hissed, and he squeezed until her eyes rolled up to the back of her head. Her body went limp, and he collapsed over her with shaking hands and heaving breaths.

The rush of the kill. A most enthralling feeling, so intense it made him feel dizzy, or drunk even. It pushed so far now to the point of illness. Sophia had tainted it. He had never heard a woman's screams mixed with the carnage before, had never strangled someone so beautiful, though maybe only because his beloved Pietro ran off when he did. Came back with la polizia, thankless to everything Anson had done for him, to all the lives he extinguished to keep them together, keep their love a secret.

He was still hard. It had never died down, and when he unzipped his pants his cock sprang from his fly and begged for attention. He pulled it at first, then changed his mind and opened the coat on Sophia's tiny body to climb over her. Her little breasts didn't even spill to the sides, and her skirt rode up to show off cotton panties like a girl would wear. He rutted against them, humped her like a dog and growled like one too, and shuddered with his release in moments. His cum soiled her skirt and pooled on her stomach, and the ecstasy of it was cut by pity. If only Mr. Brown hadn't stepped in. Maybe they could have avoided this fate for her.

Her stomach was so pale it nearly shone in the dark, and when he watched it idly he realized it rose and fell, and when he pressed his ear to her chest he felt her heart thumping. When he got up and zipped his pants, his eyes darted between her and David, the blood on him and the blood on the floor. The darkness around him, the way it rang with distant winds. Her and the door. He stood there with his fists clenched far longer than he could say, his breath ragged and a chill in his bones now that he'd expelled all his seed and energy.

The blood oozed from his gut and stuck to his shirt. His knuckles felt raw. There was no hiding this. Joe’s corpse could be tossed aside for a time, but not David’s, with or without the witness. For all the time he'd already been here, for all the time that remained, the opportunity to keep his head down had up and left him. There was only one option now.

He bent over and the wound throbbed as he closed his coat around little Sophia, then straightened himself and strode to the door. His side ached, but his newfound concentration distanced the pain. In some small way this had freed him: only now could he revert to his base instincts, only now could he hunt, could he play the game. Could he win. He had to thank Sophia for being so beguiling, Dallas and Smiley for pointing him this way, his lovers for giving him a reason to fight. He had a final plan. He had to confront Calder head on.