The Green Memory of Fear. B. A. Chepaitis

of close empathic contact, and that sometimes created interesting synchronicities.

      “Did you like the Davidson book?” she asked after a while.

      “Very much. It’s an evil kind of creature, but her writing’s always beautiful, so it’s worth the read. I think,” he noted more philosophically, “beauty may be the only antidote there is to evil.”

      “That’s a romantic notion,” she said.

      “Then I’m a romantic. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

      His tone gave him away. She turned to him, her face full of questions. She started with the most obvious one. “You didn’t come over to talk about vampires, did you?”

      He leaned back and asked his breathing to normalize itself, asked his heart rate to slow down. After all their circling dance, today he was ready to call some new steps. It wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be.

      They shared friends and work and knowledge in the empathic arts. They shared assignments and risks and rescues. One way and another, they spent more time together than apart. Their high regard for each other had even survived sleeping together. And here he was, skittish as spit on a griddle about asking her out.

      “No. I wanted to see if you’d like to have dinner with me,” he said.

      She tried to absorb the question and failed. It was already past dinnertime. “Dinner?” she repeated.

      “Later this week. I was thinking La Loba. You said you like their Tequila.”

      He saw complexities cross her thoughts as she chewed the inside of her lip. She wasn’t getting it.

      “I’m asking you out, Jaguar,” he said, his voice like gravel in his throat. “On a date.”

      “Oh,” she said. “Oh.”

      And then, silence, as she stared at her hands.

      At least, he thought, he had the satisfaction of seeing her shocked into speechlessness. That was a rare and precious moment. He savored it briefly, then asked, “Is Thursday good? ”

      She conducted another interview with her emotions, and although they weren’t in empathic contact, he could guess the nature of her thoughts. They probably weren’t much different than his, which asked him repeatedly what confused sense of chivalry impelled him to do this.

      He had other options. She’d be amenable to something casual, to being intermittent lovers with no strings attached. They’d stay friends and nothing much would change. And she wouldn’t push if he let it drop altogether. Eventually it would disappear, swallowed by his favorite ally, time. But to try and establish something real between them could be pure and gallant stupidity of the most egregious kind. To say I want this, and I want it real was probably the last thing she expected, and the most foolhardy thing he could do.

      He waited, while her internal conversation rounded itself out to resolution.

      “I’m singing with Moon Illusion on Thursday,” she said at last. She regularly sang with this band of former prisoners so it was a valid excuse, but his disappointment was sharp. He was debating what to say next when she breached the gulf of silence.

      “How’s Wednesday?” she asked.

      He let his pulse steady itself, then raised himself from his chair to leave.

      “Wednesday’s good,” he said. “See you about seven, if that’s okay.”

      “Sure,” she said. “Seven’s fine. See you then.”

      He thought about saying more, but she’d already turned away. Enough, he thought. Enough for now.

      He moved toward the door, and let himself out.

      Chapter 2

      The Planetoid atmosphere, created through a mass generator, had spit out a hot day. On Wednesday morning Jaguar stood in heavy humidity on Yonge street, staring at a bronze and gold silk pantsuit in a store window as the sun pressed against the back of her neck.

      She’d woken early to finish her final report on her last assignment, then decided to take care of a few errands downtown. She was almost done when she was captured by the outfit in the window of Wild Child Boutique.

      She pressed a hand against the glass. Shimmering bronze and gold washed silk, pants and sleeveless top, perfectly cut. Simple as air.

      “That would look so good on me,” she murmured. The color worked for her eyes and complexion, the silk was good for her skin, and the cut was right for her lean and muscular body. It looked comfortable, too. Easy to wear, without too many moving parts.

      She went into the store, found her size, and tried it on. When she emerged, she was bearing a package and smiling. A good day. Her work was done, and the outfit was hers.

      A steamy breeze ruffled the hair at the back of her neck in a friendly way. She tilted her head back and took in a good breath. She’d spent her adolescence in New Mexico, her childhood in Manhattan. She knew the heat of the mesas, the crowded streets, and the sweat lodge, and she liked them all. Today’s heat in particular seemed to hold a promise she wanted to take in, though she couldn’t name it. Whatever it was, it made her steps light and easy.

      She went through her mental lists of other tasks to perform. License renewal, a physical training session. Maybe tonight she’d have dinner with her friend Rachel.

      But no. There was something else she was supposed to do tonight. She frowned, trying to recapture elusive memory. Something important, she thought. Something she had a nagging feeling she was nervous about, which might be why she was inclined to forget it. The air tickled her neck, and the sun patted warmly at her back. It would come to her. If not, she’d look it up on her calendar when she got home. She hoped she remembered to put it in. She walked on.

      As she neared the Teacher’s building where she’d go for training she felt a drop in heat. She glanced up and saw dark clouds clustering over the high buildings. She stopped at a corner and peered up at them. If it was a storm, it was moving fast. Like great shadows of wings flying low over the buildings.

      She glanced at the people walking past her. They smiled and nodded, no disturbance in their faces. She turned back to the darkening sky and felt an encroaching cold wrap her skin. Not a cloud. Something living. Something unpleasant. She wanted to run, get under cover fast because this felt like terror about to swallow her whole. Then, a voice, stopping her.

      Jaguar. Here.

      That voice. She’d heard it in her apartment not too long ago. The voice of a little girl.

      Jaguar.

      She held herself still against her own fear. “Who is it?” she asked.

      It’s me, Jaguar. Here. Look.

      She scanned the street to her left, her right, behind her. Traffic moved along the road and overhead. People passed, heels clicking against cement. They noticed nothing wrong. Whatever was going on was just for her.

      Right in front of you. It’s me.

      There. Dead ahead, standing in the middle of the sidewalk facing her.

      A little girl, maybe eleven years old, wearing a grey and red checked dress. No shoes. Long mousy hair partially obscuring a very pale heart-shaped face, with large dark eyes, eyes full of shadows. Behind her, darkness shimmered, as if she’d emerged from it.

      There weren’t many children here. The facilities for accommodating them were limited, so seeing a child alone on the streets was unusual. Even more unusual was her dress.

      “That’s my dress,” Jaguar murmured. “I had that dress.”

      She remembered the pattern and texture. It was her favorite. She was wearing it when she ran out of her apartment in Manhattan, leaving her grandparent’s dead bodies behind.

      “Why are you wearing my dress?” she called and the girl turned and