Broken, Bruised and Brave

By L. A. Zoe

Love scares them . . . 

SeeJai and Rhinegold fight for their independence. 

Ever since a drunk driver killed her twin sister at age 3, SeeJai feels half a person. 

Her still-grieving mother barely remembers one of her daughters survived the accident. In high school, her best friend "outed" her on Facebook as a lesbian.

Thrown out into the street right before a major ice storm, SeeJai must survive. 

A "crazy" man not only befriends her, and loves her, but sees her as a magical soul.

SeeJai just wants a room of her own, a job, and a career to aim for while attending college. 

Love? People you love die, ignore you, and ultimately betray you.

As the lonely son of a wealthy lawyer, Rhinegold retreated into worlds of fantasy while growing up. The last thing he wants is to live like his father.

He left home and refuses to go to college as his father wants. Instead, he uses his martial arts skill to guard people against street criminals. Greco, the city's biggest pimp, pays Rhinegold to escort women to their hotel room trysts. However, he spends more time protecting mothers and children without charge.

A knight. A samurai. A dragon slayer. Protector of the weak. 

He once violated a social taboo to love a woman.

The only love he wants to feel is the chivalrous adoration of a lady fair.

Now he lives in a condemned house. At first, when he saves SeeJai from freezing to death, he does so simply as the Gold Knight, a duty.

He wants no payment in return, and her offer of her body to pay back her debt angers him.

Even when he falls in love with her, he intends for his life to remain unchanged.

He cannot handle SeeJai insisting he go to college.

So he retreats even further into fantasy. 

Can SeeJai save her savior?

Can Rhinegold protect her from his own demons?
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Love Conquers All Press
• Release date: Dec 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386903130

Book preview

JaeSea 1

January 2

Dear JaeSea,

If you’re really up there.

If you’re an angel earned her wings yet.

If you can somehow help us, like I once heard a TV psychic say you can.

Now’s the time.

Mom stopped eating and drinking again, just wouldn’t get out of bed for two days, so I got scared and called 911.

Only you can make Mom happy. Me, never.

So she’s been in the state hospital so long her SSI check stopped, and now old Mr. Granger evicted us.

My best friend Areetha is keeping our boxes of clothes, and I slept on her couch a few nights, but it’s a Section 8 apartment so she can’t let me stay long. Tonight I’m on my own.

There’s this stretch of street, called the Red Line, runs into Riverside Park, where girls and dudes wait, guys go to pick them up. If you accept, you’ve got to screw them. And they’ve got to let you sleep all night in a warm bed, take a shower, and give you breakfast. They don’t have to give you money, so it’s not like prostitution. Only trading. And if you’re suspicious of a guy, you just stay out of his car.

I’m not telling Areetha, because she wouldn’t approve even though she’s not exactly a nun herself, but what can I do? I can’t live at her place.

You know I’ve never done much of anything, and probably no guy wants me anyway, but maybe there’ll be one desperate enough, or when I wear my thick parka can’t see how skinny I am. I’ve got no money and it’s cold. Lots of snow’s still on the ground from last week, and an ice storm’s coming.

What else can I do? Freeze? Starve?

Your sister forever,

SeeJai

Chapter One

Meeting Rhinegold

The storm turned me into a human snow cone, sans sweet syrup.

Ice encased my furry hood, my parka, my gloves, my black denim slacks, my shoes, my eyelids, and my cheeks.

I stood just inside the cone of yellow light from a street lamp. Too nervous to stand right below it so the whole world could see me in the glare and know I was willing to trade my despised virginity for a mug of hot chocolate. But also scared if I stood in the dark, guys driving by wouldn’t even notice me. Think I was just one more pile of asphalt-gritty snow thrown up by the snowplow.

First thing in the morning I’d go check on Mom. The hospital didn’t seem to make her any happier than I could, despite all the medication they forced down her throat and her talking to doctors and counselors, but at least she was inside, and warm.

I faced the road, Riverside Park behind me, after the street began a slight incline. Around the corner, a house must not have taken down their Christmas decorations, because gold and red lights flashed, reflecting on the surrounding snow and ice, like the open mouth of Hell burning without warmth.

The north wind blew, carrying Arctic cold from the North Pole, across thousands of miles of glaciers inhabited only by seals and polar bears, more thousands of miles of Canadian birch, maple, and spruce wilderness of moose, elk, and wolves, over the barren badlands of Montana and Nebraska where bison used to roam in herds of millions, past coyotes, over two-meter-tall prairie and broom grass, then millions of acres of barren farmland, sliding over the wind-whipped white caps and ice chunked waves of the Mississippi River—right into Cromwell, picking up speed again in this emptiness between houses and the park...and slamming into me.

