were both hit, it wouldn’t matter.
Max heard a soft thump that could only be Cassandra’s shoulder bag hitting the floor of the tunnel below them. The space had narrowed here, but somehow Cassandra managed to wriggle around so that she could go out feet first. She hung by her fingers for a second before she let go. Max moved forward as quickly as he could so as not to lose the light. He peered out over the edge at her. She was wiping her hands on her jeans.
Exercise in futility , Max thought; they were both as filthy as crawling through rubble-filled, hundred-year-old tunnels could make them. With some relief Max saw that the electrified third rail was on the side farthest from their exit hole.
“Max, we haven’t got a lot of time.”
Max came out of his reverie with a start. “There isn’t enough room here for me to turn around,” he said. Even if he was limber enough to do it, which he had been when he was six. Maybe. His only option was to go out head first.
He looked more closely at the wall beneath him and snorted. Of course, the hole they were coming out of was at center of the tunnel, with no wall or support column anywhere near.
“Wriggle out,” she said. “I’ll catch you.”
“The hell you will,” he muttered. But really, what choice did he have? He edged forward until he was hanging by his hipbones, the edge of the rough cement cutting painfully into the tops of his thighs. He craned his neck to look at Cassandra, but that movement arched his back too much for balance and he started to slip—
“Don’t look at me, just reach down.”
He did as he was told. Two hands clamped painfully around his upper arms, and before he knew it, he had been dragged out of the hole and was being shoved upright.
“There, that’s better.”
Max was glad she thought so; he was going to have bruises on his arms to match the ones on the front of his thighs. He looked around. This tunnel was the tidy younger brother of the one in the abandoned station. There were lights here and—
And a rumbling.
“Oh, shit,” he said, even as Cassandra knocked the breath out of him, pressing him against the wall with her own body. Max wrapped his arms around her and hung on for dear life.
Max had an instant to register the feeling of Cassandra’s body pressed against his, thigh against thigh, breasts flattened against his chest; to breathe in the saffron scent of her hair, to realize that her armor was pliable and ever-so-slightly warmer, not colder, than her skin—then the wall of air pushed through the tunnel by the train behind it slammed into them.
Some indeterminable time later, the world stopped shaking.
“Max.”
“Hmmmm.”
“You have to let go of me.”
Max loosened his grip just enough to be able to look her in the eyes. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Of course you do,” she said in a tired voice. “Bards and Poets always think they know what other people are thinking.”
“Well, I’m a history teacher, so what does that prove?”
“It proves you study the wrong kind of history, not to know that Bards and Poets were the history teachers before there were people like you.”
Max shrugged without letting go of her. She had moved her hands so that her palms were flat against his chest, but she wasn’t pushing him away. “Were they usually right, or wrong?”
The look Cassandra gave him was as good an answer as any, and Max smiled.
“Very well, what am I thinking?” she said.
“You’re thinking that this,” he tightened his hold and moved against her ever so slightly so that she could be in no doubt as to what he meant, “is just a reaction to almost dying . . . several times. It isn’t.” Max’s voice lowered as his teasing tone died away, and he knew that he’d never been more serious. “It isn’t.”
He felt Cassandra begin to tremble. By the time she was
Max heard a soft thump that could only be Cassandra’s shoulder bag hitting the floor of the tunnel below them. The space had narrowed here, but somehow Cassandra managed to wriggle around so that she could go out feet first. She hung by her fingers for a second before she let go. Max moved forward as quickly as he could so as not to lose the light. He peered out over the edge at her. She was wiping her hands on her jeans.
Exercise in futility , Max thought; they were both as filthy as crawling through rubble-filled, hundred-year-old tunnels could make them. With some relief Max saw that the electrified third rail was on the side farthest from their exit hole.
“Max, we haven’t got a lot of time.”
Max came out of his reverie with a start. “There isn’t enough room here for me to turn around,” he said. Even if he was limber enough to do it, which he had been when he was six. Maybe. His only option was to go out head first.
He looked more closely at the wall beneath him and snorted. Of course, the hole they were coming out of was at center of the tunnel, with no wall or support column anywhere near.
“Wriggle out,” she said. “I’ll catch you.”
“The hell you will,” he muttered. But really, what choice did he have? He edged forward until he was hanging by his hipbones, the edge of the rough cement cutting painfully into the tops of his thighs. He craned his neck to look at Cassandra, but that movement arched his back too much for balance and he started to slip—
“Don’t look at me, just reach down.”
He did as he was told. Two hands clamped painfully around his upper arms, and before he knew it, he had been dragged out of the hole and was being shoved upright.
“There, that’s better.”
Max was glad she thought so; he was going to have bruises on his arms to match the ones on the front of his thighs. He looked around. This tunnel was the tidy younger brother of the one in the abandoned station. There were lights here and—
And a rumbling.
“Oh, shit,” he said, even as Cassandra knocked the breath out of him, pressing him against the wall with her own body. Max wrapped his arms around her and hung on for dear life.
Max had an instant to register the feeling of Cassandra’s body pressed against his, thigh against thigh, breasts flattened against his chest; to breathe in the saffron scent of her hair, to realize that her armor was pliable and ever-so-slightly warmer, not colder, than her skin—then the wall of air pushed through the tunnel by the train behind it slammed into them.
Some indeterminable time later, the world stopped shaking.
“Max.”
“Hmmmm.”
“You have to let go of me.”
Max loosened his grip just enough to be able to look her in the eyes. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Of course you do,” she said in a tired voice. “Bards and Poets always think they know what other people are thinking.”
“Well, I’m a history teacher, so what does that prove?”
“It proves you study the wrong kind of history, not to know that Bards and Poets were the history teachers before there were people like you.”
Max shrugged without letting go of her. She had moved her hands so that her palms were flat against his chest, but she wasn’t pushing him away. “Were they usually right, or wrong?”
The look Cassandra gave him was as good an answer as any, and Max smiled.
“Very well, what am I thinking?” she said.
“You’re thinking that this,” he tightened his hold and moved against her ever so slightly so that she could be in no doubt as to what he meant, “is just a reaction to almost dying . . . several times. It isn’t.” Max’s voice lowered as his teasing tone died away, and he knew that he’d never been more serious. “It isn’t.”
He felt Cassandra begin to tremble. By the time she was
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