Read Online Shadow WIngs (Skeleton Key) by Skeleton Key, JC Andrijeski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Skeleton Key, JC Andrijeski
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rifle.
He’d stopped shivering.
He wore Uri’s long-sleeved thermal shirt and that heavier sweater over the pants. The pants still didn’t fit him quite right, since Uri was a bit thicker around the waist and not quite as tall, but the differences almost worked, causing the pants to hang down low on his hips so that the bottom of the pant legs brushed the tops of his bare feet. He filled out Uri’s clothes better than Uri did, she couldn’t help thinking, even though they clearly hadn’t been made for him.
She glanced at his feet, which were also marble-white.
“Do you want socks?” she said, looking up.
He didn’t answer, but walked towards her, his eyes focused on the files spread out on the table. Seeing him staring at the crime scene photos, she shut the folder in front of her with deliberation and met his gaze more levelly.
“How about some coffee, comrade?”
“Raguel.” His expression denoted some discomfort, even with the calm. For a few seconds she thought he might speak more, maybe to explain that discomfort, but he never did.
“How about some coffee, Raguel?” she said, her voice more subdued.
After a short pause, he nodded.
She got the sense he wasn’t sure if he wanted it or not.
Puzzled once more, and feeling awkward although unable to articulate to herself why she felt awkward, she got up and pulled a second mug out of the cabinet over the sink. She poured him a cup of coffee, only glancing back at him once.
“Milk? Sugar?”
He hesitated again, then nodded. “Yes.”
Smiling faintly that time, Ilana shook her head, then made his coffee roughly the way she made her own. She used the pot to top off her own cup at the same time, and then added more milk and sugar to her mug as well.
It was a privilege to have good coffee––one of the few perks she indulged in as a result of her job. Otherwise, she chose to live more or less proletariat-style, and not all of that was cover. Her apartment was basic, identical to that of most others in the white collar classes and even many of the higher-tier blue collar classes. Her clothes. Her car. She did not call attention to herself. Most of her neighbors thought her a secretary in some segment of the Politiboro and Ilana didn’t dissuade that belief.
It worked well with her cover as a low-ranked Party analyst and investigator, but it also suited her personality. She’d never been one with much interest in accumulating things.
When she turned around, placing his coffee in front of the other chair at her kitchen table, the gray-eyed man was watching her, that tauter look on his face.
“What?” she said, unthinking.
“It is very frustrating, feeling nothing from you,” he said at once.
She started a little, even as she’d been straightening from setting down his mug.
“What does that mean?” she said.
“––It does not help very much to touch you,” he said, instead of answering her question. He still sounded frustrated. “Although I keep wanting to do that, as well.” He raised his eyes back to hers. “Is that normal? To want to touch so much? Is that a normal impulse for one living in these realms? Or is it specific to humans? For I find I am having trouble not doing it. It is almost a constant compulsion with you. I want to touch you even as I say these words...”
Thinking, he tilted his head, again as if listening to some faraway sound.
“I did not want to touch that militsiya officer,” he muttered, speaking more to himself. “So this wanting to touch is perhaps specific to only some persons? It is distracting, whatever it is. But I cannot seem to push it totally from my mind.”
Caught between amusement at his utter honesty and discomfort and embarrassment at what he’d actually said, Ilana decided she wouldn’t press him for whatever the hell he was talking about. Not right now at least. She sat back in her chair by the kitchen table, then hesitated only another breath before gesturing towards the chair
He’d stopped shivering.
He wore Uri’s long-sleeved thermal shirt and that heavier sweater over the pants. The pants still didn’t fit him quite right, since Uri was a bit thicker around the waist and not quite as tall, but the differences almost worked, causing the pants to hang down low on his hips so that the bottom of the pant legs brushed the tops of his bare feet. He filled out Uri’s clothes better than Uri did, she couldn’t help thinking, even though they clearly hadn’t been made for him.
She glanced at his feet, which were also marble-white.
“Do you want socks?” she said, looking up.
He didn’t answer, but walked towards her, his eyes focused on the files spread out on the table. Seeing him staring at the crime scene photos, she shut the folder in front of her with deliberation and met his gaze more levelly.
“How about some coffee, comrade?”
“Raguel.” His expression denoted some discomfort, even with the calm. For a few seconds she thought he might speak more, maybe to explain that discomfort, but he never did.
“How about some coffee, Raguel?” she said, her voice more subdued.
After a short pause, he nodded.
She got the sense he wasn’t sure if he wanted it or not.
Puzzled once more, and feeling awkward although unable to articulate to herself why she felt awkward, she got up and pulled a second mug out of the cabinet over the sink. She poured him a cup of coffee, only glancing back at him once.
“Milk? Sugar?”
He hesitated again, then nodded. “Yes.”
Smiling faintly that time, Ilana shook her head, then made his coffee roughly the way she made her own. She used the pot to top off her own cup at the same time, and then added more milk and sugar to her mug as well.
It was a privilege to have good coffee––one of the few perks she indulged in as a result of her job. Otherwise, she chose to live more or less proletariat-style, and not all of that was cover. Her apartment was basic, identical to that of most others in the white collar classes and even many of the higher-tier blue collar classes. Her clothes. Her car. She did not call attention to herself. Most of her neighbors thought her a secretary in some segment of the Politiboro and Ilana didn’t dissuade that belief.
It worked well with her cover as a low-ranked Party analyst and investigator, but it also suited her personality. She’d never been one with much interest in accumulating things.
When she turned around, placing his coffee in front of the other chair at her kitchen table, the gray-eyed man was watching her, that tauter look on his face.
“What?” she said, unthinking.
“It is very frustrating, feeling nothing from you,” he said at once.
She started a little, even as she’d been straightening from setting down his mug.
“What does that mean?” she said.
“––It does not help very much to touch you,” he said, instead of answering her question. He still sounded frustrated. “Although I keep wanting to do that, as well.” He raised his eyes back to hers. “Is that normal? To want to touch so much? Is that a normal impulse for one living in these realms? Or is it specific to humans? For I find I am having trouble not doing it. It is almost a constant compulsion with you. I want to touch you even as I say these words...”
Thinking, he tilted his head, again as if listening to some faraway sound.
“I did not want to touch that militsiya officer,” he muttered, speaking more to himself. “So this wanting to touch is perhaps specific to only some persons? It is distracting, whatever it is. But I cannot seem to push it totally from my mind.”
Caught between amusement at his utter honesty and discomfort and embarrassment at what he’d actually said, Ilana decided she wouldn’t press him for whatever the hell he was talking about. Not right now at least. She sat back in her chair by the kitchen table, then hesitated only another breath before gesturing towards the chair
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