It would’ve frozen my titties and tushie off if I had any to speak of.

Not that I cared too much. I usually felt chilled inside. Normal for me. So the outside temperature just plummeted to match my cool heart.

Besides, what I was there to do, I had to do. I had to get through the night, one way or another.

With a thick, ultraslick layer of smooth-frozen water on top of the thick snow, walking seemed more like skating. Only I’m no Kim Yu-Na.

Overhead power lines hummed and buzzed over my head. Thick ice coated the wires, which made me nervous. The extra weight could break them, and I didn’t want to be down below when a live wire whipped around.

Down the block, a loud crack popped, followed by a crash, alerting me the ice just broke off a large tree branch.

With no late-night traffic, the winter world remained otherwise still, the air crisp though empty. All good citizens toasty watching TV in their living rooms beside crackling fireplaces with blue natural gas flames.

The loud engine noise rumbled through the night when it was still far away. A snow plow spreading rock salt. I could still hear it for a mile away after it passed by me without so much as tooting his horn for me.

The cold, dry air burned my nostrils and clogged my throat, and I suddenly realized I could die there, walking the Red Line unwanted by any man, mummified in ice, just one more deep shadow in a desolate winter wilderness, undiscovered until a spring thaw brought out the first skateboarders.

If I could still walk, I could go knock on somebody’s front door until they called the police to take me to jail. At least I’d be warm.

Or trudge a few more blocks to where the alkie and crackhead crazy homeless men huddled around trashcan fires, and maybe none would cut my throat before or after raping me front and back. They didn’t have any standards.

A loud, booming voice resounded through the frozen air, sort of musical, but not exactly singing, not anything I recognized. A man’s voice, chanting, challenging.

I kept looking in front of me, not wanting to look, because I didn’t want him to see me.

Not driving a car, he couldn’t be cruising the Red Line searching for a companion to share his loneliness for the night.

Judging by his bombastic singing, he must be some kind of nut. Why else would he be out on a night like this?

So I just shrugged, and peered into the dark empty tunnel of the street in front of me, hoping the opera singer would head into the park.

No such luck.

Not far behind me, he shouted: Yo! Are you crazy?

I turned, slowly, plates of ice cracking along my elbows and shoulders, and stared into the blackness outside the street lamp’s glare.

At that moment, the winter storm clouds rifted apart, and the full moon shone over the scene, transforming it into what I least expected:

A gorgeous winter fairyland.

The silver moonlight reflected from every surface, glimmering and glittering with magic, all the more beautiful for its lack of color.

Pure white light shining from every bare branch of oak and elm, leafless guardians upright swords defying the sky above.

Silver elfin luminescence rippling reflected moon glow from the frozen ground.

Remembering a fairy tale, I half-expected the Snow Queen to ride by in her carriage.

Nobody’s going to pick you up tonight, the man said.

In an instant I recognized the truth of his statement. Idiot! In weather like this even the horniest bastards stayed home and jacked off to online porn.

He wore a dark gray bulky parka with furry fringes. A hood over an orange ski mask. Thick insulated pants. Green rubber boots that went half-way up his calves.

Even from forty or so feet away his head reared above me. Even though he wore two feet of padding, I could tell from the way he walked and swung his arms, his shoulders were broad and muscular. If his voice didn’t sound human, I’d think him a gorilla dressed to explore the North Pole.

Tarja Turunen, he said as he approached. Stop walking alone, and come home with me.

I didn’t understand. Was that another language? A magic spell? Was he just nuts?

When I didn’t move or speak, he began to hurry, stepping quickly, spreading his arms out like an acrobat to keep his balance.

His bent his knees and half-squatted, sliding on the slick soles of his boots, going faster, picking up speed.

Look out! he shouted.

Stop! I cried.

He slammed into me, knocking me back on my ass as he fell against me. Fortunately, when my head slammed the ice on the ground, my stocking cap absorbed the impact, but the force knocked the air out of my lungs. He rolled to the side as I lay on my back, looking up at the stars, stunned.

Numbing cold seeped through my heavy coat, freezing my back. Although my stomach still felt numb and hollow, I had to get going, while I stood could.

By that time, the strange man stood up. He looked down at me, braced his feet, and a reached down with his hand. We’ve got to keep moving. Know what the wind chill factor is out here?

