It was very quiet. Too quiet, in fact, but for once, Hannibal King felt absolutely no need to fill the silence. He listened hard, cocking an ear towards the open kitchen door, but all he could hear was the familiar percussion of the old ship's plumbing. No muffled thud of Dex's gangsta rap, no clang-rattle of Hedges tinkering in his workshop. No echo of Sommerfield's voice calling to Zoe with promises of a bedtime story. His throat constricted, suddenly, eyes burning with the threat of tears.
"Big girl's blouse," he muttered to himself, forcing the words past the painful lump.
Cradling a mug of pitch-black coffee, kicked up with a generous shot of Jim Beam, King sniffed and rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. The movement pulled the healed wound in his shoulder, inflicted using one of his own silver stakes by Drake. Reopened by Danica Talos's expensive stiletto heel. He grimaced, rolled his shoulder until the tightness eased, and took a swallow of coffee. Once, the injury would hardly have mattered, taken care of by his unnatural vampire flesh. He still healed a little quicker than normal, but nothing like Blade, or a full blood vampire.
Hitching his t-shirt, he peered at the glyph tattoo on his lower abdomen and wondered, as he sometimes did, if he should have it removed. Vampires had taken everything he had and some small, twisted part of him was almost sorry they were gone, which meant he could no longer hunt them down and turn them into smouldering ash. King reasoned he should be glad, should have partied until he fell down dead drunk, maybe, finally gotten around to making a move on Whistler. There was always something in the way, even now. Before Daystar it was hunting; they were both just too focussed on ashing vampires, too wrapped up in personal armour to risk anything as normal as a relationship. After Daystar, they were just too damaged for anything at all.
Whistler. Beautiful, deadly, single-minded Abigail. She had saved him, even when he had begged her to kill him, the corpse of his latest victim falling from his hands like a meat puppet. King did not know how many people had died to feed his thirst during the five years he lived in the House of Talos. He had lost count after the first two years. The moment Whistler had squinted down the length of a silver-tipped arrow, aimed precisely at his heart, remained forever in his memory. He had not felt afraid, just relieved that death had come in the form of a determined, gorgeous woman with flaming hair. Taking another slug of coffee, King grinned to himself.
"What did one lesbian vampire say to the other?" he asked out loud. "See you in twenty eight days."
"Abby says I'm to tell if you use that word in front of me," a reproachful, very young voice said from the doorway. "I got a whole list of words I'm to tell if you say them."
Zoe Sommerfield pattered on bare feet into the kitchen, dragging a scruffy teddy bear behind her. She was wearing one of his old t-shirts, which almost reached her ankles, as a nightgown. She had wanted the one with the shooting target on, but he had refused.
"Hey there, munchkin," he greeted, setting down his mug. "Shouldn't you be catching zees?"
The little girl dragged her toe across the worn linoleum, swinging her teddy. She looked at her feet, mouth scrunched. King knew why she could not sleep. She had seen too much, lost too many people. Abby had been taking her to see a child psychologist, one who had lost a teenage daughter to vampires and would not try to convince Zoe monsters were figments of her imagination. Each time, Whistler had come home with red, dark circled eyes.
"Need a King cuddle?" he asked, rising from the kitchen chair. "'Cos, y'know, nine outta ten ladies say I give the best cuddles ever."
Zoe hesitated, peering suspiciously from under her dark fringe. "You won't fart?" she asked, doubtfully. "I didn't even pull your finger last time. It was really bad."
King crossed his heart and flashed his best winning smile. "Scouts honour. I'd had too much fibre that day."
Reassured, Zoe flung herself into his arms. Easily slinging her across his hip, he sat down and settled her into his lap. Tucking herself into his elbow, cheek resting against his broad chest, Zoe snuggled, arm wrapped around him and her teddy. For a few minutes, King said nothing, simply held the little girl close, feeling her heart beating against his side. Before her mother died, tortured and mauled by Drake, Zoe had liked him, but been shy. He was just too big, too loud for a rather solemn five year old child. She would play endless games of hide and seek with him, which she was now beginning to realise were not just games, but lessons. How to hide if the Gnome King came. But she would not run to him if hurt, sick or upset. That was reserved for her mother, or in her absence, Abby. Tears, snot and vomit perplexed and, Zoe suspected, frightened him.
Now, everything was different and she could not understand why Abby did not seem to want King cuddles too. They always made her feel better. For a while after everyone went away, she had slept in Abby's bed, too scared to be left alone. Sometimes she slept in King's bed too, although she would always wake up back in her own room. One day, she had left a blue Care Bear for him, just in case he got scared in the night. She sometimes heard him shouting and swearing in his sleep with nightmares.
