Page 56 of Redline Communion

“Liar.”

The accusation is familiar enough that for an instant the annex gives me back the woman I know. Then her focus slips, and Rafe catches it before I do.

“Lo.”

She does not answer immediately. His arm tightens around her, and I watch her eyes find him, recognize him, then return to me. The delay is brief, but I notice it anyway.

Lorelei reaches for me before I can say anything. Her fingers close behind my neck, and I let that become my answer as I pull her closer.

There are more responsible interpretations available to me: the flower, the instability of her balance, the blood on both of us, the fact that Marcus’s name was spoken in this room minutes ago and his body has not yet reached wherever the house intends to put it. I am aware of every one of them, and desire does not disappear because I inventory its objections. That may be the ugliest lesson the house gives me tonight.

Lorelei presses closer and says my name again, and I stop trying to make wanting her respectable. The relief comes immediately, which only makes it worse.

The claim continues around us, physical now in a way the liturgy has been preparing the room to accept from the beginning. I stay close because she keeps reaching for me, and Rafe remains close because without him her balance would fail long before her willingness does. Every time she drifts, he brings her back, and every time her attention catches on him, I feel the same petty flare of resentment I felt while watching the first claim. At least jealousy is familiar enough to inhabit without thinking about the knife.

Lorelei’s mouth finds mine again, and I respond more roughly than I intend. She does not retreat, and that matters too much.

The witnesses are no longer perfectly synchronized. Clothing has been discarded around the room, and bodies shift together in the candlelight while my father continues reading with the same measured cadence he used when Marcus was still standing. That constancy should be reassuring, but it is not.

Lorelei’s hands slide up my chest and catch at my shoulders, blood from her fingers leaving streaks across the fabric. She notices the marks, frowning at them with the delayed concentration of someone trying to remember when red became part of the evening.

“Did I do that?”

The question reaches somewhere I have been avoiding. I catch her wrist before she can touch the stain.

“No.”

She studies me. “Liar.”

This time the word has less bite, and I am grateful for that in a way that immediately disgusts me.

Rafe says her name when her knees soften, and she makes an irritated sound without looking at him.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not standing.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“You’re using both of us as furniture.”

Her mouth twitches, and for half a second she is entirely herself. Then she turns back to me, and the return hits harder than it should. I touch her face again, and she leans into the contact as though nothing about the blood there matters. I know better than to interpret that as absolution, and I do it anyway.

Her wanting me does not erase Marcus, and my wanting her does not erase him either. The body is simply more vulgar than doctrine. It accepts contradictory facts without insisting one cancel the other. She can have blood drying beneath her nails and still reach for me, and I can know exactly whose blood it is and still want her closer. No prayer in the Book of Ashes is honest enough to say that plainly.

Rafe adjusts his hold on her, and I resent the movement until Lorelei’s weight sags suddenly and he catches all of it. The resentment changes shape then, not into gratitude, since I am not generous enough for that tonight, but into recognition. I need him here, and the fact humiliates me almost as much as being chosen second. Without Rafe, Lorelei would be on the floor or in my arms, and I no longer trust myself to know which outcome I would prefer.

I look at him, and he looks back. For once neither of us needs language. Keep her here. He does.

I turn my attention back to Lorelei and let the ritual swallow the rest. She responds to me, reaches for me, says my name when I ask for it, and each response becomes proof because I decide it should. I have already admitted the standard is compromised, and knowing that does not prevent me from using it.

At one point her attention flickers past my shoulder, and I follow it automatically. The wall is empty where Ash should be, and the garage returns in one clean image: his face too close to mine, anger stripping years from his expression, I already have her, followed by his name struck through in red. I push the memory away because I have enough men in the room with me tonight.

Lorelei pulls me closer again, and I let her. The liturgy proceeds around us while the claim continues and the blood dries.

By the time my father reaches the closing passage, I have stopped tracking individual witnesses. Rafe has not. His response comes on time, and mine should follow immediately, but half a beat passes before I speak. It is not much. The witnesses do not turn, Lorelei does not notice, and even Rafe may not hear the difference, but my father does. His eyes find mine across the space between us, and then I give the line correctly, of course, the delay gone before anyone could put it in the record even though I feel it anyway.

The witnesses complete the response while I put my robe back into order. My hands no longer feel entirely like mine, but they perform the task with the same competence they showed with the knife. Lorelei’s grip on me loosens gradually, and Rafe keeps one arm around her waist. Her eyes remain open, though I am no longer certain how much of the annex she can still see.