Volume 1 Number 1 July 2005

Stories by

Barbara Davies T.J. Mindancer Lori L. Lake K. Simpson

Volume 1 Number 1 July 2005

PublisherClaudia Wilde

Managing EditorCarrie Tierney

Assistant EditorC.A. Casey

Story IllustrationsTrish Ellis

Cover Art/LayoutT.J. Mindancer

Khimairal Ink Magazineis published July,October, January, andApril.

© 2005 Bedazzled InkPublishing Company

2In This Issue Claudia Wilde

3Khimairal’s Style Carrie Tierney

4False Identity Barbara Davies

10Hearing Things T.J. Mindancer

14Paige Lori L. Lake

21She Said, She Said K. Simpson

29Contributors and Artists

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elcome to the premiere issue of theKhimairal Ink. We envision an inno-

vative vehicle to showcase the writing talentsboth promising and established writers.

I’m very pleased with the story selectionsfor this issue. The authors are top-notch andhave captured the essence of Khimairal Ink’smission to celebrate strong female idealsalong with the feminist spirit.

Accompanying these great stories are theillustrations by Trish Ellis. It’s simply amazingto see how she captures the spirit of thewords in a single picture. We feel her visionand talent truly enhance the prose.

I hope writers will accept the challenge ofthe short story form and discover that theKhimairal Ink e-zine is another viable avenuefor their writing talents. I’m looking forward to

receiving more high quality submissions to fillfuture quarterly issues.

We feel that writers and artists who con-tribute to Khimairal Ink should be compensat-ed for their work. All proceeds from advertis-ing go directly to the authors and artists.

To make the e-zine readily available foreasier viewing, we are offering it in two for-mats: a pdf file that can be downloaded orprinted, or a Web version.

As one avid reader to another, I hope youenjoy these well-crafted stories and excep-tional artwork as much as I have.

See you next issue!

Claudia

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3 Khimairal Ink

reparing the premiere issue of an e-zine can be both an exciting and daunt-

ing task. Authors don’t know what you’reabout because they’ve never seen the maga-zine and advertisers are wary about spendingmoney before they see the quality of the pub-lication and the size of audience.

We’re lucky to have found four authorswhose works match our vision for KhimairalInk to showcase in this issue. On the surface,these stories are very different from eachother, but each of them displays the standardwe’re looking for—solid knowledge of the fun-damentals of writing and clear storytelling inthe short story form.

Two stories have a serious tone and twoare told with a light touch. One is science fic-tion, one is fantasy and two are in a contem-pory setting. All focus on a life changing eventin a character. Only one story has a sexscene and that’s almost one too many for us.Too much lesbian fiction is just an excuse towrite about sex. We want our stories toexplore all aspects of being a lesbian in realand imagined worlds.

I look forward to seeing many more excel-lent stories, especially those that are innova-tive and ground-breaking.

Carrie

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was clearing out the spare room when I cameacross the box. The clatter from the kitchen

downstairs told me Dierdre was still occupiedwith the washing up, so she need never know I’dpried. Besides, it was her own fault. If she’dtidied the room herself, instead of leaving it untilthe mess set my teeth on edge, I wouldn’t havebeen going through her belongings in the firstplace.

I peeled off the see-through wrapping that hadkept out the dust. The box was black plastic,about the size of a book, with no markings toindicate its contents. Must be a set of watercol-ors, I thought. Dierdre had taken up real paintinga year ago but it had been only a passingfad—why bother with the mess when electronicpainting is so much cleaner? But when I slid backthe catch, no palette of colors, no cobalt blues orraw siennas, met my gaze. Inside was a pinkplaskin pouch, two inches in diameter, and tenplaskin finger gloves. The slot that should haveheld the ID implant was empty.

I knew what it was instantly, ofcourse—Nonesuch’s Claims Dept keeps itsemployees informed—and the implicationsrocked me back on my heels.

My lover of two years wasn’t who she saidshe was.

ierdre was staring at the floor when Ientered the kitchen, at the remnants of

what had once been a dinner plate.She looked at me, her expression odd.

“Sorry, Anna. It slipped.” Then she noticed theblack box I was clutching and grabbed for it.

I stepped back, holding the fake ID kit out ofreach. Any hope that it belonged to someoneelse had disappeared.

“You’ve no business going through mythings!” Her face had gone pale.

“Who are you?”“You know who I am.” She wouldn’t meet my

eyes.

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“Do I?” I held up the box. “The ID implant ismissing.” I dumped it on the table and grabbedher left hand. Was it my imagination, or was thescar between her thumb and forefinger morerecent than it should be?

She pulled free. “Just leave it, Anna.Please.”

“Is your name even Dierdre? Or is that thename of the woman whose identity you stole?”

For a long moment she stared at me. “I’m theperson I always was, Anna,” she said at last.“Does my name matter?”

“Matter?” Anger was making my voice trem-ble. “I thought there were no secrets betweenus, and all the time this . . .” I thumped the boxwith my fist, and it sprang open, revealing thepouch of frozen blood and the false fingerprints.I didn’t like to think about the ghouls who hadtaken advantage of the real Dierdre’s bodywhile it lay on the slab. “Why do you need anew identity?”

She laughed rather bleakly. “Am I a criminal,you mean?” Her gaze became intent. “Would itmatter to you if I was?”

I was still reeling from the fact she’d keptsomething this important from me, and for amoment, I didn’t know what to say.

She tried to smile. “So. Love isn’t blind afterall.”

“That’s not fair!”“Life isn’t fair.” She hunched her shoulders

and turned away. “Guess you’ll want me toclear out, then.”

I stared at the plait hanging down her back ina kind of panic, at the navy sweater I’d boughther for her birthday. When I had stormed intothe kitchen, I hadn’t thought about the conse-quences. Dierdre was the first woman I’d feltable to contemplate a future with when it camedown to it, did her past really matter?

My legs felt shaky. Maybe it was just adren-aline, or maybe it was because I was facing anabyss. I reached for a kitchen stool and satdown, searching for the right words. “If you’re introuble, perhaps I can help.”

She turned to face me, her gaze shadowed.“I haven’t done anything wrong. Well, not very,anyway.”

“Tell me.”“I don’t think I’m ready to, Anna. It’s too . . .”

She shrugged helplessly.Surely, in the last few minutes, she’d real-

ized nothing could change my feelings for her?“You’re not really going to leave me, are you?”I braced myself for her reply.

“No.” She sighed. “If anyone leaves, Anna, itwill have to be you.”

fter a long and restless night—Dierdrehad moved back into the spare room and

even while sleeping I was aware of herabsence—and a breakfast marred by stiltedconversation, it was almost a relief to go towork. Leaving her instructing the computer totrawl the Web for new commissions, I caughtthe tram for the local Troubridge enclave.

It was the philanthropist Patrick Troubridgewho first proposed something should be doneabout the terminally ill poor. What “civilized”society could refuse to give its dispossessedand dying basic healthcare, clean and decenthousing, and simple manual jobs for as long asthey were fit enough to do them? At first, it wasmostly nvCJD cases that took up his offer; later,when that epidemic was over, those whoseDNA excluded them from insurance and all thatthat entails moved into the ten sprawlingenclaves. Troubridge's original vision was wellintended. He’d have been shocked to see thereality of life among “the excluded”—thesqualor and the hopelessness always depress-es me for days.

I got off the tram at the stop nearest to Mrs.Laval’s housing block and checked her details.I was to be the bringer of good news, for once.Ten years ago, she had managed to take out asmall policy, and since her disease wasn’tgenetically indicated, Nonesuch couldn’t legallyrefuse her claim. The lump sum wouldn’t beenough to buy her out of the enclave but itwould make her last months there more bear-able. I shoved the wad of cash into mypocket—like most in the enclave, Mrs Lavalhad no bank account—and jogged the remain-ing distance to her block.

The lift was out of order, so I started up thestairs. Her flat was on the top floor. I paused fora few moments to catch my breath, thenknocked on the peeling door.

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7 Khimairal Ink

“Who is it?” came a woman’s voice.“Mrs. Clarice Laval? Anna Stephens from

Nonesuch Assurance. May I come in?”It took her several minutes to pull back all

the bolts, then the door creaked open.I knew she would be ill, but even so her

appearance shocked me. She had the face andbody of a seventy-year-old though according toher paperwork she had only just turned fifty.She beckoned me in and stood back. I enteredand closed the door behind me.

“They’ve turned me down, haven’t they?”Her eyes were dull. “I knew they would.”

I touched her arm. “On the contrary, Mrs.Laval. We’ve approved your claim. And I’vebrought the money with me.” I pulled out thecash.

