American Goth (20 page)

“I hand it to you in its scabbard, or wrap a cloth around the hilt.”

I stared, momentarily stunned. He was right. I’d noticed that, but I’d thought he was merely being careful not to mar the steel.

Cort continued to speak, and what he said next brought me to open-mouthed shock. “Under normal circumstances, only those that came before you, you, and your children, will ever be able to wield it. And right now? You’re the last—the last of your line. Do you know what an avatar is?”

That was a strange segue, but I went with it. “Yes, of course,” I answered and shrugged casually. “A highly evolved being of the Light that’s chosen to incarnate—live a human life.”

Cort nodded. “And how powerful do you think anything that touched that incarnation would be?”

“Well, it would depend on the item, the type of contact, the intent surrounding the act as well as the resonance in the Aethyr, all that sort of thing.”

“Exactly. Before this metal was forged into this blade, it was used to…wound…an avatar. Because of this, the lattice structure is keyed to that blood, to its descendants—the relic is the heart of the blade. You’ll need to leave an heir someday.”

Shock ruled me as I reached for the scabbarded weapon he held, but the next thing he did surprised me, in a good way. He reached out and mussed my head. “You do look tough.” He smiled, and I smiled back.

“Okay, let’s get started, then.”

The night’s lesson consisted of working in and with the monitor state, of visualizing and manipulating systemic body functions such as heart rate, breath rate, and energy flows, starting with my own.

This work was even more exhausting than strict Astral work, and Cort not only cut the physical portion short, he accompanied me to the kitchen to make sure I had a bit more to eat than just the usual after-study snack before I went up to bed.

Fran and I ran into each other at the landing by the stairs and she flushed a bright red when she saw me.

“What, you don’t like my haircut?” I teased and took a step closer. From the shine in her eyes to the flame she radiated, I knew no matter what she said, that wasn’t what she felt and she shook her head.

“You just…you’re so…” she stammered, and I closed the distance between us and with a surety that made my head buzz, I put my arm around her waist.

“So…what?” I asked, knowing that my mouth against her ear was distracting her, “So turned on?” I pulled her closer to me, and she ran a hand through my shorn hair, scratched her fingers under the short hair that skirted the base of my head. “So into you?” Her lips welcomed my tongue between them and she gasped when I pressed my hips against her, when she could feel what nestled between my thighs.

When Graham and I had left Uncle Billie’s, he’d steered me across the street to the chemist’s. “Well, go on, go get some,” he said with a broad grin.

“What?”

“Eel-skins…rubbers, mate!” He clapped me on the back. “It’s a man’s rite of passage. Go—I’ll wait for you out here.”

Dammit but he was serious, and while I could have said I had one stuffed in my front pocket, the challenge in his eyes wasn’t one I’d back down from. I squared my shoulders, resettled my bass, and opened the door.

The bright light was shocking after the darkness outside, but I probably wouldn’t have noticed it quite so much if I hadn’t been on a mission. I found them at the back of the store, a shelf range of a handful of brands. Ribbed. Lubricated. With or without spermicide. That I didn’t need. Lambskin. Out of the question—I knew that much from high school sex-ed, anyway. Latex. Colors. Flavored. I decided I didn’t need that either.

And then I saw them. Royal blue, foil pack, about the size of an American fifty-cent piece, the coin with Kennedy on it. Considering his reported personal history, that made me laugh, and I thought it appropriate.

I took them off the shelf and walked up to the cash register. That was the easy part. The placing them on the counter before an older woman who gave me a squinty-eyed glare and a disapproving twist to her mouth followed by the “hmph” as I handed her a couple of bills—
that
was hard. I kept my eyes on the fake black-eyed-Susan blossom pinned to her pocket, the bright orange plastic petals nestled against the pebbled coffee-brown center.

“Well, aren’t you a young one,” she commented as she handed me my change.

I said nothing other than the briefest of thank-yous as I pocketed the coins and my prize. I felt her eyes on my back as I walked out the door.

