Free Whiskey and Water by Elizabeth Bear Page B

mantel, long legs crossed
in dark blue jeans. "You don't think she's avoiding you, Michael?"
    Michael met his look frowning, with a
lifted chin, and held on until he glanced away. She zipped her jacket, the long
smooth sound of nylon teeth meshing like a paper sheer. Autumn, crouching to
spare her back when she swung her pack over her shoulder, saw the exchange, and
wondered why it left her uneasy, her palms clammy and cold.
    The stare held no mysteries for Michael.
She stepped forward, her footsteps swinging like the stride of a big, angry
man, and headed for the door. "See you there," she called.
    Christian at her heels, she left the rest
behind.
    The house was a ramshackle old creature
with a shabby front porch, three concrete steps descending to a graveled walk
before the drive. Crisp air surrounded them, filled Michael's lungs as she
breathed deep, stepping to one side.
    As the screen door banged shut behind
Christian, she turned and kneed him in the groin. He doubled and she swept his
legs out from under him, a hard well-placed kick that sent him sprawling off
the stoop. He fell silently but grunted when he hit, and rolled onto his back,
hands raised in front of him, bits of grass and gravel clinging to indented
palms.
    Michael — " he said, warningly.
    She paused on the second step, her broad
blade shining in her hand.
    Stand up and fight," she said, the
words curling from her lips on wisps of breath. The grimace on her face was
almost a rictus. "Stand up, damn you."
    Too late," he said, and scrambled
backward into a crouch. "Don't you think you'd better put your sword away
before somebody notices?"
    She snorted. "Nobody notices an angel
unless he wants to be noticed. Christian."
    "He notices." A short jerk of his thumb upward, and
then a wince, as he looked down and brushed sharp pebbles off the heel of his
hand. "Sparrows falling and blades of grass. And He doesn't like you getting
involved the way you used to anymore, does He?"
    Michael descended the last two steps as if
sliding on a track, her blade glaring savage green-white as she cut air. The
hiss of collapsing vacuum followed the slash; the sword annihilated what it
touched.
    "It might be worth it." She
leveled the blade at Christian. "Just this once. To make sure you leave
that girl alone, instead of twisting her around your devil's finger."
    Christian blinked at the weapon, and
stood, dusting himself with careful palms, as casually as if Michael were
aiming a feather duster at him and not a blade composed of primal entropy.
"Lily Liked me," he said. "And you know what? That's your
problem, Michael. Nobody likes you. Nobody ever has. And I can teach Lily
to use her power. You wouldn't even permit her that."
    "I have love," Michael said.
"And that's all I need. Or Lily needs."
    "Just like your God." He stepped
back. She didn't follow, though the sword remained trained on him, unwavering.
"Just like Him to give potential and desire, and make the fulfillment a
sin. Bit of a practical joker, isn't He?
    "Leave Lily Wakeman alone."
    Christian kissed the palm of his hand at
the angel. "Make me."
    From the moment Matthew Magus emerged from
the police station with the two human children under his care, the stallion had
known he would not serve the purpose. He and the poet retreated to the green
and relative comfort of Central Park to seek another angle. Thomas—his cloak
folded now into his rucksack along with his flute—threw popcorn purchased with
vanishing Faerie silver to a motley crowd of pigeons while Whiskey stood, hands
in the pockets of his trousers, and watched the children and the carriages and
the pretty girls. The carriage horses knew him, and shied or nodded as their
natures indicated when they creaked and clopped past. The mortal men were less
aware, although more than one of the young women turned to look and flirt and
smile. "Could we not make haste, Whiskey?" the poet said, when he
couldn't stay silent another second. He cast a sidelong glance at