Sleep (Excerpt of "Slow Dread", book 2 of the Hunter series)
How to lure in the skittish
Quick heads-up for my English subscribers:
Due to unfortunate circumstances (a lot of time pressure on a whole host of bureaucratic bother I’m not even sure is legal; but since I don’t get to make the rules, and it seems more opportune to comply with their requests for the moment…) I might not make the weekly translation piece I’d promised on time this week.
Thought I’d give you an extra piece of the snippets already in English instead, as a kind of advance “sorry” for the delay, just in case ;)
Have fun.
Sleep
.
„Hey.“
I’d been studying him for a while now while drinking my tea, the last of the day.
He wasn’t pacing. Just standing there, looking out the window. But he looked like pacing. Felt like pacing.
I’d never have thought he has the same problem as I do. Seemingly even worse. But it seemed rather much that even this comparably small village was causing him stress. It hadn’t been there while we were looking through all the small stores and then trying out the glassblower’s. Maybe because he’d had something to do then. But now?
It seemed rather palpable. A certain tension in his shoulders. The way he set them. Even the way he kept still, looking out, as if musing about the world or simply watching the wind play in the branches of the trees outside. Small enough I’d bet no one else would even pick up on it. There was no visible strain. No vein standing out on his neck, no brow crease, nothing. Perfect poker face like always. But to me it was like a flare. Somehow I had learned to read him anyway by now.
So I patted the mattress beside me. Well. Laid a hand there, more like. No patting involved. “Come here.”
.
The trick was in using my softest voice along to that small smile. The one I had noticed seemed to sometimes slip in with him in ways he didn’t even seem to register. Which was kinda hilarious, considering. He always noticed everything.
But now he just came over, sitting down where I had just removed my hand, barely seeming aware at all of why he was doing so. His bright eyes turned on me in that way he had when he was simply checking up on me.
“You’re not sleeping,” he said, in that overly neutral tone that always suggested he was noting something that shouldn’t be as it was.
My lips quirked at that. “Neither are you,” I said, pressing the cup of tea into his hands that I’d turned around to pour as he crossed over, then took my own again, taking another sip. He mirrored the motion, which had me smiling into my cup. In his mind, that was probably a good way to avoid having to talk. In mine? It was a perfect way to get him to calm down. Win-win.
We sat there for a while, both just sipping at our cups.
I took smaller ones, of course, having started before him. Didn’t want him to stand up again the second he noticed mine was done.
.
“Not tired?” he asked after a while.
I shook my head, still smiling. “No.”
The day was still running in my head. All the things we’d found. Picking our way through the art on display, the materials, the possibilities.
We might have chosen glass today, but my mind was still full with all the rest, wondering what to do next. He hadn’t given me a time limit, but I still felt like we only had a few days here, and I wouldn’t get to do all of them during that time, even if I only tried in snippets.
Maybe this was why, I thought, studying him out of peripheral vision. That restlessness I felt in him, transferring to myself. He’d probably stay much longer than he felt comfortable with, for my sake. If only I asked him to. But I didn’t want him to.
Which meant I’d have to chose wisely, since in a very real sense, time was running out. We’d been here only three days, and already he seemed nervous. Too many people around? Or maybe someone specific that he wanted to avoid, but felt more unsure about being able to do so, the longer we stayed. He’d not chosen this village by accident, after all. He knew about it.
Personally, the way he’d navigated us through the streets; explained about the shops, sometimes shared anecdotes about the owners. He’d been here before, and not just shortly. I wondered if he’d ever share as much with someone else. There was no question he knew what doing that would tell me. He picked and chose his tales too carefully for that. So he had no problem with me knowing he’d been here before and for an extended stay, too—yet, somehow he still didn’t want me to know who was haunting his mind. Strange. But he had a right to his secrets.
He’ll either tell me or he won’t. Pick his own time, I told myself, like always.
Give him time. Always give him time.
.
“What about you?” I asked, setting the cup away, on the small mini-desk thing they had here, on either side of the bed.
A nightstand, he’d called it. Never seen such a thing before. I guess I had other things on my mind in Oril’s Haven. Or maybe that was an artist thing. This was an artist village, after all. The whole town was full of them. Town, village—something in between, whatever the right word for that was. I moved closer and closed my arms around his shoulders from halfway behind, laying my chin on the back of his head. I already knew he’d find some evasion. No matter. Somehow asking anyway mattered. Sometimes. At the right times. Just a feeling. I wouldn‘t have been able to explain it.
“Still thinking about that glass technique,” he offered, laying slightly back, the back of his shoulders touching the front of mine. Accepting the invitation. Good.
“It is more tricky than it looks,” I agreed easily, as if I’d been asking about that, and not something else, starting to run my fingers through his hair. The glass always seemed to have a mind of its own, apparently, wanting to run whichever way, just not where you wanted it to, if you didn’t turn it just right, blew correctly—right amount, right time, right everything.
It had been a lot of mishaps today, and a lot of fun.
We’d laughed for what felt like hours, repeatedly, comparing our abysmal results.
Yes, both of us. Even he hadn’t succeeded at making something good this time.
“Always is,” he said, somewhat darkly, and I knew he wasn’t talking about the glass. There was a minute movement to his posture, his lungs, that felt like a small exhale. Almost a sigh. He set his cup down, next to mine, leaning over for a moment, before settling back. Or trying to.
Because I tugged him backwards instead [. . .]
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