“So…you got ’em?” Graham asked immediately.

I handed him the three-pack box.

“Good.” He opened it and took one out. “Did you have to ask for them?”

I shook my head. “Nope. They were on a shelf and I picked something out.”

“You got off easy, then,” he said. “Next time, try a place where you’ve got to ask at the counter—now
that’s
an experience.” He grinned and handed me one of the foil coins. “Put one in your back pocket—just in case, like, and you can leave the rest at home.” He tucked the box into my gig bag.

I nodded, wordless because my face still burned and I hadn’t quite gotten the hang of breathing normally again. As I slipped the rubber into my right back pocket, I didn’t know I was starting a habit that would mark every pair of jeans I owned with a distinctive raised brand.

“And how’re you feeling?” Graham asked as we walked back to the Tube. He bounced next to me like an excited puppy, and my nerves aside, his joy was contagious.

“I’m feeling a little…reckless,” I told him as I shifted my gig bag over my shoulder. “I’m feeling like…shopping.”

He quirked an eyebrow at me and I gave him a smile. If I was in for a penny, I might as well be in for a pound, and the hair I’d grown for the last several years was already floating beneath the London streets. I felt daring, and alive, and good, and for the first time in a long time, even though the road before me was unknown, I had the sense of control: I didn’t know where I was going, but it felt like I knew what I was doing.

This was an adventure, a “follow the leader” straight line exploration like I’d done as a kid: what would we walk through? Woods or dunes? Yards or streets? Would we have to climb over logs or fences? Would we be stopped by angry dogs, railroad tracks, or hunger? How far could this go, how far could
I
go? I wanted to find out—and now was the perfect time. I could feel the smile I wore grow wider. “Accessories,” I told him. “Why wait?”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “You’ve got enough cash for that?”

“No,” I answered, then grinned. “But I’ve got plastic.”

“What a
great
reason to go into debt,” he said with a laugh. “I’m sure that Uncle Billie won’t mind that you prefer store-bought over something a bit more…custom. Lucky
you
, I know just the place.”

“Lucky me is right,” I agreed. “Great. I just need to make a phone call.” We found a pay phone, one of the famous London red boxes, and I dropped some coins into the box. Elizabeth answered and after the exchange of greetings and the friendly “How are things going?” I told her I’d be later than expected, probably just in time for dinner.

“Fran’s out with your uncle,” she informed me, “so dinner will be late anyway.”

That was surprising, but under the excitement of the adventure I was undertaking, I didn’t think about it much—we’d cancelled our plans to meet after rehearsal, and I knew she’d wanted to start her own holiday gift hunt. I assumed that was what it was all about.

“Are you by yourself?” Elizabeth asked. Despite the friendliness of her tone, I knew she held real concerns for my welfare and I took the time to reassure her.

“I’m with Graham, safe as houses,” I told her, “and only two”—Graham tapped the glass of the booth and held up three fingers—“three stops away.”

“Wonderful, then. Well, don’t let me keep you—have fun, and call if you think you’ll be later?” she asked.

“Will do.”

We hung up and I clapped Graham on the shoulder as I stepped out of the booth. “Lead on, MacDuff,” I told him, and off we went.

On our journey, Graham told me that most of these stores, stores that basically sold sex toys, were illegal, which was why their windows were covered in huge flyers that advertised comic books and novelties—they weren’t allowed to advertise anything else. This explained why it seemed like almost every second store on Compton had its windows blocked out in posters.

“This one’s a bit more popular among our crowd,” Graham told me as we approached the brick-faced building with its door a few feet below sidewalk level. “It’s a nice little shop, everything all legal-like, friendly. The people are helpful if you need—ah, here we are,” he said as he strode down the steps and I trailed behind him. “After you.” He grinned and held the door for me.

