Sam
Her driver is waiting for her right after the hit.
As they leave the streets of Oxford and head toward Londinium, Sam closes her eyes. For a moment she imagines that they’re going to drive forever and ever, that maybe the car isn’t taking her back to Londinium but past it, through the tunnel to France and the rest of Europe and onward until she doesn’t know where she is anymore. That maybe she can leave all this behind by physically escaping it.
But even in her imagination, she knows this is impossible. The minutes and miles go by, and she tries to cast everything out of her memory, wants to erase Dominique’s slumped figure and the vacant look in her eyes. But the sand in her blood makes sure that her memory remains startlingly clear, and instead, her mind plays and replays a tapestry of snapshots from the night, as sharp as if she’d taken photos of every moment.
When they arrive at the hotel in Londinium, the greeter doesn’t bother to smile at her, and the staff member by the lift’s doors holds it open without even looking at her, as if he isn’t even aware he’s letting someone in. Sam leans her head against the metal wall as the lift takes her quietly to her floor. She wants someone to notice her, but the sand won’t let that happen either.
She reaches her floor and heads toward her suite. But when she passes Will’s door, she stops in front of it, hesitating.
And suddenly, she thinks of Ari. Feels him tracing the symbol for gold on her palm. Sees him silhouetted on a moonlit beach. Hears his voice.
Because I missed you.
There is an urge in her to cry and she can’t understand it. Can’t understand why she thinks of him now, of a time before all of this. Can’t understand what they have done. Can’t understand how to bear it. All she wants in this moment is to be back at that beach, flowers braided into her hair, listening to him make her a promise that he can’t keep.
But Ari isn’t here. She’s just standing in a hall, staring at Will’s door.
Maybe he’s not even back from Oxford yet. She has no idea what business he’d attended to while she was on assignment, or how long his work might take tonight. Even if he is here already, he’ll be annoyed with her if she disturbs him now. Will had specifically told her to meet him here the next morning. But Sam stands in the hall and imagines herself going to her empty hotel room, washing her hands again and again until her skin cracks and bleeds.
Suddenly, she’s terrified of being alone.
If she wanted to, she could transmute his door open, could turn the lock into water and let it drip to the carpet, leaving a gaping hole. If she wants to, she has the power to do anything.
Instead, she reaches into her purse and takes out another sand pill. She swallows it. Then she decides to knock.
The door opens a second later to reveal Will. The collar of his shirt is undone, his tie is loose, and a glass of wine is in his hand. He looks at her and says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He can tell from her expression that she was successful at her assignment, that by morning, Lumines will know about it.
“Yes?” he says.
His tone is flat and hostile, but tonight Sam is too exhausted to fear it. Without a word, she walks past him and into his room.
The lights are dim. Beyond the entry hall, she can see the entire city of Londinium glittering outside his windows. She stops and turns back to him. In the dimness, he is a collection of dark and light lines, eyes black and glittering, figure silent and powerful. His gaze wanders down her body, then back up to her face. She’s reminded of the first time she ever saw him behind the Odyssey, when she was still a girl, and how his eyes had somehow found her in the night, piercing all the way into her soul. How she had desired him, even then.
“What is it, Sam?” he says quietly.
She looks up at him, grits her teeth, and takes a step closer. There’s a cry inside her, and when she speaks, her words come out hoarse.
“I want to forget,” she says.
He studies her thoughtfully, and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to send her back out into the hall, tell her to go to her own room, that she’ll feel better in the morning.
“Will, please,” she whispers, and for a moment, she’s not even sure what she’s asking for.
He takes a step toward her too. The second dose of sand is flooding her body now, heightening everything. His hand comes up to hold her chin, tilts it up to him. She’s suspended there, quivering in his grasp.
Then he leans down and, at long last, kisses her.
She sighs in gratitude and longing. Her lips part and she kisses him back, harder, harsher. He responds in kind. As he does, he holds out his wineglass and lets it drop, and the glass shatters against the hallway floor. Wine spills across the wood. Freed, his other hand presses against her bare back and pulls her to him.
Make me forget, Will,she thinks feverishly.
His lips are moving along her jaw, her ear, her neck, her clavicle, and her skin prickles with pleasure in his hands. Her mind feels broken, and tonight, all she wants is to fill her brain with this. To push everything else out. How many years has she fantasized about him touching her? She concentrates on that, her long yearning. The grief that shards her heart numbs, tranquilized, and she thinks maybe this is the same as solving it. She doesn’t dwell anymore on the slide of a knife through a human, how easily the body gives way. She’s only whispering his name now.
Will. Will, please.
She can’t remember him sliding her dress off her body, or him lifting her up—maybe she gets up on her own and lets him lead her across the room to the bed. It’s strange, because doesn’t her mind record everything? Isn’t the sand surging through her veins, eating away at the surface of her heart? She doesn’t know and doesn’t care. She wants to be dizzy. At some point, her back hits the bedsheets and then Will is hovering over her. She sees him pulling loose the tie from around his neck and looping it in one hand. Her heart jumps in panicked anticipation. Of course Will isn’t a gentle lover.
