Starfishers Volume 1: Shadowline by Glen Cook Page B

relaxed, but not much. She edged away whenever he eased nearer, trying to draw comfort from her proximity and warmth.
    “Polly, please . . . ”
    The apartment door opened.
    It was night in the Fortress of Iron. The hall lights had been dimmed. They saw only the silhouette of a man standing with feet widespread and arms crossed. Anger radiated from him.
    Lucifer, voice pitched an octave high, squealed, “You slut! You unholy slut! With my own goddamned brother!”
    He flung himself into the room. The light of the bedside lamp caught his face. It was the face of a killer. He seized Pollyanna’s arm and jerked her to her feet, hit her once in the gut, doubled her over. He planted another on her chin. He was swinging hard. Benjamin oofed when his brother’s fist cracked the second time. He thought Lucifer had broken her jaw.
    Lucifer broke his hand. He let out a little mewl of surprise and pain and looked at the fist, puzzled.
    Benjamin reached Lucifer, hurled him away from Pollyanna. Lucifer stumbled over a chair and went down. He came up cursing. “You bastard. You leave my wife alone. I’ll kill you.” He charged Benjamin. His good hand clutched a knife.
    Someone looked in the door, stared momentarily, then ran away.
    Baffled and frightened, Benjamin crouched, waited. He blocked the knife stroke, punched Lucifer, tried for a grip on Lucifer’s wrist above the blade. Lucifer danced back, crouched himself.
    They had been taught in their father’s schools. They were proficient killers. An uninvolved observer would have considered it an interesting match.
    Lucifer feinted, feinted, stabbed. Benjamin slid aside, chopped down at the blade. It was not where he expected it to be. It drew a fine line of blood from the skin of his thigh as it withdrew.
    “I’ll take care of that,” Lucifer snarled, nodding at his brother’s groin. “You won’t be bedding anyone’s wife. Not even your own, you arrogant, pretty bastard.” He circled. Sweating, Benjamin waited.
    He kicked a pillow at his brother’s face. Lucifer leaned out of the way, moved in.
    A blast of icy water hit him, hurled him across the room. Benjamin turned. The water hit like the pummeling of a hundred fists. It drove him against a wall. “Stop it, goddamnit!” he raged.
    The water stopped.
    Two Legionnaires stood in the doorway, holding a fire hose. Frieda Storm pushed past them, her face aquiver with anger. She looked every bit as daunting as her father, Cassius. “Benjamin. Get your clothes on. Woman. You too. Lucifer. On your feet. Now!” She kicked him. It was no delicate female toe tap.
    She did not ask what had happened. That was obvious.
    “What the hell is the matter with you?” she demanded of Benjamin. “There a suicidal streak in you? First that crap with Richard’s cruiser, now this.”
    “Mother, I . . . ”
    “Homer did it. Yes. And who’s responsible for Homer? Who let him do it? Heinrich, take Lucifer to Medical. There’s something wrong with his hand.” She moved toward Pollyanna. The girl was getting dressed so fast she kept getting snaps lined up wrong. Frieda grabbed her chin, turned her head one way, then the other. Pollyanna avoided her eyes. “What happened to your throat?”
    “I did it,” Benjamin murmured.
    “What did you say?”
    “I did it, Mother. I had the dream . . . This time he caught me. I was fighting him.”
    Frieda’s face changed slightly. It was not a softening, just a momentary shadow of fear. “I’ll have to talk to Madame Endor. Get a new reading. She was afraid this would happen.”
    “Mother . . . ”
    “Benjamin, don’t you have any decency? Don’t you have any common sense? This is your brother’s wife. This is your brother’s home. Shut up! I know she’s a damned public utility. I know that anybody who asks gets. You should have brains enough not to ask. You should, for Christ’s sake, have brains enough to realize that he’d want to see her tonight. He’s leaving