I agreed with his description as I looked about. The lighting wasn’t as harsh as the only other place I’d been in, the layout a bit smaller, but neater somehow, even a bit cozy.
Fran would be all right with this
, I thought, remembering her discomfort—and all things considered, including the environment and the clerk with the pierced face, I supposed I didn’t really blame her. But this place was different; the atmosphere was similar to that of any boutique-style clothing store. Heck, there were even clothes here, too, complete with a sign for a dressing room, except they also sold—

“What about this?” Graham asked, handing me something the size of a small missile.

“Are you
insane
?”

He laughed. “Just thought you might be ambitious.”

I shook my head at him. I already wasn’t certain how well this would go over at home; I didn’t think showing up wearing a killer whale in my pants would endear me to Fran—or to anyone else.

“I’m not looking to scare horses into submission,” I told him as I handed it back. “Let’s just stick to the basics.”

Graham agreed.

By the time we were done, I was more than set. Graham had given me advice on fit and placement.

“Mind if I show you something?” he’d asked before I stepped into the dressing room.

I shrugged as he approached.

“Most make the mistake of wearing it up here,” he said and placed the edge of his palm against my pubic bone, “but you’ll want to wear that nice and low,” and barely touching my fly, he shifted his hand at just about my clit. It was clinical, advice, talk between friends, not at all sexual. “Get the center right about there and I guarantee you’ll like that better when you’re gettin’ down to business—and you’ll have much better control. Hey…what sort of underpants have you got on?”

I had to think for a second. “Nothing special. Nylon brief—girl stuff.”

To my surprise, he nodded approvingly. “As authentic as boxers or Y-fronts are, they won’t hold you good and snug and if you want to go out, you’ll need to either wear something altogether different or show everyone your hard-on. But with a well-fitted bikini brief, or girls’ underwear,” he grinned, “all you’ve got to do is tuck yourself right, and you’ll be right as rain and ready to rock.”

That jagged electric pulse that had filled my head back at Uncle Billie’s kicked in again as I closed the door behind me and tried to figure out what to do next. Once I had proper blood flow and sensation in my hands again, it took a little while to figure out which strap went where, sizing the black leather up right so nothing would slip, and then…it was the strangest feeling I’d ever felt. I stood there with my jeans about my thighs and my cock in my hands, and as I slipped it through the ring, I experienced a moment of surreal disconnect: this was my body, the body I’d always seen, with this “thing” sticking out. But something about it
felt
right,
looked
right; the arrogant bounce between my legs—insensate as it might be—
worked
, and I made one final adjustment on the strap that made it snug up hard against me. It was a matter of a few more minutes to make certain it didn’t look like I was ready to shoot someone with my crotch, and between my underwear and my jeans which weren’t terribly loose, I managed it.

All set and tucked and with my jacket on, I looked at myself in the mirror. Billie had been right, I was a little…stringy…like he’d said: long arms and legs like my Da, and my hair… I grinned at my reflection. Even with the stuff in it that made it stick up a bit, the short angle got rid of the shadows, revealed bits of honey in the brown, wasn’t quite long enough to fall over bright blue eyes in a face not quite as sharp as it had been a few months ago. I decided I liked the slight square to my chin, the smile I couldn’t help when I felt the soft, short hair and rubbed the bare skin of my neck, its length sensitive, exposed. I even liked my ears now that I could see them. Maybe…I considered as I looked, I’d pierce one, maybe both, put a hoop in, or a cool stud of some sort…and maybe not.

I shrugged my shoulders, which had a decent breadth to them from years of swimming, shifted my stance until everything settled comfortably, and reset my jacket. I looked like my own brother, if I’d had one, and if he was sixteen. Right then and there, I felt and understood something new: I’d known what it was to desire, to lust, the combination of affection and attraction, but this feeling was different. It was similar to the one I’d get when I’d strolled out to the deck of the pool as a competitor, strong, confident, unbeatable, and
everyone
knew it. But there was something else mixed with that. I liked what I saw, and the pressure in my pants against my body felt good, as good as the silhouette looked right. For the first time, I felt like I
myself
was sensual, desirable. Sexy, that was the word I was looking for, I felt sexy, and that feeling sent wilding sparks under my skin.