At first I thought she was going to have aheart attack, which would have been ironicgiven her state of health. But she ralliedenough to take the money and thumbprint myreceipt. By the time I left, her eyes werebrighter.

Even so, I was glad to see the back of theenclave.

ven when your personal life is fallingapart, life must go on. I had arranged to

have dinner with my mother the followingevening and couldn’t cancel without ringingmaternal alarm bells. She was exactly five min-utes late, as always, and ordered grilled soleand a green salad without even glancing at themenu.

The waiter reached for the reader danglingfrom his belt and scanned the implant in her lefthand. It chimed softly. After I’d chosen mush-rooms stuffed with chicken and handed backthe menu, he scanned my implant too.

“That seems to be in order,” he said, as thereader chimed again and he stared at the finan-cial information on the tiny display. Then hetrotted off to give our order to the kitchen.

“So,” said Mother, raising an elegant eye-brow. “How’s Dierdre?”

“Fine.” I didn’t mention that she had droppedanother of the dinner plates Mother had givenus as a wedding present. Instead, I reached formy lager and took a gulp. Mother frowned and

sipped her white wine spritzer.“She’s working on a design for a toy manu-

facturer at the moment,” I added.She ignored the information. “Dierdre never

suggests we meet her people, Anna. Why isthat?”

“They’re pretty busy, Mum,” I said, asalways, though, come to think of it, I had noidea if Dierdre’s parents were even still alive-the photographs I had seen might havebelonged to the “real” Dierdre.

Since the discovery of the fake ID, thingsbetween us had gone from bad to worse. Onlythat morning, I had found her sprawled over herdrafting pad, crying. She had a headache, shesaid. I knew it was more than that but shewouldn’t be drawn on the subject. She had shutme out of her life, and I had no idea how to getback in.

I mentioned none of this, of course. Thereare some things you don’t discuss with yourparents.

“And how’s work going? Are they keepingyou busy?”

“I had to visit one of the enclavesyesterday—”

“Those places!” Her tone was sharp. “Peoplelike that are just a burden on the rest of us—”

At that moment, fortunately, the apronedwaiter placed Mother’s grilled sole in front ofher, diverting the conversation. My mushroomsarrived soon after.

As we ate, I found myself thinking about mymother’s gene-ism, and wondering, not for thefirst time, what would have happened if she hadbeen forced to apply such strictures to herself.If she had been anti-gay, for example, wouldshe have aborted me in the womb?

ince Dierdre and I were no longer confid-ing in one another, no longer even shar-

ing the same bed, I became convinced, irra-tionally perhaps, that she was getting what sheneeded elsewhere. So I took time off work—Ihad some holiday due—and started trackingher every move.

It was easy enough to trace the one womanshe visited who wasn’t an existing acquain-tance or on her client list—I’d asked the com-

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puter to give me a hardcopy. Her name wasElizabeth Paxton, and they met every Tuesdayafternoon at a lace-curtained house in the sub-urbs.

I gave Dierdre every opportunity to tell meabout her affair, but she didn’t. Twice, I cameclose to confronting her, but in the end I chick-ened out. There was another avenue I couldtake though.

The next Tuesday, I waited until Dierdre leftElizabeth’s house and headed off towards thetram stop, then I strode up to the front door andrang the bell. The middle-aged woman whoanswered was the one I had just seen huggingDierdre on the doorstep.

“Yes?”“May I come in?”She frowned and glanced at her watch. “It’s

not really convenient. I’m expecting some-one . . . May I ask what you want?”

I took a deep breath. “My name is AnnaStephens.”

Her gaze remained puzzled, and a tinge ofannoyance crept in. “Look, if you’re selling—”

“I live with Dierdre Jardine,” I blurted. “I sawher leave here, just a moment ago.”

Understanding dawned. “I see.” If I’d expect-ed her to break down and confess on thedoorstep I was wrong. She remained com-posed and waited for me to continue.

“Are you and Dierdre having an affair?”She blinked. “Is that what Dierdre told you?”“Well, no, but . . .” This wasn’t going as I had

planned. In fact, come to think about it, I wasn’tsure what I had expected. To my embarrass-ment, I felt my eyes fill with tears.

Elizabeth looked at me and frowned. Thenshe sighed and stood back. “Perhaps you’dbetter come in, Ms Stephens. But only for amoment.”

Gratefully, I stepped into her hallway.She led me into a sitting room, pleasantly

furnished, with fresh yellow chrysanthemums inseveral crystal vases. At the far end of theroom, two easy chairs faced one another. Shedirected me to one of them and sat in the other.

On a coffee table beside me was a box of tis-sues. “Help yourself,” she said.

I took one and blew my nose.She didn’t waste any more time. “I think you

may have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. . . Anna, isn’t it?”

I nodded.“Dierdre and I aren’t having an affair. She’s

my client.”“I checked her client list,” I said. “You’re not

on it.”“My client, not hers.” She regarded me

steadily. “Are you always this distrustful?”I blushed and dropped my gaze, then said, “I

have my reasons.” I looked up at her again.“Dierdre mentioned that things had got very

tense between you,” she said.“She talked about me?”“Of course.”I picked at my thumbnail and considered that

for a moment. “What exactly do you do?”“Speaking generally,” she replied, “I counsel

people who are distressed or in trouble.”“Is Dierdre in trouble? She won’t tell me.”Elizabeth looked thoughtful. “Dierdre is deal-

ing with an extremely difficult matter,” she saidcarefully. “She’s chosen to handle it alone, toshut out those closest to her. Perhaps shethinks she’s doing them a favor—that may wellbe true; I don’t know you well enough to say.”Then she rose to her feet. I followed her exam-ple.

“I don’t understand.”“You must talk to Dierdre. Really talk to her.”

She ushered me into the hall and then out ontothe doorstep. “At this moment, she needs youmore than she’s ever needed anyone.”

And with that, she gently but firmly closedthe door in my face.

ierdre was watching television in the sit-ting room when I got home. I told the

computer to turn off the screen; the resultingsilence was deafening. An indignant Dierdreturned towards me, but her protests were stilledby the look on my face.

“Talk to me,” I ordered. “Tell me what’s goingon.”

She rose and headed for the door.“Oh no you don’t.” I darted after her and

grabbed her bare arm.She halted. “You’re hurting me!” Guiltily I

released her. She rubbed the livid marks my

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grip had left.“I’ve been to see Elizabeth Paxton,” I said. “I

thought you two were having an affair.”“What?” The color drained from her face.“Well, what else was I supposed to think? I

thought we were as close as two people couldbe, then I find out I don’t even know your realname . . . And now a complete stranger saysyou’re trying to deal with something really big,and you won't tell me because of some ideayou're doing me a favor. Some fucking favor!”

I paused to catch my breath. Dierdre’s eyeswere huge. I felt like shaking her. “Say some-thing. Anything. Tell me you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” she said quietly.“Then why won’t you talk to me?”“Because once you know,” she said, “you

won’t want to be anywhere near me. My fatherdidn’t, when he found out.”

I stared at her. “Found out what?”“My mother had Huntington’s disease,” she

said. “And so do I.”My legs started to buckle. Expressionless,

Dierdre helped me to the sofa.“I was born in a Troubridge enclave,” she

said, her gaze fixed on my face. “My DNA scanwould’ve kept me there for the rest of my life—ifyou can call that living. I should be one of ‘theexcluded,’ Anna. I had to get out. The fake IDmade that possible . . .”

I let her talk while I tried to take in what shehad told me. Suddenly I remembered howclumsy she had been recently. “The dinnerplates,” I said. “Was that . . . ?”

She nodded. “Headaches, dropping things .. . those are the first signs, apparently. I’ve gotfifteen, maybe twenty years, getting worse allthe time. . . . Aren’t you glad you met me, Anna?Really glad?” A tear ran down her cheek.

I pulled her close and hugged her fiercely.“Of course I’m glad. I love you.” For a momentshe resisted, then she sagged into my arms.

“I’m sorry,” she said, in between gulpingsobs. “I didn’t mean to trap you into having tocare for an invalid. Years ago I convincedmyself that having the gene didn’t necessarilymean I was going to get the disease—“classicdenial” Elizabeth calls it—then I met you andfell in love and it was too late . . .”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dierdre reached for a tissue and blew hernose. “Because I knew as soon as I did you’dleave me.” She looked at me sadly. “You aregoing to leave me, aren’t you?”

I stared at her. “Is that all you think of me?”She gave a tired shrug. “It’s a mug’s game.

They should put me down like a sick dog—isn’tthat what your mother will say?”

“I . . . am not . . . my mother!”She gazed at the carpet. “It may be too

tough for you, Anna. It may be too tough forboth of us.”

