A Darker Place by Laurie R. King Page A

investigate.
    After a minute, he asked, “Doesn’t the wood get pretty wet out there?”
    “Last time out, I woke up one morning to find a nest of baby black widow spiders hatching out from a log I had stored under the front seat. I don’t bring wood inside anymore.” She eased herself down to examine the welds, and then to look under the back fender at the exhaust pipe.
    Staring down at the top of her head, the curve of her spine, and the jeans tight over her butt, Glen took a sudden step back and said abruptly, “I’m engaged, Anne. I’m going to get married in the summer.”
    “Good for you.” Her voice was so lacking in interest that for a moment he wondered if she had heard him.
    “Her name is Lisa. She’s a—”
    “I don’t give a damn, Glen.” Anne got to her feet and fastened the wire catch that kept the firewood from bouncing out onto the road.
    “Anne, I’m serious. I can’t—”
    “Yes you can, Glen.”
    “Anne, no.”
    She whirled, and he took another step back. “No changes, Glen. No negotiations, no changes, not if you want me to drive away tomorrow. I’d be more than happy to stay here and teach my kids and never see you again. It’s up to you.”
    “Jesus, Anne, why?” It was a question he had never asked her before, though he had certainly asked it of himself. “Why do you… do it?”
    “Don’t ask, Glen. You wouldn’t like the answer.”
    She did not move, did not bring up her hands to undo the buttons of her shirt or cock her hip in coy seduction or even pout her lips, but as he stared at her, angry and disturbed, he began to feel something growing along with the anger, something dark and strong and not very civilized but oh, very, very tasty. She felt the change, and a smile grew behind her eyes. He swallowed, put on a crooked smile of his own, and moved forward.
    “God,” he murmured, sinking his fingers into her thick hair and pulling her face up to his. “The things I do for my country.”
    Eight—no, nine times, over a period of twelve years, and sex with Anne Waverly had never been remotely the same twice. Breathless one time, funny the next, concentrated and athletic and even—terrible word but quite an experience—nurturing, and never once a repeat.
    This time it was brutal.
    They started there in the barn, nothing gentle about her mouth on his, her arms half fighting against his own, their two bodies grinding against each other. Their teeth scraped and then Anne’s mouth opened and Glen’s tongue was free to explore the vividly remembered and weirdly erotic plate of the dental appliance that held in place the two front teeth lost in the Utah disaster. Their breathing quickened. Glen’s hands moved up and down over Anne’s clothes until she pulled away slightly, buried her head in Glen’s neck, and bit down hard.
    He yelped in surprise and real pain, shoving her away so that her bad knee would have failed to hold her had Rocinante not been there. She said nothing, just turned and walked off in the direction of the house. He followed more slowly, pausing to loosen his collar and crane his neck to see the tooth marks, touching the welt gingerly. He was examining his fingertips in the floodlightover the barn door for signs of blood and thinking ruefully that he would certainly have to stay away from Lisa for a couple of weeks, when the lights went off, leaving him to pick his way, stumbling and cursing, through the obstacle-strewn woodyard and up the steps to the kitchen.
    He half expected the door to be locked, but it was not. He flung it open and was drawing breath to bellow a furious protest at the woman inside when he saw Stan, feet braced, head down, and ready to do battle. Glen strangled on the angry words and forced out a soothing prattle while he inched past the dog. Stan allowed him to pass, and in relief Glen slipped through the door to the living room and slammed it. He then turned, fuming, for the stairs. He didn’t know if this was rejection or