I rolled over, bruising my knees. I put my weight on my hands flat against the snow and ice covered sidewalk, and got back on my feet without his help.

I’m not watching the TV weather report, I said.

Me neither, but it feels cold enough to put the chill on penguins. Come on.

I took several steps along with him, then stopped. Wait a minute. You’re supposed to pick me up in a car. A warm car.

He turned and stared. Although I couldn’t see his face—not even his eyes—the way he held his shoulders and head told me he was giving me one of those are you crazy or just stupid? looks.

But in the Antarctic air, his deep, gruff voice sounded surprisingly gentle. Look, you can’t stand here all night. I’ve got a crib in a condemned house. It’s not beautiful or clean, but the fireplace works. And I’ve got plenty of food stashed away. Pizza. Sandwiches from QT, chips, and candy bars. I’m a knight, not a troll. I won’t eat you, I promise.

So what if he didn’t act like what I expected? So long as he had a warm place to sleep and some food to eat, including my fave raves. Give me anything sprinkled with salt and I won’t stop until I finish the bag.

Besides, I carried my cell phone, charged to the brim at Areetha’s before I left her apartment in the North Town Projects, deep inside one of my winter coat’s inner pockets. All programmed to call 911 as soon as I hit Green.

I planned to trust some guy tonight, so it may as well be Sir Lancelot.

I had to admit, he projected a disturbing feeling of confidence. As though he took for granted so deeply he had my best interests at heart, only an idiot couldn’t see that, and I was no idiot.

Lots of guys who thought of themselves as confident were really arrogant pains in the ass, but he didn’t seem like that. Not yet, anyway. I’d wait and see. Still, I couldn’t turn down a way to get in out of the cold.

Wait up. I tried to catch him, but couldn’t keep my balance as well as he could. I had to twist, and flap my arms like a duck to keep my head above my ass. At the best of times, keeping my head out of my ass often felt like an impossible challenge.

The incline to the park steepened, so he slid back, but dug the sides of his boots into the ground to gain some traction. Like I’m desperate enough for a woman to look on the Red Line even on a warm summer night, when they stand three-four deep.

Good or bad news? So maybe when I took off my thick winter coat he wouldn’t care how little woman-flesh I had inside it.

I tried to follow exactly in his footsteps, so I wouldn’t slide or fall down. Then why are you out here on a night like this?

A car engine approached from behind us.

Keep moving, the man said roughly. We’re on a public road. We have the right to be here as long as we don’t stop and block other people.

What?

To my left, a black and white police cruiser slid by, the tires crackling as they threw salt against the wheel rims.

Keep moving, the man said. Don’t pay attention to them, or you’ll look guilty.

Guilty? I didn’t feel guilty of anything except the insanity of being there to begin with.

When the police car’s red tail lights disappeared, I said, What was that all about?

You’re walking the Red Line and you aren’t afraid of the police?

I heard it’s legal, since you can’t charge the guys money. They know they’ve just got to give you a place to sleep for the night, and breakfast. Or they’ll get a bad rep and nobody will go with them again.

And people say I live in a fairy-tale world. Look, all the cops in this precinct are on Greco’s payroll.

Who’s Greco?

The local pimp.

Oh.

Red Line girls don’t charge and don’t give him anything, so he has the cops harass you. Everybody knows that.

It was only my first night there. Mom never did much for me, but she let me live with her in a crumbling 2-family flat between the Yards and Hell’s Block, before this time in the hospital. I heard crack whores hung around outside the bars there, but I didn’t drink in bars, so I never saw them.

Why was I following this guy, anyway? For all I knew, he planned to rape and kill me himself.

Because I didn’t plan on changing my name to Frosty the Snowman.

By that time, we reached the park entrance. He waved his arm at the nearby woods of iced-over oak and elm trees.

This is my special place. It’s always magic, especially now.

It is beautiful, I said.

More than that. Come on, I’ll show you. He stepped off the shoulder of the drive and headed for the woods. There, where the snow had accumulated undisturbed, and so was deeper, his boots crunched a little into the layer of ice.

I slid along behind him, my light weight not breaking the surface.

The hazy gray winter cloud storm clouds had vanished. A billion trillion jewels sparkled in the deep black sky with inhuman glory. A dome of beauty over the dark winter world.

Wind blew into my face, but it was already so numb, I barely felt anything. The effort of moving my legs to trudge along kept my blood flowing through my arteries and veins.

Back there, what did you say to me? I asked. Something about a target.