“Fifteen years, you said. They’ll have a treat-ment by then. And if not, there’s still no need foryou to go back to an enclave.” I was thinkingaloud, trying to comfort her, to comfort myself.“If it gets bad, we can hire a nurse . . . OK, soit’ll cost. But I’ve got a good job, and there’s myinheritance—”

“If your mother doesn’t cut you out of herwill.”

“Damn it, Dierdre! Don’t you want me to helpyou?”

“Of course I do! In fact there’s nothing I wantmore.” Her voice trembled. “But what if youcome to hate me, Anna? For wasting your life.I couldn’t bear it. I just couldn’t!”

“That won’t ever happen.” I tried to soundcertain, though God knows nothing in life is cer-tain except higher premiums. “You’ll just haveto trust me. Will you?”

The smile when it came was lopsided. “I'lltry,” she whispered.

I nodded and held her closer. That’s all any-one can ask.

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11 Khimairal Ink

nap!“Did you hear that?” Melia squinted

at her earth cats, expecting their ears to be, atleast, flickering.

The pair of stub-tailed beasts were sprawledon their backs in a disgusting worship of themid-summer heat. Gli’s tongue even hung out.

“I can’t believe you didn’t hear that,” Meliamuttered as she studied the trees that edgedthe patch of meadow where she could practiceher sword formations away from the critical eyeof her mentor—the formidable Master WarriorGind. “Sometimes I think you just pretend tohear what I hear.”

Ker rolled over and moaned. She put herwhiskered snub nose on her paws and gaveMelia a tolerant look.

“No. I’m not hearing things,” Melia said.Gli climbed to her feet and performed a long

stretch. She purred as she nudged Melia’shand.

Melia sighed. “I’m not crazy.”Snap!“There.” She strode toward the trees. “Right

there.” The cats gave her just as puzzled a lookas she gave them. She sighed and sheathedher sword. “All right. You can stop having yourfun. Obviously, whatever it is isn’t edible orthreatening.”

Ker and Gli just waited for her to stop herbewildering babble.

Melia ran her hands through her shaggyhair. “You two have been spending too muchtime around those kittens.” She picked up herleather tunic and slung it over her shoulder. “Ifwe get back in time, maybe Mother will giveyou some scraps from the goat that Boutinbrought her this morning.”

The earth cats bounded around Melia andthen loped ahead of her into the trees. She losther irritation with them and smiled as theysprinted the moment they touched the path tothe village.

melia Inberlin.” Myri had her hands onher stout hips as she watched her

daughter trudge to the back gate.“What?” Melia stomped the dust off her boots.

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“Your cats thought I was going to give themsomething special for a snack.” Myri nodded atKer and Gli. They lounged in their favorite spotin the narrow shadow of the stone wall thatenclosed the vegetable garden.

Melia put on her most innocent expression.“What makes you think that, Mama?”

“Their uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm forjust any kind of meat,” Myri said.

Melia shrugged. “They saw Boutin deliverthe smoked goat meat this morning.”

Myri straightened her ample body. “I plan tosave that meat for a special occasion.”

“The cats think that every meal is a specialoccasion.” Melia opened the low wooden gateand stepped into the garden.

Crunch!Melia frowned and gazed at the stand of

apple trees outside the garden wall. “There it isagain.”

She spun around and glared at the earthcats. Their eyes were closed in lazy cat medita-tion.

“There what is again?” Myri asked.“That noise I heard earlier. In Quin Meadow.”

Melia squinted at the apple trees. “Ker and Gliwere having fun with me and pretended theydidn't hear it.”

“I guess my ears aren’t what they used to bebecause I didn't hear it either,” Myri said.

Crunch!“Wait. There is it again. As clear as river

water.” Melia jabbed her finger at the trees.Myri listened for a few heartbeats. “You

mean old Kelia mooing in the back field?”“How can you hear that rascal from

down the hill and not hear what’s comingfrom right over there?” First the earth cats,then her mother . . . did the Elders proclaimtoday Tease Melia Day?

“What does this noise sound like?” Myriasked.

“Like . . . like.” Melia waved her hand. “In themeadow it sounded like a twig snapping under-foot. Over there it sounds like someone step-ping on the dry grass under the trees.”

Myri studied the apple trees. “Hmmm. I thinkyou spent too long swinging your sword aroundin the mid-day sun.”

Melia sighed and then swallowed her

protest. Her cats’ curiosity was much greaterthan their joy of teasing. They couldn’t keep upa jest that long. Maybe she had spent too longin the sun.

elia sat with Myri in front of their hearthand listened to the storm blow across

the valley. She hadn’t heard anything odd sincethat last crunch near the apple trees. Shesighed. The sun had been known to do strangethings to the senses. She’d talked with Gindabout it. Gind knew every affliction a warriorsuffered and every cure.

Myri gazed at the ceiling. “I think the storm isover.”

Splosh!Melia sat up and looked at the earth cats.

They were sprawled in front of the hearth. Kersnored. She looked at her mother who pulledthick thread through the unforgiving leather of apractice tunic.

Melia slumped into her chair. The sound wasso real. I’m not in the sun. I know my sensesaren’t impaired. How could they not have heardit?

he overnight storm had dragged coolerair in behind it and Melia was in a better

mood than the day before. Even Gind had com-plimented her on how she executed a trickyslash and parry.

If that weren’t enough to lighten Melia’smood, she hadn't heard a sound she couldn'tidentify all morning. She was relieved that shewasn't going crazy. The sun had collaboratedwith Bal’s jesters and had played games withher hearing.

She whistled a jaunty tune as she trampedalong the deer path to Quin Meadow. Ker andGli picked up her mood and dashed ahead,mewing back and forth like kittens. Melialaughed at their antics, unable to keep downher own buoyant exuberance.

She strolled through the trees into the smallmeadow. With Gind's words of praise echoingin her mind, she stripped off her tunic, rolled upthe sleeves of her light shirt, and ignored thegoose bumps from the chilled breeze.

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The earth cats found a pocket mouse on themeadow’s edge and tormented it beyond itshabitual foul temper.

Melia unsheathed her sword and faced awayfrom her cats. She concentrated on centeringher body and calming her mind. She lifted hersword and glanced around. Something aboutthe meadow set her on edge.

She chuckled at her silliness. Why wouldn’tshe feel at ease in her favorite place since shehad been old enough to explore beyond shout-ing distance of her home?

She swung the sword in a graceful arc.Snap!Melia lost her grip and she grabbed her

sword with both hands to stop from dropping it.She spun around and studied the forest’s edge.Nothing. She looked at Ker and Gli. They werestill engrossed in teasing the pocket mouse.

She wasn’t overheated, she wasn’t exhaust-ed, and she knew she wasn't crazy. She hadheard that sound.

“Whoever is there, show yourself.” She triedto sound stern and authoritative but the voiceshe heard in her mind sounded weak and evena little frightened.

Ker and Gli stopped their torment and staredat Melia.

Melia felt foolish but her need to settle thismystery replaced any common sense. “I knowsomeone’s there. Show yourself.” At least shesounded stronger and more self-assured. Shewas half-convinced she talked only to the trees.

Crunch!Melia jumped and was angry with herself for

such a reaction.A slender young woman stepped out from

behind a tree. She had cascading golden hairand an odd mix of embarrassment and surprisecolored her expression. Her dark tunic and leg-gings could explain her ability to stay hidden sowell, but not how she had confounded thesenses of the earth cats.

“I’m unarmed and I’m not here to causeharm,” the young woman said in a soft, nervousvoice.

Melia’s knees buckled as the pleasing voicevibrated through her. The young woman’sexpression turned from puzzlement to panicand Melia realized that she was staring instead

of responding to her.“I, uh.” Melia lowered her sword. “Why are

you sneaking around?”“My name is Sitla. I’m training to be a

Wizard’s Shade. Some of us like to hone ourskills by practicing around beings with strongsenses.” She took a few steps into the meadow.

Melia was entranced by how graceful Sitlamoved. She marveled at how Sitla’s bootedfeet didn't even whisper on the sun-dried grass.

“Earth cats are our greatest challenge,” Sitlasaid. “If we can move around them withoutbeing detected then we’re ready to become fullShades.”

Melia turned to the cats who stared per-plexed at Sitla. “I think you’ve perfected thoseskills.”

“I thought I had.” Sitla stared at her feet.Her plaintive tone tugged at Melia in a

strange but pleasant way. “Why haven’t you?”“I met a greater challenge than the earth

cats.” Sitla raised her eyes and locked themwith Melia’s.

“Greater challenge?” Melia wondered at herdiscomfort under Sitla’s gentle gaze.

Sitla shrugged. “You.”“What?”“You kept hearing me,” Sitla said. “You seem

to have a deeper sense of your surroundingsthan even your earth cats.”

