Throne by Phil Tucker Read Free Book Online

telling her to stop, to not approach the smiling man in green across the street, but that part had been put on mute and shoved into the next room, ignored. Even as she crossed the street toward him, feet light, almost floating, feeling feverish, bourn along on deeper currents than she could fathom.
    Gaining the far pavement, she stepped up to him, stopped. He was slim like a dancer, lithe, with shoulders that narrowed down to a tight waist. He was wearing a green coat, green the color of dark trees, a long scarf of a green so dark it was but a shade from black wrapped around his neck. He should have been freezing, but instead he looked down at her with his green eyes, and she looked up at him and hesitantly returned his smile.
    “So beautiful,” he said, and reached out to brush a finger across her cheek. A part of her wanted to snap at him, smack his hand away, but it was a reflex she ignored, entranced by the sound of his voice, how he seemed more real than anything she had ever seen or felt before. The world had receded from about them, left them alone together, her, helpless before him, mind drifting and enthralled.
    “What is your name?” His voice was like cinnamon and warm sunlight in the dust and tang of iron that was the city, the hard smell of polluted snowmelt and smoke. It was cinnamon and a warm hand cupping her cheek, it was the smell of crushed grass, of the wine they served at Mrs. Peng’s to their wealthiest guests.
    “Maya,” she whispered, her voice coming from afar. The whiskey , she thought, the whiskey .
    “Maya,” he said, and laughed, pleased, and she found herself smiling, proud that her name should please him so. The spike in emotion brought tears to her eyes as her sudden happiness contrasted so sharply with her fatigue, her painful solitude in this city, made her so terribly aware of how worn and beaten down she felt. His smile made her aches all the more plangent.
    “Maya, you seem so sad. Here, come with me.” And he took her hand, his skin warm and dry, the gesture made without hesitation as if it were the most natural thing, as if he were her older cousin walking her home from school and they had known each other all their lives. He took her hand and she followed him, walking east along the street, unable to tear her gaze from his handsome, beguiling face.
    “Who… what is your name?” Asking felt as hard as struggling out of her jacket after a double shift at the restaurant.
    “I am Jack,” he said, smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Why was he so pleased? What had she done to please him so? The world seemed so distant, removed. She felt drunk, as if she were floating in his presence, her mind lulled, feeling safe for the first time in years. She blinked and they were passing under an overpass, across two broad lanes and then over a retaining wall. Through the dark shadows, leaving the buildings behind, and then before them opened up the East River, Queens glittering across its dark expanse, the Queensborough Bridge angular and dark to their left.
    “What—what are we doing here?” She fought for awareness. To gain control of the situation. How had they reached the river so quickly? Her heart, which had lain quiet, began to speed up now, a slow and urgent drumming in her chest.
    “Maya,” he said, and turned to face her full on again. Oh meu deus , she thought distantly, swaying on her feet, wanting to laugh, to cry. She wanted nothing more than for him to hold her, to run his hands through her hair, to press her face against him and allow all the choked up tears and pain to spill forth at last, to release, let go, stop having to fight and just dissolve into his strength and power. Her emotions were rising up from her as if evoked by a storm, a circular funnel of such powerful passions that she was frightened by their intensity, their confluence.
    “Maya,” he said, and he seemed to fill her vision. “You are so sad, so sad.” He cupped her face in his hands and