Tarja, he said. Tarja Turunen. She’s from Finland. The first singer for Nightwish. You made me think of her because her second solo album is My Winter Storm and one song is ‘I Walk Alone.’

I thought of the ice queen myself.

That’s a song by Within Temptation.

A Goth metal fan, great. Just what I needed, to be ritually sacrificed to Satan or some pagan goddess by a dude with green hair and twenty penile piercings.

I stood alone, I muttered.

We hiked further into the park, through the tree trunks glistening black, defying the world to protect the life hibernating inside. I kept looking from side to side, fearing some attacker would jump out of hiding, even though no leaves or foliage could block them from our site.

Don’t worry, the man said. I haven’t lost anybody yet.

I won’t get lost in this park, I said.

I mean, I keep you safe from muggers and rapists. It’s my job.

What? I wished he would say one thing I understood.

Oh, you couldn’t know. He spun, whirled his arms around, then lunged at me, thrusting a fist close to my face.

I refused to step back. Somehow, I realized he wouldn’t hurt me. Not with a punch out of nowhere.

I’m a kung fu fighter, a modern-day knight protecting the weak. He turned around, kept walking. Over his shoulder, he threw back to me, Especially damsels in distress.

I never thought of myself as a ‘damsel,’ though right then I couldn’t dispute the ‘distress’ part.

So, what’s your name? I asked. About time we got that out of the way. Sir Galahad?

Rhinegold, he said.

Did your parents really name you that? Or did you come up with it?

He glanced away from me, to the side. My mother was a Wagner fan. My father doesn’t like to talk about it.

First Nightwish, now Wagner. A long way from Avril Lavigne, my favorite.

I’m SeeJai, I said, and spelled it, like I always do. Are we almost there?

We passed through an area of thicker woods, with the oaks and elms crowded close together, like Secret Service agents surrounding the President, protecting something deeper inside.

A small grove of oak trees opened up.

The oak is sacred to the druids, Rhinegold said. The word ‘druid’ is derived from their word for oak.

Okayyyyyy.

He nodded toward me. I guess you’re not a pagan.

If you mean religion, I said. I’m not anything. Sometimes Mom took me to church, but couldn’t enforce anything on me on a regular basis. She had enough trouble just forcing herself to breathe.

He nodded again. I can relate. I’m not anything organized.

Someday I’ll get organized, I said. No matter how I looked then. Someday, one day. Anyway, what’s with these trees?

This grove is my weirwoods, he said.

What’s weird about them? Holding my arms close to my chest, I looked around. They look like ordinary trees to me. In their shadows, the mist of my breath gleamed like a shining mist.

Weirwoods, he said. Like in Game of Thrones. You know, on TV.

I remember hearing about it.

Only the books’re better. So, okay, they’re oaks. They’re not white, don’t have red sap, or faces carved into them. But they’re sacred to me.

White...red sap...faces...it wasn’t the trees that were weird.

Over there’s my castle, he said, pointing to a small hill.

We half-skated across the ice-caked snow.

All right, the moat is frozen over right now, he said. See the two towers? The huge gate?

I see a small rise with some trees on it, I said.

Sometimes an evil knight or wicked magician takes over my castle, and I have to attack it, Rhinegold said. Now, I guess I’ll just let the Ice Queen keep it. My fair damsel in distress needs shelter. You should have worn a ski mask too.

How many guys want to pick up women wearing a ski mask?

He shrugged. Come on. You better get warm.

Rhinegold began half-sliding toward the rear entrance of the park.

I hung back, still wondering about this guy. He seemed okay, but definitely an inner astronaut doing the moonwalk while still physically on planet Earth. Could he re-enter Earth’s atmosphere without burning up? Did he even want to?

More importantly, would he kill me?

He hadn’t yet, and in this park nobody would ever see or know.

I followed. I didn’t feel ready to die, but it would solve all my problems.

He stopped, startling me so I almost fell on my ass. He pointed up. Look. Northern lights.

Far off high, vast, bright green flashes danced and flickered in the sky, with some flickers of red.

I caught my breath at their cold, awesome beauty.

Must be a powerful magnetic storm going on in the upper atmosphere, Rhinegold said. We don’t usually get them this far south. He turned to me. Or the heroes of Asgard are fighting in Valhalla.

Yeah, right. I vote for the magnetic storm.

Whatever caused the lights in the sky, they looked more beautiful than a yard full of Christmas lights. Natural, majestic. Something far above, far beyond mere people. My puny self.