“That’s not possible.” Melia sheathed hersword and paced in a circle. She then stoppedand eyed Ker and Gli, who sat watching her.

Sitla smiled. “Since it’s true, it must be pos-sible.”

Melia caught her breath. Sitla’s shy smilemade her even more fascinating. “Will youshadow me until I can’t hear you?”

“I’ve been asking myself that same ques-tion,” Sitla said. “I have to return home soon.”

Melia was surprised at how violently herinsides reacted to the idea of this intriguingyoung woman going away. “Uh, maybe wecould talk about it.” She didn’t want Sitla to slipaway as swiftly as she appeared. “Maybe you’dget some ideas about why I can hear you andmy cats can’t.”

“If you don’t mind, that may help,” Sitla said.“I think the Wizard’s Guild would be interest-

ed in your discovery,” Melia said. “So it’s your

14 Khimairal Ink

duty to do as much research as possible on it.”Sitla’s grin dazzled Melia like light glinting off

a precious stone.“You’re right,” Sitla said. “I must find out

everything I can about why I can’t shadow youwithout you being aware of me.”

“I know where we can go to talk. The mostbeautiful place in Lukria.” Melia couldn’t keepdown her excitement.

“I don’t want to take you away from yourpractice.” Sitla nodded at Melia’s sword.

Practice? What practice? Melia couldn’tthink of anything more important than getting toknow this interesting stranger. “Master WarriorGind was pleased with my progress this morn-ing. Spending an afternoon helping you solvethis puzzle won’t do any harm. After all, being awarrior is more than knowing how to use asword.”

“In that case, I’d be delighted to visit themost beautiful place in Lukria,” Sitla said.

Melia couldn’t believe how such simplewords made her soul soar, but it floated all theway to Laur’s Falls as she walked with Sitla ather side.

When they got to a rocky crag, Meliastepped aside and let Sitla walk to the edgethat overlooked a triple cascade of water thatsplashed into a mountain lake. The water wasso clear, even the sparkling sunlight couldn’tobscure the lake’s rocky bottom. The glisteninggreen of the water matched Sitla’s eyes.

“It’s wonderful,” Sitla whispered.Wonderful indeed. Melia sighed as she

admired Sitla’s slender and graceful body.Maybe she was going crazy after all.

Ker and Gli nudged her hands. She smiled atthem and gave them each a scratch behind theear. She gazed at Sitla and laughed. This wasthe kind of craziness she could live with.

15 Khimairal Ink

aige Brandt came home on a Fridayevening in the spring of 1988 after nine

years in the joint upstate. I’d been up to theSkywater high school gym to work out and hadstopped to gas up my VW. Parked at the pumpclosest to the highway at Stevens’ Shell Stationgave me a good view as the Greyhound rolledinto town, stopped at the corner, and she gotout. Her hair was shoulder-length and blew inthe wind. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, andeven from a distance, I saw her shiver in thecool Pacific ocean air. She held a paper bag inher hand—that was all. A thick, brown grocery-type bag with the top rolled over and the wholething creased as though she’d held it in her lapfor hours, which she probably had. It's nearly200 miles from Central Oregon CorrectionalFacility to this little town of Skywater along theOregon coast, population 932.

Paige robbed the liquor store nine years agowith Charley Yecke. The Sheriff caught thembefore they even made it over the Washingtonborder, which was probably lucky in someways. No federal charges. I heard that both of

them were high and drunk and completely outof it, sitting on the side of Hwy 101 nearSeaside. They didn’t put up a fight when theywere arrested, and Paige didn’t have a chancewhen it came to trial before Judge Tremont.Though she was only sixteen at the time, theytried her as an adult over the protests of hermother and the legal aid attorney. In a twentyminute open-and-shut case, her fate wassealed.

The world kept turning while she did hertime. I graduated from our shit-hole highschool, a place that never gave wild girls achance. And Paige was definitely a wild one. Byfourteen, she’d been drinking and smoking andrunning with boys four or five years older. Hermama worked at the candy store, pulling taffy,making divinity, cooking up chocolate for fudgeand truffles. Nobody knew who Paige’s daddywas, and her mama had never married.

Sometimes I thought of her, wild-hairedPaige Brandt who stole $760.48 from Pitney’sLiquor & Spirits and spent less than a hundredof it before she and Charley were captured.Didn't seem like it was worth it.

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ews rippled through town that Paigewas back. All day Saturday I heard plen-

ty of conversations over the counter at SweetLands where I work.

Paige couldn’t go “home” anymore. Hermama had died the year before. Ovarian can-cer. Paige’s granddad let her have a room. Mrs.LaBounty was scandalized to have to liveacross the street from them. Mr. Steele saidhe’d bought a new box of shotgun shells, just incase.

I work at the candy store as I have sincesenior year in high school. Paige’s mothertaught me well. I still miss her.

onday morning, bright and early, Istood at the window of Sweet Lands

Candy Store assembling the ingredients for fivecolors of frosting. Three trays of cupcakes hadcome out of the oven an hour ago, and I wasfixing to frost and decorate them with littlecrosses and Jesus faces. Dixie Shenk was dueto pick them up around sometime after ninea.m. for the kids in her daughter's class at HolyRedeemer.

If you work long enough at a candy store,eventually sweets no longer hold your interest.I’ve long since stopped caring about jelly beansand peanut clusters, all-day suckers and saltwater taffy. Tourists come and tourists go, andthey can take the damn candy with 'em. I'mpretty well sick of it.

Paige tapped on the window at 8:55, fiveminutes before we open, and a thrill of worrysped up my spine. Even though I had wanted tobe—had intended to be—less judgmental thanthe rest of the townspeople, I couldn’t help it.She caught me by surprise, before I had thechance to properly compose myself. I met hereyes, and I know she saw the momentary fear.Her face closed off and took on a hardenedscowl.

She was dressed exactly the same as theday before, but not holding anything at all, nota gun, not the paper bag, just herself. Shecrossed her arms over her chest and started toturn away, but I shook my head and mouthed,“Wait.”

I had sticky crap all over my hands, so I gavethem a quick rinse in the metal sink, then wipedthem on my pink apron as I went around thecounter. Mr. Tilden didn’t need to know Iopened up early. He was off to Portland to buyanother truckload of sugar and oil and what-not. I flipped the Open sign and unlocked thedoor, and she shuffled in bringing the smell ofsalt air with her. The fifty years of pain in hereyes looked bad on her twenty-five-year-oldface, and her dark eyes didn’t burn with theintensity they had in high school. Instead, shereeked of fatigue. The light brown shoulder-length hair looked like it had been hacked withpinking shears. I was surprised at how pale shewas, her high cheekbones not even carrying ahint of color. “You been down to the beach?” Iasked.

She shook her head. “Too cold.” I imagined it would be since she wasn’t

wearing a jacket. The sweatshirt was dark blueand not particularly thick. She must have beenwearing it for a long time for it to appear soworn.

Paige stood in the store, her eyes taking inthe shelves of candies, little kid toys, gum, andracks of fancy candy behind glass. I couldn’tremember when Mr. Tilden had cleared out thetables in the alcove and replaced them with tworows of red shelves, but I knew Paige couldn’thave ever seen the change. She turned herback to me, moved over into that alcove, andran a hand over a display of glittery Barbiecandy packs. I suddenly realized she wasn’there to buy anything, but to take in the place,as though she were breathing it in.

I didn’t know what to say, so I went backaround the counter, to the work table by thewindow, and resumed frosting the cupcakes.Every once in a while I glanced over, but Paigeseemed lost in thought.

Outside, foot traffic increased in front of myfriend Robin’s bakery across the street, and Iwished for a nice, steamy cappuccino. A big RVhauling a fishing boat pulled up in front andblocked my view. Three teenaged kids spilledout of the back along with three adults from thefront. They dodged across the highway to thebakery. I didn’t notice Dixie, and she startledme when she came in.

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“Good morning, Dixie. And good timing, too.I’m just ready to wrap these up for you.” Isealed up one box of cupcakes.

Dixie glanced over at Paige, then frownedand moved up close to the counter. In a voicenot low enough for Paige to fail to hear, shesaid, “What's she doing in here?”

I shrugged and turned away, my hands fum-bling with the flaps for the second box. I got ittogether and quickly filled it with the remainingcupcakes, then stacked and carried them overto the counter. “Anything else you need?”

Dixie pressed her lips together and shookher head. I took her money and rang up theorder. She slid the boxes off the counter andheaded for the door in a hurry. “Keep thechange, Jillian.”

I stood holding the two quarters as Paigeturned and sauntered toward the door. She sawDixie and said, “Here, I’ll get that for you,” andreached for the door handle.

