A Once Crowded Sky: A Novel by Tom King;Tom Fowler

Author:Tom King;Tom Fowler
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Literary, Fantasy, General, Fiction
ISBN: 9781451652000
Publisher: Touchstone
Published: 2012-07-10T00:00:00+00:00

Anna Averies Romance, Vol. 3, #4 of 4

“So, Star-Knight might know something?”

“Supposedly.”

“So, Star-Knight might know something, supposedly.”

“Yeah.”

“And now you and Soldier are going to use your superteam to find out what he knows.”

“More of a team-up than a superteam. Team-up’s usually only two. Superteam can be like, y’know, any number. Any number more than two.”

“Okay. So now you and Soldier are going to use your quote/unquote team-up to find out what Star-Knight knows? Supposedly.”

“Yeah.”

“God, you’re such a nerd.”

Anna tucks the sheets into the side of the bed and watches her husband fail to mimic the act; some parts fold fine into the cracks while other obviously overlooked corners retain their unearned freedom. With a purposefully audible sigh, she shifts around to the other side of the bed to help him.

“This is right, right?” Pen asks.

“You’re not a run-of-the-mill nerd either. You’re like . . . king of all the nerds in Nerdland.” She bumps her hips into his and, having shuffled him aside, starts to slip the wayward blue fabric back in underneath their mattress, using her hands to smooth out the wrinkles. Strongest man in the world. Indeed.

“So . . . not right then?”

“I mean, ‘team-up,’ ‘superteam.’ I was dating a nice doctor before I met you. He liked football. Football, Pen. Football.”

Pen shrugs. “Bet I could beat him up.”

She runs her hand over the now smooth sheet. “Hand me a pillowcase.”

“Sure.” Pen rolls his neck, searching around their small bedroom, which is full of mismatched furniture culled from both of their former places. “Pillowcases. Yes. Pillow. Cases. And they would be located where, exactly?”

“Seriously? We’ve been living here for how many years?”

Pen shrugs again and makes a perfunctory movement toward the taller dresser, glancing behind him, clearly looking to his wife’s facial expressions to see if maybe he’s hot, or perhaps cold? Maybe?

She meets his glance with a sharp, conceding glare. “The doctor, he even cooked. Knew where all the utensils were and everything. And after he cooked, and, mind you, did all the dishes, he might—I don’t know—call up his poker buddies and invite them over to watch the game on TV. No Star Trekking across the multiverse to fight Quadruple-Man using fatchian-catchian rays. Just guys, beers, football. I think he might’ve been homecoming king or something.”

“Still could beat him up.” Pen rolls up his T-shirt sleeve and flexes. Veins ramble through his arm, the artificial ones Ultimate left there. From this close, she can see their pulse, the purpled-yellow streaks waxing and waning against his tight, pink skin. If she were closer still, she’d hear their hum as they vibrate through her husband’s responding tissue.

No matter how many times—it still scares her. A ten-year-old boy strapped to a sterile table, his eyes draining, pleading; a giant robot towering over him, sewing wires into his body, tying off knots that had been needled through muscle.

“Well,” she says, “least he made his bed every day.”

She doesn’t see Pen move. She never does; he’s too fast. She’s in the air, then she’s on top of him, his arms tugging her deeper into the comforter.

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