Invasions and Exits
Isat up with a start the next morning, my heart pounding, gasping for air. There had been a dream, or something like it—some knowledge of being studied in a way that had nothing to do with the events the night before—and as soon as my eyes opened, it all just…evaporated, only the symptoms of fear remaining.
Booker stood by the bedroom window, sun cascading over his bare chest. It was a proud pose for him, arms crossed behind his back, feet spread. I hadn't given much thought to Booker's posture before, aside from enjoying the sight of him, but this struck me as unfamiliar. I reached through the sheets around me, searching for Ezra, and came up empty just as Booker looked over his shoulder at me. The lovely clarity of his eyes from the night before was missing again, replaced with cool stone.
"Good morning, Booker," I said, smiling at my golem and reaching for him, wondering how easy it might be to draw out that living stare, rile him up to those tangled expressions he'd worn as I rode him.
He turned and walked smoothly toward the bed, a stiff, broad smile on his lips, almost as if he were mimicking Ezra or Auguste. But he settled on his knees at the edge of the mattress, leaning in and pushing me back down into the pillows, nuzzling into my throat as I laughed at the greeting.
"You're in a nice mood this morning," I sighed, arching beneath him to let the sheet slip down from my chest.
Booker pushed my knees apart with one hand, the other sliding up from my shoulder to cover my throat. I relaxed, even as my heart drummed, remembering the way he held me like this as he'd fingered me the first time, welcoming a repeat of the gentle grip.
And then he squeezed.
"You have no sense of self-preservation, do you, child?"
I froze in the bed, staring up at the milky eyes looking back at me, in a face so perfectly familiar. But that was not Booker's voice. I opened my mouth to scream, and the stone fingers tightened, shrinking the sounds to a squeak. I reached up for his wrist on my throat, but it was useless, my nails scratching and skidding over polished stone, leaving no impression, no evidence of my struggle. Booker's face just grinned, an eerily airy chuckle falling from that toothy expression.
"Golems are wonderful tools, empty vessels to be filled with a master's purpose. And here was this one, lost to its creator, simply existing…" the voice said, using Booker's handsome features in all the wrong ways.
I tried to kick, but it did more harm to my shin than to Booker's body and whatever was using him—
No, of course. I knew who had Booker.
"Birsha," I mouthed.
"Mmm, but you're not so stupid then," he said, head tilting, hips lowering to mine to pin me helplessly. "Banal, and yet exceptional. By all rights, I should find you as delightful as they all seem to, and yet…"
I glowered up into the blank stare, pulling the tiny little breaths the grip on my throat granted me, going limp beneath the body trapping me. Booker was a good tool for this man's cruelty. I couldn't fight against marble, couldn't do him any harm, and I'd only hurt myself trying. None of that hurt as fiercely as the stabbing sensation in my heart of my tormentor wearing my friend's features.
"…And yet I think I'd rather crush you than keep you."
My lips formed around the words, and Birsha used Booker's face to scowl, the grip easing just enough to let me speak.
"Because you don't really want anyone to be enjoying themselves," I hissed through my strangled throat. "You want them hurting and hating themselves and each other."
Birsha only laughed. "Not stupid at all, perhaps," he allowed. "But still not worth keeping."
"Booker won't let you hurt me," I squeezed out in a rush. "He's not an empty vessel at all."
Booker's fingers tightened, cutting off my speech, and Birsha laughed. "He's made of stone, child. There's no heart beating for you. No thoughts racing around the vision of your little face going red as I deny you air. He'll wake up as I leave, and he won't—"
Birsha stalled as I slid my hands up Booker's arms, trembling a little, spots appearing in my vision.
"—He won't even blink when he sees—"
I tiptoed my fingertips up Booker's throat to stroke over the marble cheekbones and the broad nose.
"—Sees your lifeless heap on the—"
I traced my touch around Booker's lips and Birsha's words stalled, grip faltering just enough for the world to return, a little brighter and painfully sharp. I sucked in what I could, the air burning in my lungs.
Booker's eyes were blue, a darker ring around the irises, and wide with horror.
"Hello, friend," I mouthed, petting his face.
His expression snarled, hauling me up with both hands around my neck, Birsha redoubling his efforts, squeezing so tight with Booker's grip, I thought I might actually snap and—
A great grinding bellow exploded from Booker's lips, an arm snapping around my back and hauling me to his chest, my own circling him limply. My mouth reached his throat, and I kissed the spot there, clinging to Booker as he vibrated with anger, fighting off Birsha's hold.
"Esther—"
"Push him out," I hissed, and Booker growled, stone grinding, arms tightening almost too fiercely.
The door to my bedroom opened, and Booker let out a long shuddering moan, his fingers finally loosening, as Jonathon dropped his bag and rushed for the bed.
"Esther?! My god, Booker, what are you doing? Let her go!"
I tightened my hold on Booker with a fresh gasp of air, squeezing myself around him, even as Jonathon tried to haul me away.
"Esther? Esther! Are you all right?! Christ, Booker—"
"No," I gasped out, snatching at one of Jonathon's hands tugging on me. "No, stop. Stop. I'm fine. Booker?"
Booker shuddered, but neither he nor I released one another, and Jonathon finally gave up the struggle, pressing himself to my back and lifting my hair to examine my neck.
"Esther, darling, what did he do?"