When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, his brown eyes only inches from her face.
He raised a finger and touched her skin, his fingertip brushing the length of her cheekbone. Anna laid a hand on his chest and felt his chest move up and down, then stroked down the dip between his ribcage and over the scar on his stomach. He drew in a breath, his body didn't move for a second or two till her hand moved upwards and he remembered to breathe again. She touched the small mark on his shoulder, the one she made with a knife in training. She'd moved too quickly; he not quickly enough.
"You scarred me," he whispered and she nodded. He moved closer and his lips touched hers. She opened her mouth to say something and the tip of his tongue touched hers, feather-light.
Anna gasped.
"Bad dream?" John said.
He was sitting on the small armchair at the end of the bed, his legs resting on the covers. They'd drawn the drapes but the early morning light was streaming in around the sides. The room was so small that there was just enough space to walk around the double bed, the chair John was sitting on was jammed into a corner against the window. But it had been cheap, anonymous, and forgettable. Anna had checked them in on her German passport – the one whose photo looked closest to her current appearance – and explained in a German accent that they'd just arrived on a very early flight from Frankfurt. Frau Annika Kaiser and her husband, Thomas. No, luggage, no, no – suitcases lost by the airline, would be delivered later. John had stood by her side as she checked in, watching her fill out the forms in the style of German handwriting that she'd practised over and over. They'd done it dozens of times before: John had no ear for accents, whereas Anna could produce a passable imitation to match every passport she owned. John stood silently by her side, a proprietorial hand on her back or arm, playing the part of the attentive husband. It had never bothered her before now. Now, still half-asleep, she still felt the touch of his fingers on her waist like a burn.
"I dreamt you kissed me," Anna said and could've bit the words back in as soon as they left her lips. She expected him to look away, embarrassed, as he used to do whenever she teased him or tortured him by poking at his reserve, but he didn't. He just grinned at her with his slow grin.
"A nightmare, then," he said wryly.
"Yeah," she answered. "A bit creepy, actually."
She got out of bed and squeezed past him. He drew his long legs up to let her pass but the space was narrow and his feet brushed against her legs. It felt like a hot streak against her skin.
"Holy shit," she said to her reflection in the mirror.
Her pupils were wide in the harsh light of the tiny bathroom; her newly-dyed hair was darker than her natural colour, making her skin appear even paler than usual. She looked haunted, gaunt, and she could still hear her heart thump-thumping in the stillness. She washed her face and pushed the door open. It sat badly on its hinges, and repeated opening and closing had worn a groove in the linoleum on the bathroom floor. John looked up when she came out.
"I'll take over," she said curtly. "Sleep for an hour or two."
Reluctantly John got up out of the chair and she sank into the warmth created by his body. She pulled her legs up, resting her chin on her knees and stared at the wall in front of her while he got undressed. She knew it had always disturbed him when she watched him take off his clothes and she used to like to do it on purpose to annoy him, making appreciative noises or wolf-whistling softly to embarrass him.
"No comments about how you'd like to stick a dollar bill in my pants?" John enquired casually.
She knew he was trying to lighten her mood, but she felt odd, out of sorts, but she made an effort to smile.
"Nah," she said. "I'm not interested in seeing you strip any more. You're past your prime."
She tried to look up at him but couldn't meet his eyes, so he turned away.
"Must've been a really intense dream," John remarked. He was folding his clothes, his back to her.
"Yeah," she said. "Weird."
She scraped her knee with her fingernail, trying to find some courage:
"John? Remember when we worked together and you … you liked me?"
He didn't say anything, just folded more slowly.
"I'm sorry for being such a bitch to you," she blurted. "I guess I just thought you were a bit of a dork back then. You weren't my type but I could've been … kinder. I'm sorry. I was immature and I've often regretted it. I guess the only good thing about being in this mess is that I get the chance to say it to you. I'm sorry, I really am."
He folded his pants, rolled his socks together more slowly than anyone had ever rolled socks before, Anna felt, then turned to face her. There were two faint spots of colour in his cheeks.
"It's okay," he said in his husky voice. "It probably wouldn't have worked out anyway. We parted friends, right? And we still are?"
"Of course, Johnny," she said.
He smiled at her and slipped under the blankets. Anna pulled the curtain aside a fraction and looked out on to the busy street till she heard John's soft breathing and knew he was dead to the world. Then she silently pulled her chair back from the window and positioned it so she could watch him sleep.
- - - - -
"Ready?" John asked.
"Ready," she answered. She wasn't armed – no point, she wouldn't get near the Bowery King with any kind of weapon on her, better to approach him softly and in a non-threatening manner.
"You've never met him?" John asked.
Anna shook her head. "Mari spoke of him once or twice. Didn't say much about him, though, but she did go to see him on a number of occasions."
"About what?" John was curious.
Anna laughed, embarrassed. "Actually, she went there to read his cards. His tarot," she said, seeing John's frown. She rooted around in her backpack and withdrew a little parcel wrapped in black velvet. When she unwrapped it, she showed him Mari's tarot deck. It was the last thing she'd taken when they left the silent house, removing it from the drawer beside the dead woman's bed, stroking the velvet once, twice, before stuffing it in her bag.
John said nothing, just raised his eyebrows.
"The Bowery King has his fortune told?" he said. "Yeah, I can really imagine that."
"I think it's a form of therapy," Anna said. "A good reader can tell you what you need to hear."
"What you want to hear," John corrected.
"What you need to hear," Anna insisted. "The tarot is just a mirror. I think you answer your own questions."
She put the tarot cards into the messenger bag she'd slung around her neck.
"Is that how it was for you?" John asked, curious.
Anna laughed again, a short, mirthless laugh. "Unfortunately, yes. But it didn't stop me hoping I'd hear different answers."
He looked at her, nodding his head as he thought about it.
"So you're going to read his cards?" he said incredulously.
"It might get me in the door," she said. "Chances are, he doesn't know who I am. Unlike you, my reputation does not go before me."
John shrugged. "Have you any idea what kind of answers he wants to hear?"
"I'll wait till I hear the questions, I guess." She buckled the bag and then said, "You're going to stay here, right?"
But he didn't reply.
"John," she said warningly.
"I have stuff to do," he said. "I feel much better now, Quinn. I'll meet you back here tonight. If, for any reason, I'm compromised and I don't return, I want you out of here by eight, okay? Choose a passport and a destination and get out of here before someone has the bright idea of putting a price on your head, too."
It was a long speech for John, but she was unmoved.
"If you leave here now," she said, "You mightn't come back. I don't know if I can get the King to hold back his people. In the time it takes me to get to him, any one of them could get to you first. You know that," she added accusingly.
He shrugged again. His shrugs could be very eloquent. Anna sighed. When had it ever been any different? When they worked together, they always walked out the door of the hotel room, not knowing if either of them would return. It was best not to think about it. Best to assume they'd see each other later, while knowing exactly what to do if they didn't.
As was their wont, they shook hands at the door.
"Take care, Miss Quinn," he said, bending his head down so it nearly touched hers.
Anna felt startled by his nearness, his warm hand in hers. She felt the same heat shoot up her arm, like a mild electric shock.
"Be safe, Mr Wick," she whispered. He nodded again and slipped out the door. She counted to ten, then opened it behind him.
The corridor was empty; he was gone.
"I'm off to see the wizard," Anna sang under her breath and adjusted the strap of her bag. She looked down at her shoes: scruffy Chucks. About as far as a girl could get from ruby slippers, to be sure.