“No,” Dixie said sharply. “I can get it myself.”But by then Paige was pulling the door open

and stepping back. Dixie shot her a look of puremalice as she raced out, nearly running intoone of the kids munching on a donut near theRV.

So that’s how it’s going to be, I thought. I did-n’t know what to say, and when Paige met myeyes, I looked away.

“You went to Skywater High, didn’t you?”I nodded. “Graduated in 1980.”“You were a year behind me.” Paige gazed

over my head at the Coca-Cola clock. “Haveyou worked here long?”

“Since my senior year.”Her gaze dropped abruptly, and the eyes

that met mine were filled with such longing thatI very nearly felt my soul sucked right out. “Youknew her.” It wasn’t a question but a statementof wonder. “Oh! You must be Jill. She wroteabout you sometimes.”

I felt my face grow hot. Paige’s mother sentletters to the prison with my name in them?How strange. I didn’t know what to say.

“You’re not hiring here, are you?”I shook my head. “Sorry. We’re full up at the

moment. But lots of places will be needing sum-mer help soon.”

She turned away. “All right then, thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Paige.”For a moment she looked startled that I

called her by her name. She trudged toward thedoor, and I watched her go. I didn’t think she’dhave an easy time finding work.

ays passed, and talk didn’t let up about“that vicious felon” and “Aggie Brandt’s

sleazy daughter.” In the Coffee Café, I got anearful from four older guys who sat behind me.Almost made me too sick to eat my omelet. Thecheckers at Fenton Foods carried on a contin-ual conversation with one another about Paigeas they rang up my groceries. In the laundro-mat, a woman with three pre-school-aged kidsrunning around raising hell complained that shedidn’t feel her children were safe in Skywateranymore. Obviously Paige’s arrival was thebiggest thing to happen in town since the Weed& Feed store got held up last fall.

One day I drove up to Florence, thirty milesup the coast, and Paige Brandt was a topic ofdiscussion at the Dairy Queen where I stoppedfor a cone.

Only my mother seemed to have any per-spective. “People change in nine years, Jillian.That girl went into jail a scared but cocky six-teen year old, and now, after all this time, she’sprobably a different person. People shouldn’tjudge her until they get to know who she isnow.”

I agreed with my mother, but the two times Ihad seen Paige in town, she’d stalked by me,her face angry and hard—like she wanted to killsomebody. Really, the townspeople here aremerciless. I don’t know how she stayed. I’m noteven sure why I had.

couple weeks went by, and talk aroundtown died down, then turned to the

Turnbull girl’s pregnancy and whether seniorbaseball shortstop Jack Clark was the father ornot. I heard so many heated discussions on thetopic that soon I was sick to death of it, but herewas Mr. Kaiser, standing at my counter askingfor truffles while yammering on about maliciousgirls who deep-six the sports careers of well-meaning athletes. Give me a break. As much

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as we needed the business at Sweet Land, Ijust wish the townsfolk would buy their candyand go somewhere else to gossip. Thank Godit was closing time.

As Mr. Kaiser was leaving, Paige camethrough the door. She wore a navy blue wind-breaker and jeans. I looked at the clock andsaw that it was two minutes to eight, thenturned to finish wiping down the fudge table.

I got that funny feeling you get when some-one is staring—sort of a shiver of apprehen-sion. When I looked up, I saw Paige looking atme from the alcove by the miniature FindingNemo lunchboxes. She turned away, but notbefore I saw her look of embarrassment.

I asked, “Can I help you with anything in par-ticular?”

She glanced up, blushing, and shook herhead. Her face was hard to read, but shelooked reflective, like she had something to saybut couldn’t quite come out with it.

Just then, Mr. Tilden came up from the backroom. “Jillian, I’ve got one last receipt. Haveyou cashed out the—hey!” He glared towardPaige. “What are you doing in here?”

Paige’s face went slack, her eyes hard andnarrowed. Before she had a chance to answer,Mr. Tilden was at the door, pulling it open. “Youcan just take your thievin’ self right out the door,and don’t come back.”

I raised a hand and said, “Mr. T . . .”“Hush now.” He nodded toward the clock.

“It’s after hours. Who knows what she has inmind. C’mon, Brandt, get out.”

Paige took a deep breath and moved slowlytoward the door. Her hands were balled intofists, and she shook with fury. She stopped atthe doorway. “I didn’t want your crass shit any-way.”

He grabbed her arm and forcefully pushedher out. “I catch you back here, your ass isgrass.” He slammed the door shut, turned thelock, and pulled down the Closed shade.

Out the main window, I caught sight of Paigestanding on the sidewalk to light a cigarette.She looked toward me as though she wanted totell me something, but I was hard pressed toknow what it could be. Her head went up, andshe squared her shoulders before she walkedaway fast.

Exasperated, Mr. Tilden put his hands on hiships and faced me. “I don’t understand howAggie could have been such a wonderful per-son, and her daughter is the opposite. How isthat so?”

I didn’t know how to answer, but I don’t thinkMr. T would have cared what I said.

“If that tramp shows up here again, Jillian,you are to call 911. You hear me?” I nodded,and he said, “Okay, finish up here, and I’ll seeyou in the morning.”

My boss retreated to the rear of the storeand left me with the last of the day’s pans towash. As I stood over the sink, I saw a flash ofred outside. Paige stood at the window lookingdown at the trays of goodies I had so artfullydisplayed there. When her eyes rose to meetmine, they were full of such sadness and long-ing that I had to look away.

orking all day in the candy store ishard on me. I’m shy, and the steady

flow of customers and their demands makesme feel like they’re sucking all the sweetnessright out of me. Whenever I get the early shift, Ilike to jog or walk along the beach in the lateafternoon. Great stress relief, even when theweather is bad, and I get some time to myself.I take a change of clothes to work for thoseearly mornings, and most days, when I getdone at 2:30, I try to get at least half an hour ofexercise, then go home and wash away the saltfrom the ocean and the sugar from the shop.Once the high school lets out for the summer,the gym is open to the public three days aweek. I often go up there to shoot a few bas-kets, lift weights, and don gloves to smack thepunching bag. On a day like today when it’sraining, I usually stay indoors.

I drove my VW up to the school. Built in the50s, it’s a rabbit warren full of dark hallwaysand shabby rooms. I don’t think they’ve paintedsince I graduated. It smells of dampness, dust,and floor cleaner. Mel and Jorge, the custodi-ans, had cordoned off the gym to re-seal thewood floor, so I took the stairs to the upper loftwhere the Universal Gym sat surrounded bybenches and free weights. The windowlessroom had never had proper ventilation, and it

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was much warmer than the sixty-degrees out-side. All was quiet and no one else was work-ing out.

Feeling energized by the prospect of soli-tude, I stepped across mats to the far wall, setdown my little workout bag, then sank to thefloor to stretch. I had changed back at the storeinto shorts, a T-shirt, and a black Mickey Mousesweatshirt. I shifted into a hurdler’s stretch,then a variety of other contortions to loosen up.My legs were fatigued from standing most ofthe day, but my arms felt strong. I decided tofocus most on upper body lifting.

I started to rise and heard a distant rhythmicpounding. Bump-bump-bump . . . pause.Bump-bump-bump. Through the door anddown the hall was a room, hardly more than a12-by-12-foot box, where two huge boxingbags hung in the corners. I opened the doorand ducked in the dim room before I realized itwas Paige Brandt pounding the hell out of thebig black bag. She wore red shorts and a baggygray T-shirt, and when she turned, browngloves on her hands, her face glowed so redthat she looked like she’d been crying. I hesitat-ed. She whirled away and slammed a fist intothe bag. Huffing with exertion, she struck at itagain.

I watched, fascinated, until she paused andturned. “What are you looking at, candy girl?”

I glanced away, heart in my throat. Sheresumed her assault on the bag, so I went tothe corner and rooted around in the box full ofgloves until I found a pair that fit. The gloveswere bulky and a little unwieldy, but the rules,posted prominently on the wall, required that noone work the bags without gloves. The insideswere stiff and rough against my palms, and Iflexed my hands to try to loosen them.

I went to the left bag and gave it a half-heart-ed poke. Paige peppered her bag with jab afterjab, then leaned in, steadied the swinging bagwith her left fist, and bashed away with her rightglove. I let fly a volley of punches, but I couldn'tstop watching her out of the corner of my eye. Iwondered if they let women box in prison. Iwondered if she’d had to defend herself there.Suddenly, I wondered if I was safe in the sameroom with her.

As if to answer my question, she squared off

and faced me, fists curled up against her chest.“What is wrong with you—with all you people?”

