He dreamed that he lost Shuri in a crowded train station. He tried to call her on his cell phone, but every time he tried to key in her number. which he had written down on an index card, the numbers got jumbled in his vision, or his fingers wouldn't press the correct keys. A gunshot rang out, and he awoke with a start. He was sweating. His head ached from the drink and from dehydration. Shuri was curled next to him, sleeping deeply. He stroked her arm, her hip. His relief in seeing her safe was quickly muted by the ache of knowing that he was losing her.
He got up and dressed in fresh clothes. As he had that morning, he drank water from his cupped hands, and splashed some over his face. What a long day it had been, strange as a dream. A hell of a day. A heaven of a day. And if he merited hell for what he had done, and what he had yet to do, to that beautiful, that perfect woman, he hoped his good intentions would count at least a small part in his favor.
He checked his watch. 10:30. Time enough to pack his bags and make order of the mess she'd made of her own. He started on her clothes first, dumping them out of her suitcases and onto the floor, shaking them out (her scent, so sweet), folding them neatly. She shifted in the bed. He glanced up. She leaned on one elbow, watching him. The covers had fallen away and exposed her breasts, her belly. Bruises bloomed on her skin from where he'd bitten her and sucked her too hard.
"Such service," she said drily.
"Still drunk?" he asked.
She cleared her throat. "No. My head hurts, and I feel as if I swallowed a cat with very long fur."
"You're dehydrated." He got up and brought her a glass of water, which she drank thirstily. "Better?"
"Mm-hm. Thank you."
"I'll order up some sandwiches in a bit. Don't make a face. You need to eat."
"You are being so solicitous."
"Hah. It's the least I could do." He took her chin in his hand and smiled down at her coldly. "After the good time you showed me."
She pulled away and drew the covers up to her neck.
"Don't be modest on my account," he said. "I'm done with you. You might as well get dressed."
She bit her lower lip. For a moment he thought she might be on the verge of tears. Then she threw back the covers and got out of bed, stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her. The shower turned on. The shower curtain slid on its rod. So she was going to wash off the last of him. Good for her.
He called room service and ordered an assortment of open-faced sandwiches and a pot of coffee. As he hung up, Shuri came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Everett had left a couple of her dresses on the hangers. She took one down with such a jerk that the hanger hit the back of the closet. She dressed hurriedly, angrily.
"Oh, now," said Everett. "Don't be like that."
"Like what?" she demanded.
"Like that." He gestured toward her. "At least try for a graceful exit, sweetheart."
"Do you have to be so horrible?"
"I am what I am. I did tell you. Or were you too drunk to hear me?"
A fearful expression momentarily flashed across her face, as if she had remembered, or almost remembered, something terrible. "I do not care, one way or another. Anything you said is of so little importance -"
"Attagirl. That's how you save face. If I were a gentleman, I wouldn't remind you of how pitifully you cried when I confessed my Alexander Keats deception. Don't you remember me telling you how I eavesdropped on your mother's charming story when you and she and Nakia thought I was asleep?"
The fear was plain on her face now. She didn't try to hide it.
"Hmm? Is it coming back to you now? That week after the battle, while you were sulking in your room, I was doing research and memorizing some truly shitty poetry. It took a while before I could spring it on you, but once I did you swallowed it whole. Was that when you decided you wanted to marry me? When you believed all that destiny malarkey was true?"
"You are really not related to -"
"Oh, Shuri. Don't make me pity you. Of course I'm not related to your cougar auntie's dead boytoy. I played you."
"Why?" she asked. A tear slid down her face, but she didn't even seem to notice it.
He smiled. Even as his mouth hurt, he smiled. "Vibranium. Power. Intel. And your lovely little pussy to sweeten the deal."
She nodded. The movement was almost a palsy. "Yes," she said. "All right." She put her palms flat on the table and stared at them.
"But if it makes you feel better, you can believe that I loved you. What did your mother say? 'Love is the only thing that survives.' Isn't that right, Shuri? It survives separation. It survives death. It survives everything but the tribal elders of Wakanda."
Somebody rapped on the door. He glanced at his watch. A minute to 11:00. Never mind slow European service. The room service at this hotel was almost too fast.
"Come in," he shouted.
It was the same jerk waiter as before. He wheeled in the cart and uncovered the tray of sandwiches. Then he reached underneath the tray and pulled out the gun and shouted something in Hungarian. Everett took Shuri down, conscious, in an unmoved way, of the bullet that grazed his shoulder and the sickening crack as Shuri's head hit the corner of the table. He lay covering her. Istvan and Istvan were on the waiter, wrestling the gun from his hand. Non-verbal Istvan punched the waiter over and over again. Verbal Istvan spoke urgently on his headset.
"Get him the fuck out of here and call an ambulance!" Everett shouted. He rolled Shuri onto her back. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth hung slack. Blood pooled from a gash on the side of her head.
"Oh, God, baby. Oh God, oh Bast." He held her until the ambulance came.
At the emergency room they hooked her up to a saline drip and cleaned and bandaged her wound. Everett held her hand. His own hand trembled. He thought of Ramonda's destiny maps. He thought about the one-hour time difference between Wakanda and Budapest. He thought about love, and sacrifice, and the sheer stupidity of human emotions.
He looked up as Ramonda, flanked by a pair of Dora Milaje, rushed into the cubicle. Everett got up and moved out of the way. Ramonda bent over her child, keening and speaking in distraught Xhosa.
"Better get her out of here," Everett said. Ramonda glanced up at him, bewildered. He turned to the Dora Milaje. "What are you waiting for? Take her home where she can get some decent medical attention!"
Ramonda nodded to her bodyguards. One of the Dora Milaje removed Shuri's IV. The other lifted Shuri up and quickly walked away.
"You," said Everett, as Ramonda rose to follow. "Wait. Bring up those destiny maps."
"You also are wounded," said Ramonda, irrelevantly, just now noticing the blood that soaked his shirt.
"I'll be fine. Just bring up the maps. Do it now."
Ramonda did as he demanded. The two schematics still lay over each other, in each other, as they had when she had first merged them in her suite.
"Separate them," he said.
With a flick of her finger, she separated the two schematics.
"Is she safe now?"
"Yes," said Ramonda. "She is safe."
"Even if we're no longer married?"
"Yes. Even if - But -"
"Then get the hell out of here."
"Agent Ross -"
"Don't. Just - don't."
And then she was gone. It was over. And the pain from the bullet wound in his shoulder kept him safe.