"You feel better now?" she asked eventually, voice muffled.
"Uh-huh. You?"
She nodded and squeezed him tighter, as if afraid he would disappear if she let go. Yawning, Zoe knuckled her eyes and wriggled around a bit, stifling a little giggle. King stiffened incredulously and glanced down at the crown of her head.
"Um, half pint, did you just fart?!"
Zoe's response was helpless laughter. "Gotcha!" she crowed.
Fanning a hand before his nose, King exclaimed with disbelief. "And you said I smelled bad! Pooey! Whatcha been eating? Three day old garbage?"
Poking a tiny finger at his chest, Zoe pouted innocently. "Abby says I have to eat my greens. I can't help it if they give me gas."
Flipping her over his knee, tickling her belly until she squealed and flopped him in the face with her teddy bear, he grimaced. "Yeah, well, Whistler says a lot of stuff. She's a clever lady."
Sitting up, hugging her bear to her narrow chest, Zoe was suddenly serious, dark blue eyes enormous in her pale face.
"Abby's sad," she said softly. "She misses Mommy. I miss Mommy... I miss everyone."
Dotting her gently on the nose with his index finger, he ruffled her hair affectionately, feeling the crushing pain reappear in his chest. She responded by cuddling into him again, quiet and worryingly tearless.
"So do I, Zo... so do I," he mumbled roughly. "We're all really sad."
Zoe looked up into his face and pulled at his beard. "Why don't you give Abby a King cuddle?" she demanded, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. "Then she wouldn't be so sad. She's crying a lot. She tries to hide it so I don't see, but I do."
King shook his head. "Don't think it's that simple, kiddo."
The little girl pulled a disbelieving face that communicated her opinion as to the stupidity of adults. "Is too! She looks at you like... like Mommy used to look at Daddy, before her eyes stopped working."
Astonished, for once lost for words, he stared down at Zoe, who blinked sleepily back up at him. Yawning hugely, she looped her arms around his neck.
"I'm sleepy," she announced. "Carry me?"
Obligingly, King sat her in the crook of his arm and set off towards her bedroom. Feet echoing along the metal corridors, thoughts a mad whirl, he stopped outside a door painted with rainbows and butterflies. Zoe's name was described in pink across the frame. Nudging it open with his shoulder, picking across the toy-strewn floor, he pulled back the bed covers and eased her in, thinking she was asleep. Turning to leave, he paused as she caught his hand, small fingers wrapping around his pinky.
"The Gnome King's gone," she whispered, as if imparting a great secret. "We don't have to hide anymore."
With that, she closed her eyes, let go of his hand and popped her thumb into her mouth. Standing in the dark, mouth hanging open, listening as the little girl's breathing altered to the relaxed exhalations of sleep, King made a decision. Stumbling over a pink elephant that squeaked beneath his boot heel, he retreated out the room and carefully closed the door. Within moments he stood outside Whistler's room. Raising his fist to knock, he hesitated, abruptly conflicted, and scrubbed at his spiky hair nervously. Recalling Zoe's words, he breathed in and knocked. The door opened, filling the corridor with buttery yellow light. Abigail looked weary, pale and annoyed at being disturbed.
"What, King?" she demanded tiredly, lavender hollows beneath her eyes. She was wearing sweatpants and an old grey vest.
Wordlessly, Hannibal King reached out and hauled her into his arms. Whistler was so astonished she did not protest. He pressed his face to the warm curve of her neck, smelling zesty soap, her skin soft against his. When he did not let her go, her hands came up to his chest to push him away, lips parting to rattle off a rejoinder to the expected jokey quip. He shook his head, catching her wrists as her smooth brow furrowed with confusion.
"No more hiding, Abby," he declared quietly, completely unlike his usual brash self. "The Gnome King's dead."
He let go of her wrists, cupped her chin, leaned forward and kissed her, softly. She made a small, surprised sound, a strange melange of emotion passing across her features. Her fingers curled into a fist and for a brief second, King wondered if she was about to punch him in the face. Abby raked a hand through her untidy mahogany curls, bit her lower lip, eyes dropping. When she looked up, they shimmered with tears, which she dashed away on her forearm.
"No more hiding," she repeated.
She held out her hand, the index and middle fingers lightly callused from her compound bow, and took his. The she backed into her room, towing him with her, and closed the door behind them with a flick of her heel.