Now that I looked closer, I saw that she hadindeed been crying. Her chest heaved, perhapsless from the exertion with the punching bagand more from emotions I easily read in herface. “I can’t speak for the rest of the town.”

She stepped nearer. “I shouldn’t have comehere.”

“What?” I didn’t understand. Did she meanshe shouldn’t have come to the gym? Or toSkywater? I let my hands drop to my sides as Istudied her. She brought one glove up to herforehead as though to brush bangs out of herface, but the glove was too bulky.

“Paige.” I moved forward, mouth open, butnot knowing what to say.

“You think you’re better than me.” A glovereached out, tapped me on the shoulder, bump-ing me back. When the next jab came towardme, I blocked it with my right arm. “Not one per-son gives a shit what I’ve been through.”

I blocked another jab and met her eyes. “Youwanna beat someone up, Paige?” She didn’trespond. “Go on—hit me. Just stay away frommy face.”

She lashed out, a roundhouse that whackedme high in the left shoulder. Holding my gloveshigh, I braced myself for another hit. Instead, Isaw misery well up and leak out her eyes. Sheturned her face away, defeated.

An unexpected rush of heat started at mythroat and traveled straight to my groin. Ireached out and touched her chest with the topof my glove. I moved closer, pushed her withthe glove again. She stepped aside, alarmshowing on her tear-stained face, and I fol-lowed as she backed toward the closed door.“You want to hurt someone, Paige?”

She shook her head. “I gotta go.”Once again I met her eyes, and before she

looked away, I felt a fire rise up in my belly. Fora moment I couldn’t breathe. I tightened my fistin the glove and socked her in the shoulder.“Come on, Paige. You’re being a chicken.”

Now her eyes blazed, and she brought upher fists. I shoved her back against the door.“Jillian, I could hurt you badly. Don’t provokeme.”

I grinned and cuffed her again, a light blow to

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her other shoulder. She struck out and caughtme by surprise. I didn’t have time to react asthe brown glove sank into my mid-section andejected all the air from my body. I let out a gaspand would have fallen to the ground had shenot grabbed me. “I’m sorry . . . sorry . . . sosorry. God, I’m sorry! How many times do Ihave to say it?”

We stumbled, clutched together like twoprizefighters in a clinch, but there was no refer-ee to part us. When I got my breath back, itexploded from me in a fire of panting. My wholebody was electrified, every nerve ending quiv-ering. I wrapped my arms around her middleand squeezed, pressed my face into her neck,sucked on salty skin. She stiffened, as thoughsurprised.

“Paige,” I whispered as I pressed her againstthe door, moved my knee between her legs,and heard her moan.

Her arms tightened around me, the glovesagainst my shoulders. She was leaning so hardagainst my gloves that they were pinnedagainst the door behind her. I was able to slidemy hands out. I reached up under her T-shirt,caressed her ribs, kneaded firm moist breasts,and pressed my ear against her neck. Thepulse point there raced as fast as my breathing.

She moved against my leg and made awhimpering sound, like a wounded animal. Ifroze and leaned back slowly, afraid of what Iwould see in her eyes.

Her irises were huge, a well of deep brownpain. “You smell like she used to, Jill. Just likecotton candy.” The brown gloves came up oneither side of my head and pulled my facetoward her. Soft lips covered mine, drank me in,devoured me. Somehow she got her boxinggloves off, and her hands went up my shirt andunhooked my bra. Hot palms glided around tocover my breasts, and I gripped her waist, mythumbs digging in to her hip bones.

She shifted her hips forward, moved herknee, and suddenly I was impaled upon her leg,the center of me rubbing against her with aban-don. She cupped my behind, moved me uphigher, and I pulled up my shirt. Her mouthfound my right breast and sent shock waves tothe hot bundle of nerves between my legs.

It was all I could do to hold on then. I was a

throbbing, pulsing being, feeling a high I hadnever before experienced, eagerly tasting hertongue, her mouth, her neck. My hand found itsway into her shorts, down into the patch of softhair, to the moist wetness within. She gaspedand gripped me tight. “Oh, Jillian,” she said.“Like that, Jill, like that . . .”

We moved together, breathing as one, fight-ing gravity. I came first—lights and explosionsand a humming sound in the distance which Irealized was my own voice. I didn’t want it tostop—the punch and pound of her knee againstmy center. As the throbbing dissipated, she,too, called out, saying my name over and over,and she could no longer hold us both up.

We slid down the door, me still straddling herthigh, my face pressed into her neck. My kneestouched the floor, and she twisted, slid a boxingglove out of the way. She gripped me tightly,her hands caressing my back, under my arms,alongside my breasts. I felt the fire all overagain. “You’re good.” I gulped. “Very good.”

In a voice filled with wonder, she asked,“How did you do that to me, Jillian?”

“What?” “That! This.” Her eyes met mine, and she

looked completely flabbergasted. “How?”“I guess you stopped fighting.”

r. Johnson gave Paige a job at the Shellstation the next week, and she worked

there six long years until he sold it to her whenhe retired. Ten more years have gone by, andPaige still owns it.

And me.

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22 Khimairal Ink

Alice Roosevelt Longworth may be bestremembered for saying,

“If you can't say something good aboutsomeone, sit right here by me.”

here are two fatal questions in any rela-tionship: “Do you know what your prob-

lem is?” and “Do you remember the day wemet?” I know all the wrong answers to both ofthem. (I’m not too good at the if-your-mother-and-I-were-drowning-and-you-could-save-one-of-us question, either.)

But for sheer variety of ways to get into trou-ble, the second question is the bad one. Takewhat happens whenever Cassie brings it upwith me.

She thinks I have convenient memory, just tospite her. But I remember everything. It wasMonday morning, and it was raining . . .

h, great—she’s starting this again. Idon’t know what gets into her some-

times. Why is it so hard for her to say,“You’re right”? Or, even better, “I’m wrong”?

I’ll tell you why: because she’s stubborn.Stubborn and obstinate and muleheaded. No,make that pigheaded; she would outstubborna mule. Do you know what she told me once?She told me she never had to eat broccoliwhen she was little. Her mom tried to makeher sit at the table till she did, but that wasjust a mistake; Devvy said her personalrecord for sitting at the table not eatingbroccoli was two hours and seven minutes.She’d still be sitting there today if her dadhadn’t made them quit.

Anyway, I’m Cassie, and I’ll tell you how itreally happened, because anything Devvytells you is half a lie. She can’t help it much;she’s in advertising.

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Monday MorningRaining

t had been another of those terrible morn-ings, the kind that make you wish you did

something else for a living—something practi-cal like, say, scraping up roadkill. That would behonest work compared with writing ad copy.You could get outdoors once in a while, too.And you never, ever had customers who talkedback.

I had every reason to be in a bad mood. Forthe past hour, I’d been locked up in a confer-ence room with an associate creative director,an account exec, and three mouthy clients, allof whom I hoped would die soon. One of theclients once read an issue of Ad Age, whichmade her an expert. Another sucked his teethwhen he didn’t understand something, whichwas always. Those amateur tooth-suckingmorons shot my presentation down, and Jackjust sat there and let them, the treacherousbastard. The day he made creative director, I’dkey his car and quit.

I was thinking about going ahead and keyinghis car anyway. But first, I needed coffee;maybe a cigarette. Preferably both. That meanttaking the coffee outside, so I headed for thebreak room to fill a go cup. Unfortunately, mycopywriting partner followed me; he wanted toshow me his new tie.

Which lighted up and played his college fightsong.

Was he out of his mind? He knew my repu-tation. Also, I wanted a cigarette. Bad thingshappened to people who stood between meand cigarettes.

I left him frantically trying to loosen the newknot I’d just put in his tie and went on into thebreak room, where another bad surprise waswaiting: no coffee. Whoever took the lastcup—a male; you could bet your life on it—had-n’t made more.

Rat-bastard weasel. As soon as I felt better,I was going to find him and kill him dead.

It took a few minutes to find coffee, asopposed to decaf, and a few minutes more torinse the black crud out of the carafe. Someday,I’d have to worry about all the coffee I’d had outof that carafe—and about my co-workers’ idea

of hygiene. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to get atetanus shot.

Finally, I got the coffeemaker started andleaned against the wall to wait.

And wait.And wait.It was unbearable. There I was, in late-stage

caffeine withdrawal, and that cheap appliancewas taking forever to brew. Something had tobe done. But what? Even if I’d had a gun, Icouldn’t shoot a coffeemaker; that would lookbad.

Then my eye fell on a nearby table.Someone had been working there, puttingtogether packets, and had left a stapler behind.

That would work. Checking first to makesure no one was around, I grabbed the staplerand whacked the coffeemaker—not hard; justenough to get its attention.

