The scent of new pennies and luck filled the air as the lucky one walked down the darkened sidewalk.
Ah.
So.
The trickster and his lucky one were meeting again.
The wind ran over her cool-to-touch skin. It tousled the ends of her long, red, maple-leaf hair. It tasted the honey-rich, shivery flavor of her. Stroking the lucky one’s skin felt like riding on the ripples of water after a penny had been wished on and plunked into a cool fountain. It was a soft splash, a quiet plunge, a joyful ripple.
She stopped next to the trickster.
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye then said, staring at the plaque, “‘They saw their homes struck down without warning . . . it was not their walls but their valor that kept them free.’”
The trickster had a cool, mellow woman’s voice. The wind hummed, wondering if the lucky one would know it was him.
But of course she did. She smiled, peering at the plaque, then said, “And perhaps a bit of luck.”
The trickster’s pulse thrummed wildly, and his hands shook as he let his fingers brush along the back of the lucky one’s hand.
She exhaled sharply, and then her smile widened. “Hello, stranger.”
“Hello, love.”
The lucky one looked over her shoulder, quickly scanning the dark street. No one was there. She turned and walked away. The trickster waited for a moment and then followed. He always followed her as if he were being pulled by an invisible string.
The wind thought about leaving to hunt down the solange-eyed one. It seesawed back and forth, undecided. Should it go? Should it stay?
But what had happened the last time it hadn’t known the trickster’s secrets? It hadn’t known the musician and the citrus and pearl dust scented woman were alive.
It sped after the trickster.
He ducked into the vestibule of an apartment building, and the wind whooshed through just as the door slammed. The wind rustled the paper recycling and then climbed the stairs after the trickster.
At the second floor, the lucky one unlocked an apartment door. She smiled over her shoulder. Even with illusion, the trickster’s gaze filled with fire.
She shoved open the door. The trickster followed her in. He kicked the door shut behind him. The wind slammed into the wood. It bounced to the floor and huffed, shaking itself off.
There was a crack between the door and the floor. The wind settled against the wood and flew into the lucky one’s apartment.
“. . . got your Silencer—” she said, but then she broke off, because the trickster had her pressed against the wall, his mouth over hers.
He was himself again. He held the lucky one’s face gently, stroking his thumbs over her cheeks as his mouth devoured hers.
“Don’t care about the Silencer . . .” He stopped, consumed by her mouth.
The lucky one made a protesting sound, “You’d better. I risked my life. The Merchant?—”
“Cora.”
She smiled. “Yes?”
The trickster’s pulse raced. His skin seared the wind. He shivered as he stroked the lucky one’s cheek. “I missed you.”
Her mouth softened, and she turned her face into the trickster’s hand, kissing his fingertips. His gaze devoured her as she pressed her mouth to each of his fingers and then to the center of his palm.
The wind fluttered across the lucky one’s lips and tingled at the honeyed, lucky sensation. She was a shooting star, and the trickster held himself still so he could wish on her luminescence.
After she pulled her lips from the trickster’s palm, she whispered, “I missed you too.”