Only, I had a weird feeling, like the world put on this cosmic light show only for Rhinegold, and I was just lucky enough to be there to see it with him.

Even though just a big guy in ice-sparkling winter coat and hood, a voice coming out of a faceless ski mask, I sensed something special about him.

A nice guy, sure, but more. Of course, a Round Table knight, roaming the streets of Cromwell late at night to pick up damsels in distress.

A short while later, I stood behind Rhinegold in the backyard of a condemned brick house as he pried loose one of the plywood boards covering the back door.

Across the alley, a garbage dumpster overflowing with plastic bags stared at us. Dogs had scattered tissue, chicken bones, and beer bottles through the alley—all now covered with ice, gleaming in the alley’s yellow sodium street light.

A short, scraggly wire fence surrounded the back yard. Rhinegold vaulted it with practiced ease, then helped me over.

No sound came from any of the surrounding houses, so it must have been later than I realized. I stopped wearing a wristwatch the day I dropped out of high school. The electrical equipment high up a telephone pole whined, then clicked.

Come on, come on, I muttered.

I didn’t like trespassing. What if the police cruised by and saw us? Or one of the neighbors spotted us and called the cops?

So what was I doing going into this condemned house with a weird man I just met? Sure, I expected to spend the night with a stranger, but one with a car and their own house or apartment. Not a homeless dude.

Maybe the place was dangerous, full of holes in the floor you could fall through. Or the roof could cave in or the walls fall down. Or rats.

And maybe Rhinegold planned to kill me. Rape me, then cut my throat, and squash my body in a basement hole. Just like I read in a magazine years ago.

But the dizziness behind my eyes told me I needed solid food. And the faintness in my heart told me I needed warmth.

Without them, I could die tonight.

It’d make things a lot simpler.

Chapter Two

A Strange Stray Cat

As spooky as a wounded faun caught in a trap.

Rhinegold held the wood panel away from the door, and motioned her through the door, into his home in exile. Poor and humble, but sufficient while he bided his time.

She ducked her head, started to lift one leg, then stopped, stepped back. How can I trust you? she asked. Or what if somebody’s waiting inside to kill me?

He pulled out a flashlight, and shone it into the old house. An aluminum sink. Cabinets. Conspicuous open spaces where the refrigerator and stoves once sat. Chipped Formica counters and worn linoleum.

The poor lighting hid the accumulated dust and grime, but the sour odors of dirt, mouse droppings, and mildew hung in the air.

Hey, not many medieval dwellings—even glamorous castles, let alone peasant huts—met modern hygiene and sanitation standards.

See? he asked.

All right, you go first, she said.

He motioned for her to hold the plywood board and flashlight.

She backed off. I’ll go.

Fair damsels in distress could madden the coolest of battle-hardened knights.

The inside air temperature matched the outside, but the walls blocked the wind. A gust whistled through the gap in the back doorway where he loosened the board.

Is it safe? SeeJai whispered.

Close enough, he answered in a normal voice. For a crack house, it didn’t get torn up too bad. The walls and floor are still solid. I was afraid the dealer and his buddies would come back, but either they’re still in jail or found a new place, because I’ve been here six months.

In the living room he shoved a bunch of thin, narrow wood slats he removed from the upstairs bedrooms after tearing up the carpeting, into the fireplace. The sharp points of the small tacks pricked his fingers. When he had a big pile, he squirted lighter fluid over it, then flicked the Bic.

Just behind him, SeeJai sat motionless on the floor.

A faint tingle of anticipation tickled the pit of his stomach as he wondered what her face would look like in the light. As he waited for her to feel warm enough to remove her thick coat.

He called her a fair damsel, but he didn’t really know. Lots of Greco’s street whores—and some of the women walking the Red Line—looked like they couldn’t get a date to a Lady’s Choice dance even if they were the only woman left alive.

And it wasn’t just the brick-hard faces and the wasted eyes or the loose skin falling out of the revealing clothes—though he hated that as well—many started out plain. Overweight. Acne scars. The impression they gave of having spent too many nights crying themselves to sleep because they had a crush on a football star who never even noticed them.

As the flames caught and spread, the fire sent out welcoming waves of heat. Rhinegold slid off his ski mask, removed his gloves, and unzipped his heavy down jacket.

He set the ash-gray, wrought iron grille onto supports just above the flames, then dropped triangular shapes of aluminum foil onto it.

Hope you like pepperoni and sausage pizza, Rhinegold said.

Thick crust or thin?

Original. It’s already a little scorched from when I first brought it here.