Nothing happened. Well, it was a small sta-pler. So I whacked a little harder. Still nothing. Iwas giving the coffeemaker one last tap—asmall one—when the door opened, and shewalked in.

For a long moment, we just looked at eachother. Who knew what she was thinking? Thenshe smiled faintly.

“I hear you have to sneak up on them to killthem,” she said.

ee? I told you: lies. This is the truth.

Monday MorningNot Raining Yet

It was my first day at J/J/G, and I wasthinking I might have made a mistake. Oneadvertising agency is about like any other,especially for account executives, but thesepeople were even stranger than I was usedto. Some copywriter was running around witha musical tie on, for one thing. And I got hiton by three other account execs before Ieven knew where the bathrooms were. Theydidn’t even bother to take off their weddingrings first, the big jerks.

After a couple of hours of that, I was in

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kind of a bad mood. Somebody said there wascoffee in the break room upstairs. I figuredI could use it to take some aspirin; I was get-ting the worst headache.

So I went on up to the break room. Andthere she was—Satan’s daughter, all dressedin black, trying to beat a coffeemaker todeath with a stapler. Not just any stapler,but one of those industrial-size things thatcould staple moon rocks. And she lookedserious about killing the coffee machine.Was she crazy? Was she dangerous?

Was she single? Because she was really,really cute.

here may have been some cool way outof that fix, but I couldn’t think of one. All I

could think of was how blue this woman’s eyeswere—a bad thing to be thinking about,because I was straight, for God’s sake.

Trying to look casual about it, I pried the sta-pler off the coffeemaker. Somehow, it had sta-pled itself to the lid. “Sorry. I don’t usually dothis, but my doctor says I can’t take coffee intra-venously anymore.”

“What a coincidence,” she said lightly. “Mydoctor tells me the same thing about men.”

Trouble, I thought, but held out a hand to heranyway. “Devlin Kerry. I’m a copywriter here.”

She shook my hand, maybe holding on afraction of a second too long, if you want to gettechnical about it. “Cassandra Wolfe, and I’man account exec. Today’s my first day.”

“A fine welcome I gave you.”“Oh, I don’t know. At least it was different.

Violent, but original.”She smiled again. I wished she wouldn’t do

that.“Not that original,” I admitted. “You’ll hear the

stories sooner or later.”“Well, how about sooner? How about lunch?

I’m free.”The stapler I’d forgotten I was still holding

dropped to the floor. Dammit. That was cool ofme, too.

hat’s not how it happened. Forstarters, she wasn’t tapping the cof-

feemaker; she practically bashed the top in.It never worked right again. And that partabout the handshake is a lie too; I’m the onewho offered. But she pretended not tonotice. Heaven forbid she should havetouched me socially.

Or otherwise. I have to admit I was think-ing about that, even though I was straight,because there was something about herright from the start. I remember thinking,If she’s funny, I’m in trouble.

So naturally, she said, “My doctor won’tlet me take coffee intravenously anymore.”That was funny enough.

I didn’t let on, though. I just told her mydoctor had told me the same thing aboutmen.

That was the first time she smiled. Shedidn’t want to, I could tell, but she did. Itmade her look a lot less evil. And the nextthing I knew . . .

“Are you free for lunch?” I asked.That seemed to surprise her. “Me?”“I don’t see anyone else here.”“That’s not what I meant.” She started

looking crabby again. “I meant—”“It’s my first day. And you said yourself

that you gave me a fine welcome.” So far, sogood; she didn’t argue. I decided to see howfar I could push. “I mean, honestly,Devlin—you don’t want to leave me thinkingyou’re crazy.”

That time, she laughed. “You’re not theleast bit scared of me, are you?”

“Should I be?”“Ask around.”“Maybe I will.” I gave myself a mental note

to do exactly that. “So have you decidedabout having lunch with me?”

“You’re sure?”What was with her, anyway? Didn’t people

have lunch where she came from? “Yes, I’m

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sure. But if you’re going to keep being diffi-cult, you’re going to buy.”

A tiny glint sneaked into her eyes—notquite a twinkle, but not far from one. “ThenI’ll buy.”

“Good,” I said, meaning it. “A woman aftermy own heart.”

For some reason, she dropped that stupidstapler.

hings aren’t too clear for a while afterthat. She must have talked me into

lunch, but I don’t remember how; I wasn’t quiteright the rest of the morning.

It was probably those damn clients. I’dplayed “Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong” on myDiscman a couple dozen times. I’d played withmy stress toys. I’d even tried to strangle mycopywriting partner again. Nothing had helped.Something was wrong.

How little I knew.So I decided to walk to lunch, to try to work

off that feeling of impending doom. The rainhad stopped, the sun was back out, andMezzaluna was only a few blocks.

Cassie was already there when I got to therestaurant; the guy at the front desk said shewas waiting at our table on the terrace. The ter-race? I didn’t believe it. Getting a table outthere was next to impossible, especially forwalk-ins. How had she done that?

Halfway across the terrace, I got the answer.Cassie was sitting in the sun lighted up like agoddess, and there was no other word for it:She was gorgeous. It was like having lunchwith Marilyn Monroe. When she smiled hello atme, every man in the place hated me on sight.

I tried not to feel smug about that. After all, Iwas straight.

he always makes such a big deal aboutthat table on the terrace. I mean,

really—it was just Mezzaluna. And it wasn’tlike I gave the maitre d’ a look. I had on aperfectly respectable business suit.

OK, I might have unbuttoned the blouse a

little much, but I was on my lunch hour, andthere was no harm in getting some sun. Imight have mentioned that to him. I mightnot have. Like I keep telling Devvy, it doesn’tmatter.

Anyway, the maitre d’ gave us a nice table,and I went out to wait. She was a few min-utes late; I was starting to wonder whethershe’d forgotten.

Then I saw men’s heads start to turn. Butshe didn’t even notice. That should have toldme something right away. Should have toldher something, too. God, she was so clueless.

I had to smile, though. It was kind of cute.

assie gets bent out of shape about thedetails of that lunch, and I don’t know

why. What difference does it make who orderedwhat or what music was playing? It was justlunch. We probably had little salads and greatbig desserts. They probably played Muzak.

The light sticks in my mind, though. It didthat goddess thing for her, and I couldn’t getover how blue her eyes were. In direct sunlight,they were almost the color of a swimming pool—like the pool at the country club back homeon a bright day in July, like the day that cute guyfinally noticed me . . .

Well, never mind that. They were just eyes.And the cute guy lasted about a week. What Ido remember is how the argument started.

We were trading horror stories, which is howpeople in advertising socialize, and she’d justtold one that confirmed what I’d always sus-pected about a rival agency. “It just goes toshow you that Darwin was wrong,” she con-cluded.

I was beginning to like this woman; she wasMarilyn Monroe channeling Alice RooseveltLongworth. So I leaned back and smiled at her.

Then she had to ruin it all. Out of nowhere,she asked, “Do you always wear black?”

I stopped smiling. “Why?”“You just look like you do.” After a short, sus-

picious pause, she added, “You’re not intoJohnny Cash, are you?”

“Of course not,” I said, offended.

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Silence fell over the table. Cassie regardedme skeptically.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. “What?”“I asked around about you,” she said.“And . . .?”“There are two schools of thought. One: that

you’re the Devil. Two: that you’re the Devil.”“That’s the same school,” I pointed out.“It’s in the way they said it. A lot of people like

you.” She left the “But . . .” implied.Annoyed, I pushed my chair back. “Imagine

that, when I’m the Devil. What do you supposetheir liking me says about them? It might—” Ibroke off, seeing the change in her expression.Madame was displeased about something.“Now what?”

“You’re taking this the wrong way.”“You just criticized how I dress and called me

the Devil. I don’t know many other ways to takeit. Are you speaking English or some strangeEnglishlike language?”

That might’ve been a fraction over the line,even though she’d asked for it. The blue inCassie’s eyes turned the color of gunmetal, andfor the first time, I saw both lady and tiger.

“I’m not looking for trouble, Devlin,” she saidcoldly. “And believe me, you don’t want troublewith me.”

“That cuts both ways, Cassandra.”“Cassie,” she corrected.“Cassandra.”“Knock it off, Devlin.”I gave her a poisonous smile. “Dev.”“This is a really stupid argument,” she com-

plained. “Couldn’t we argue about somethingmore interesting?”

“It’s interesting enough for me.”“Well, then, I wonder what that says about

you.”Rim shot. It echoed forever in the silence.

hat’s a crock. She never told me any ofthat goddess stuff before, and you

know why? She didn’t think it. Devvy was soclueless that she didn’t even know I was agirl for the longest time, and if she was theleast bit attracted, she didn’t know thateither. If it ever hit her that we were both

girls . . . well, you can imagine the troubleback home at the Methodist church.

