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I shake my head, not sure if I want to hear it, whatever it is.
"I want you to know," he says, taking my hand in his, "that I wanted you from the moment I saw you in the diner." His fingers trace my bottom lip. "I was ready to break all my own rules for you. It hurt to even look at you. So delicate, so lovely, and so in danger from us monsters. You just really don't have any idea." He takes in a breath, holds it, then lets it escape slowly. "At first, it was just lust. There you were, so pretty, so young and fresh. I felt like such a," he says nothing, shakes his head. "Like such a monster compared to you. You're so good. I don't deserve you."
I try to pull away from him, feeling too much emotion rising in me, tears stinging in the corners of my eyes. I've cried too much. Too much. I bite my lip to stop.
"When I heard you play piano that first day you were in the warehouse, you had me." He touches my cheek. "I want to say this to you before I go. I may not ever be able to say it again."
I turn my head away, feeling like I'm at the breaking point.
"Stop."
"No," he says and turns my face back. "I want you to know. Just in case."
"Please," I say and cover my eyes." Don't say that."
"Eve, when I heard you play, I felt so – cheated. No, listen," he says when I struggle to leave. "In another life, I would have deserved you. If we’d met when I was human, I could have won you."
He says nothing for a moment. I can't speak. I can't look at his face, in his eyes.
"But there are just too many stars for me to care about what's right and wrong anymore, what I do deserve and what I don't. I want you. I could have made you happy. And now, time's up." He stands, lifting me up, my arms still around his neck. "Will the queen at least give her knight a pity-kiss goodbye?"
I pull him down to me, my lips meeting his, my tongue searching his out, the touch of it sending a shock of desire through my body. When our lips part, he presses his forehead against mine.
"Remember me, if I don't make it back."
"Don't say that."
He buries his face in my hair.
"You're an angel." And then he's gone.
Later that afternoon, Terri calls me and asks if I want to attend the memorial for Ed. His body was cremated but now the SCU is holding a small memorial for staff and friends at the graveside where his ashes were buried. Of course I want to go, and I get leave from Vasily to go. He'll be escorting me and we dress in our best and bring raincoats and umbrellas, then stand in the rain as the small graveside ceremony takes place. Ed was divorced, with no kids, his life completely dedicated to the SCU so only his colleagues and a few old friends attend.
I go into the SCU that night. I stroll into Terri’s office in time for tea and flop down on the couch to talk with her. Terri and I reminisce about Ed, and she tells me about him and I feel as if I'm learning about an uncle I knew but never really knew. We're watching the television news clips of the peace talks in the Palestinian Territories.After months of random shelling between Israel and Palestinian groups, they're meeting to discuss peace.
Terri waters her plants, looking over her glasses at the television screen, mumbling a running commentary - none of it complimentary to the participants. The camera shows a large briefing room filled in the rear with reporters and at the front a large table with a panel of officials. Terri brings me a cup of tea and we watch the question and answer session.
It's quite boring - just an opportunity for the press to ask questions about process - who, what, where and when questions about the negotiations. I have little real faith in the possibility of peace - this is just a new government's attempt to garner favor at home. The camera focuses in on the Israeli official – I can see a number of advisors standing behind him, but none of their faces. The official's asked a question from one of the reporters about support from Zionist groups in the United States. The official covers his microphone and leans back and I'm amazed as Soren himself bends down and whispers in the official's ear.
"Holy crap," I say. "There he is."
"Who?" Terri says, her voice alarmed. "Where?"
"Soren. The pale one."
She comes quickly to my side and watches the television.
"Where is he – oh, I see him. Hard to miss."
"He's talking to officials at the briefing table."
"Is he an advisor? But our reports..."
"Our reports said certain ex-members of his group were involved in selling arms to militant factions who were out to end the peace process," I reply.
"Maybe they were traitors - going against his wishes. It might explain the deaths in Montana. Maybe he's playing both sides against each other. Who can say what his motives are? We don't know enough about him to even guess."
Michel and Julien know all about Soren…
