Southern Cross the Dog by Bill Cheng

said.
    Duke signed the registry, and the girl came around and took him by the elbow. She walked him down the carpeted hall and up the staircase, her small warm body against his. He swallowed and his throat was dry and clacking and painful. When they came to the room, she stopped at the door. She held his key in her hand.
    Was there anything else you wanted?, she asked him. She smiled and he could see the small gap between her teeth.
    Duke felt a shiver.
    There anything you need?
    Her voice trailed off.
    He could not help but grin.
    Yes, he said. He was aware of his size, towering and bearlike over this creature.
    My throat is a little dry.

    THEY SAT TOGETHER ALONE IN his room, he in his chair and she on the bed, stripped down to her underwear. He lit a candle and watched her as she poured from a jug into a clay cup. With the cup she crossed the narrow space between the bed and the chair and sat herself across his lap. Her fingers raked against his smooth hairless head. She tipped the cup into her mouth, letting it run out into his.
    More, he said. Do that again.
    She pincered her knees around his sides and hoisted herself up. She guided his hands up her body. He was surprised at the heat—her volcanic body. He could feel her moving through his clothes.
    You want more?
    She reached for the jug and tilted back his chin, parting his lips. She poured. It was warm and messy and he gulped hungrily. His throat bucked against the sting, but still she poured.
    No more, she said, laughing. You’ll get it all over me.
    More, he said.
    Nuh-uh. Don’t you think it’s time for something else?
    She climbed off and knelt beneath him. He adjusted himself as she slid down his trousers. He could feel her begin to work. His breath was pounding. His breath became short and clipped. He could feel his muscles uncoupling.
    Oh my, she purred. Aren’t you something?
    He could feel her nails raking against his thighs. His skin felt bright and alive. He rolled his eyes back into his head. His head began to swim. He hummed with pleasure.
    Do you know who I am?, he whispered. His voice was full of wind.
    Mmm . . .
    She moved slowly. He felt himself engorging. He clenched.
    Do you know the things I can do?

    DUKE WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, his throat raw, his skull throbbing. He sat up. The room was a mess and the girl was gone. The floor was littered with empty jugs of rye. He swung his legs from the mattress and hawked a wad of bright red phlegm into a kerchief. He made a halfhearted noise of disgust and rousted himself out of bed. He struggled out to the basin and splashed his face with cold water before finally putting on his clothes.
    He went out and knocked on the door of the adjacent room.
    There was no answer, only a knot of sheets torn from the mattress and heaped in a nest on the floor. The air was rank with booze and sex. On the sill, he noticed candles melted down into stumps and a row of small unmarked jars. He had heard about Eli’s superstitious inclinations but had yet to have the opportunity to see it firsthand. He crossed into the room and picked up one of the candles.
    It was smooth and slick in his hands. He set it down and wiped his fingers on his shirt before going back out. He hunted through the halls and in the kitchen and the parlor until at last he found him outside in the backyard with Lucy. Duke’s head was aching and the bright morning light was a knife in his already battered brain.
    The two were sitting on a splintered picnic bench, talking in low hushed voices. Eli’s eyes were bloodshot and his clothes were crumpled. It did not appear he had gone to bed the night before. His face had a telltale sheen of grease, and his hair was matted still from where he’d been wearing his hat.
    For a moment, Duke stood at the door and watched her. It was her. He would recognize her anywhere. She had gotten older, certainly, but if anything, her age had made her more desirable—the shock of