I swear, it took me years even to get herto say the word “sex” in a normal voice. Shestill won’t say it very loud.

But never mind that right now. She hasthat lunch all wrong. For one thing, I wasn’ttrying to insult her. I was trying to pay her acompliment, and she flew off the handle. Inever accused her of liking Johnny Cash. Ifshe had just shut up and let me finish, I’dhave told her why I brought up the clothes:She looked good in black. It worked with tall,dark, and evil.

And the fight? She started it, not me. Youdon’t get all sarcastic with someone you’vejust met. Which just goes to prove that shewas never thinking about swimming pools ormy eyes, because people who are thinkingsappy things about you try to charm you.

On top of that, I picked up the check. Andshe didn’t mention that she was still madwhen we left. I offered to give her a rideback to work, because it looked like rain, butno, she wanted to walk. I told you she’s stub-born.

So how was it my fault that it startedpouring a few minutes later? Or that she’dleft her umbrella at the office? I neverthought about it; I just assumed that anadult human being who wants to walk on a daywhen all the forecasts call for rain wouldtake an umbrella.

The first lesson I learned about Devvy:Never assume.

I was going through paperwork at my deska little while later when all of a sudden, peo-ple started running like Godzilla was coming.I’d already caught on that they were crazy,so I didn’t pay much attention. It was theweird sucking noise that made me look up.

Devvy was heading toward me with fire inher eye, but the rest of her was soaking wet.And I mean soaking: hair, clothes, every-thing, not to mention the shoes, which were

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making the sucking sound. She wasn’t quitetall enough to pass for Godzilla, but she didlook like she’d just been in Tokyo Bay. Or ashower.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to smilesweetly and ask if I could get her some soap.

walked back to the office after lunch in lieuof finishing Cassie off. After all, I’d just met

her; there was no telling whether she wasalways like that. Best to give her the benefit ofthe doubt just this once. Besides, we’d eateneverything but the tablecloth before the troublestarted; walking back would burn some of it off.

So I walked. It seemed longer going thancoming. And I thought the whole way.

I was about halfway back to the office andabout halfway ready to forgive Cassie when theskies opened up, and it started to rain. Rain,hell—it was après-moi-the-deluge weather; itwas time to break out the ark. So of course mylittle folding umbrella from Brookstone blewinside-out. Why hadn’t the weathertwits onmorning TV warned me about this storm?

And what was that Cassandra person’s dam-age that she hadn’t even offered me a ride?

In retrospect, years later, I admit that theweather wasn’t her fault. (Maybe.) But whenyou walk that far in rain like that, you’re not in amood for reason. By the time I got back to theoffice, I was way off Planet Reason and in abad, bad mood.

Was it nice of me to wring out my coat overCassie’s desk? No. Was it nice to take off ashoe full of water and pour it over her head?No. But it felt good. Besides, she was lucky ithadn’t been raining blood. Or locusts. I’d like tosee her try to get that out of silk.

e both got sent home for the restof the day for causing a misfea-

sance. That’s what Mr. Jenner called it: amisfeasance. But I noticed that he wasn’tupset; in fact, he was having big trouble notlaughing. It was lucky we weren’t working fora normal man.

I went straight home, dried off, and wentdownstairs to eat cookie dough in front ofthe TV. When the phone rang, I let it.

But voice mail didn’t answer, and whoeverwas on the other end wouldn’t give up. I fig-ured it wouldn’t kill me just to check CallerID. After that, I could unplug the phone.

So I checked it. The readout said DKERRY. D Kerry?

Oh. I practically knocked the end tableover grabbing for the phone. “Hello?”

“Cassandra? It’s Devlin Kerry.” There wasa short pause. “I believe we’ve met?”

“Might have,” I said, hoping I soundednormal. “How did you get this number?”

“Jenner’s admin. She owes me a favor, soshe weaseled it out of your boss.”

That made sense. But I was a little disap-pointed anyway; I’d wanted to think my num-ber was harder to get. “Well, now that we’vecleared that up, was there something youwanted?”

“I thought maybe I ought to apologize.For that display at the office. I might havelost my temper a little.”

A little? I bit my tongue. “Go on.”“And I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.

I don’t even know you yet.”“You mean knowing me would have made a

difference?” A few of the stories I’d heardthat morning started running through mymind. At the time, I’d thought they werefunny, but now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe theywere funny only when you weren’t on thereceiving end. “You mean you have ethicsabout going off on strangers? You only goafter people you know?”

“That’s not what I meant. I just—”“Had a bad day, so you took it out on the

first person you don’t even know yet?”The line was quiet for a long time. Finally,

I heard a scritch on the other end. She waslighting a cigarette. I think I lost my mindjust a little then, because the next wordsout of my mouth were . . .

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“Put that out.”“What?”“I said, put it out. Smoking is bad for you.”“I would think that would please you,” she

said coolly. “You should be happy that I’mstanding here sucking up carbon monoxideand pesticides and—”

“Suppose you let me decide what makesme happy. And stop assuming that I want tokill you. If I wanted to kill you, I’d playKathie Lee Gifford’s Christmas album in yoursleep.”

I have no idea why I said that, but it musthave been the right thing to say. As soon asDevvy got over coughing from trying to laughand smoke at the same time, she put out thecigarette, and told me so.

“You’re a piece of work, Cassandra,” shesaid, sounding like she approved. “You’re notas blonde as you look.”

I should have resented that, but some-how, I didn’t. “You’re not the first personwho’s underestimated me. And call meCassie.”

“Cassie,” she repeated. “Fine. I’m Dev. AndI think we ought to be on the same side,because a lot of innocent people are going toget hurt if we aren’t.”

“A lot of innocent people are going to gethurt if we are.” I thought about it for a sec-ond. “I don’t have a problem with that.”

“A woman after my own heart. Friends?”Well, that would do. For now. “Can we still

have these little fights?”“I’d have to insist.”“Then I think this could be the start of a

beautiful friendship.”“God help everyone else,” she said.

nd that’s how it started. Cassie insultedme, left me to drown, and started a water

fight before I’d known her four hours; beautifulfriendships have been founded on less. I maynot have met my match that day, exactly, but Idid meet an irritating, headstrong, opinionated,

sarcastic blonde. Just my luck that she wouldturn out to be my best friend.

Later, she turned out to be more . . . butthat’s another story.

The point is, I remember everything aboutthe day we met. My version’s right and hers iswrong, and she knows it; she was there. You’dthink it would kill her to drop the subject. Butnothing’s that easy with Cassie. Every fewweeks, she brings it up again—she does it tospite me—so we’ll have this argument until oneof us dies. And then the survivor will go to thedecedent’s grave and argue with her head-stone. In an uncertain world, it’s nice to havethat kind of certainty.

Now, if I could only get her to stop askingwhether I know what my problem is . . .

A

“She Said, She Said” originally appeared in At First Blush: A Jane Doe Press Anthologypublished by Jane Doe Press, Inc. (NewOrleans, LA, 2002.

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Barbara DaviesBarbara Davies lives in the English Cotswolds. Her fiction has appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’sFantasy Magazine, nanobison, Neometropolis, Spaceways Weekly, Andromeda Spaceways InflightMagazine, Shred of Evidence, and HandHeldCrime, among others, and in the anthologies F/SF Vol1, Crossings, and Ideomancer Unbound.

T.J. MindancerAs fictional as her fantasy stories, T.J. Mindancer is a figment of C.A. Casey’s imagination andCasey takes no responsibility for what Mindancer forces her to write. Mindancer roams the World ofEmoria. Casey’s writings include articles in library journals and in Strange Horizons, and stories inAoife’s Kiss and Beyond Centauri. She also penned Dragon Drool, a fantasy novel for kids.

Lori L. LakeLori L. Lake likes to write about the varied lives of lesbians. Her novels include Ricochet In Time,Different Dress, and the three in the “Gun” series: Gun Shy, Under The Gun, and the new thrillerHave Gun We’ll Travel. Lori has also written a book of short stories, Stepping Out. The anthologyshe edited, The Milk of Human Kindness: Lesbian Authors Write About Mothers and Daughters, wasa 2005 Lambda Literary Award Finalist. Lori and her partner of 24 years live in Minnesota. You canfind out more about her at: http://www.lorillake.com

K. SimpsonK. Simpson would rather be in Greece, making documentaries, but she may start a blog. Her booksinclude Several Devils, Average of Deviance, and Hell for the Holidays.

Trish EllisTrish Ellis is a Canadian girl who has lots of passion for her art. She started drawing at a very youngage, learning new tips and techniques throughout the years making her a stronger artist today. Herstubborness not to accept failure helps her strive to be the best that she can be.