Glimmering by Elizabeth Hand Page A

because suddenly she was back in the seat beside him, making soft shushing noises as she stroked his cheeks and kissed his mouth, silencing him. He pushed her away, gasping for breath, then quickly pulled her back.
    “You,” he whispered. Her hair was like water in his hands as he kissed her, the soured sweetness of her tongue and her small teeth clicking against his. He kept his eyes open, because he had never seen anything like this before, could never in his life have imagined this strange girl with the white hair and amethyst eyes, curling into his lap with her delicate fingers flexed against his chest, moving the heavy gold cross aside to feel his heart beat. “You . . .”
    She tilted her head to gaze at him, unsmiling. Her eyes were wide. They caught the reflected shimmer of the constellations processing across the dome: Canes Venatici, Coma Berenices, Virgo. He could see her small front teeth, a spark of saliva glinting upon her lower lip. Her chest moved in time with his and her hands pressed against his belly; but her expression was coldly, almost malevolently, ferine. It should have frightened him. Instead he was getting hard again.
    “. . . most famous are those of the sixteen th-cen tury French medical doctor known to us as Nostradamus. His prediction that ‘in the New City the sky burns at forty-five degrees’ has been interpreted by many as a warning of the destruction of the ozone layer here above Manhattan and of the atmospheric disturbances that followed . . .”
    Trip scanned the rows in front of them. They seemed to be empty, as were the two rows behind them. On the other side of the circular room, he could barely make out the shapes of schoolchildren staring raptly at the dome.
    “. . . also spoke of plagues that would devour man and animals alike. Millennial cultists such as the Wheel of Light and the New Puseyites believe that Nostradamus’s references to ‘The Last Conflagration’ dovetail neatly with the famous apocalyptic visions of Saint John the Divine, and that these in turn point indisputably to the celestial special effects dubbed ‘the glimmering’ by Stanford astrophysicist Francis Partridge. Scientists, of course . . .”
    “Come here,” Trip whispered. He slid from his chair to the floor, crouching. The blond girl sank deeper into her chair, so that her disembodied head seemed to rest upon the points of her skinny knees. “Come here ,” he repeated more urgently.
    She went to him. Without a word, seemingly without even moving. One moment she was there above him. The next he was staring into her huge eyes, and her hands were upon his knees.
    “Hey,” he whispered, startled. “I—”
    She shook her head, raised her hand, and brushed it across his lips. Her fingers smelled of earth, her touch was oddly damp. But her mouth was hot as before, and tasted like buttermilk. He put his arms around her and drew her to him, clumsily. She was so frail, he could feel her bones like the spars of a kite. If he handled her roughly her skin might tear.
    “Marz.” He kissed her cheeks, her eyes, the wisps of hair at her temples. “Marz—”
    “Shhh,” she said, then murmured, “ I love you. ”
    She tilted her head, staring at him. Her hair held the restless sheen of leaves in moonlight. Her pale eyes gleamed as she drew away, and he could see her pupils, not swollen and black as they should be in this darkness but mere specks, like the dark pistils at the heart of a myrtle blossom. Her gaze unnerved him, it was so detached, but before he could say anything or even look away she smiled, her little white teeth glinting.
    “Come here,” she whispered.
    Trip’s breath caught in his throat. He started to back away, but her hand closed upon his wrist, surprisingly strong. “No. Wait ,” she commanded, and dipped her head and in one smooth motion pulled off her sweater. Then she leaned forward and took his hands in hers.
    “Like this,” she murmured.
    He shook his head, glancing up