You carried it?

Rhinegold grinned. The Pizza Store won’t let drivers deliver to condemned houses. Can’t say as I blame them.

She sat beside him, legs folded, and leaned into the fire. Oh, that feels good. I didn’t know I could feel so cold this close to the equator.

Take off your coat and stay awhile, my great-grandfather used to say.

I’m still defrosting.

Like a Thanksgiving turkey, Rhinegold said.

She paused. I don’t know. Like a hamburger patty, I guess.

Rhinegold retrieved several large bottles of water from the shadowy corner where he kept them, and placed them in front of the fire to begin to melt the ice inside.

Rhinegold’s hands, feet, and cheeks burned and tingled as blood flowed back into them.

Next time, wear a mask like me, he told her. He stared at her face to appraise it for winter damage. And at the same time, to satisfy his natural male curiosity.

Bright red cold burns mottled most of her marble-white skin, looking chapped and painful. The skin of her blue lips flaked and crinkled like a shedding snake.

Yet, none of that disguised her essential beauty. She wasn’t really pretty or cute, but magical and unearthly, with deep black eyes that gleamed with flecks of gold. Subtle, exotic elfin features combined with her short, straight black hair to create a pixie-like appearance.

She had normal round ears, but in her true, natural state, they must be pointed.

For she had to be a changeling. A fairy sprite left as a baby on some lucky mother’s doorstep.

Although her coat still hid most of her figure, he could tell she was small and thin. Yes, a true imp.

An elven princess visiting him in disguise, but unable to hide the soul spirit glowing inside her.

She could be hiding under bright green clover in Gaelic Ireland.

Or running through the lilac heather of a Scottish highland.

Or dancing under the moon and stars within a ring of large stones, vanishing in a twinkling if mortal eyes approached.

Did she know her own power? Probably not, or she wouldn’t be putting herself on the Red Line.

Could he help her?

A slow, deep tremor passed through his spine, skull to rear end, and his fingers spread automatically, as though making some mystic gesture.

Could a mere human knight such as himself even dare to win the love of a woman who glowed with such surreal glory?

At last, he found another woman worthy of his heart. The wicked queen forced the king to exile his only son the prince, for daring to love the fair princess.

Now he found another princess.

Really?

Would a true princess walk the Red Line no matter how many hardships she endured? Wouldn’t she rather starve to death than throw away her sacred honor?

She mumbled something.

What? he asked.

I said, does the pizza have any black olives?

Gross, no. If you like black olives, you better leave now.

She laughed, and looked even more enticing than ever.

Maybe even princesses were more sexually loose in these modern times. Not that he still possessed any right to complain.

He pulled the pizza off the small grill with tongs, giving each of them three large slices. And handed her a bottle of water and a packet of Lay’s potato chips.

As she chewed a piece of pizza, SeeJai transformed from a magical pixie into a thin boy in his early teens. With two small mounds of breasts nearly buried under a thick wool sweater.

So the princess would prefer another princess to win her royal hand.

Inside, he shrugged. Resigned. Hiding his disappointment from himself.

You understand, he said, it’s just men drive by the Red Line. Most want females. Some want males. No law says a woman can’t, but it’s really only men.

SeeJai stared at him, then dropped the pizza slice in her hand. Oh no you didn’t just say that!

Rhinegold raised his palms. I didn’t mean—

She stood up and paced. Hey, I know what I look like. I know I’m not pretty like other girls. People say I look like a dude. But I’m not! I swear.

I believe you, come on—

Ever since I was twelve I’ve had to put up with this shit. Are you a lesbian? You look so butch. What a tomboy.

Well, it’s—you look—I’m sorry, it’s not my business, I don’t—

I keep my hair cut this short because it flatters my face and I don’t like to take care of it, all right? I wash it, I don’t even have to dry it.

It’s all—

Her hands clawed up and down, their tension tearing the air, I know, but it’s so crazy frustrating, just makes me—

He got his hands on her shoulders, trying to maintain a grip to hold her still. Take it easy, SeeJai. I didn’t mean it bad.

I don’t either. I’m not homophobic or anything. If a woman likes other women, I don’t care, but that’s not me.

Shhh, he whispered, like calming a little kid. Her body seemed lost within the thick winter coat, yet tremors shook through his hands. He wanted to hug her, but didn’t dare. Just a strange man, might frighten her.

Calling me a lesbian’s just a way to avoid saying the truth: I’m ugly.

You’re not ugly, Rhinegold said. Wishing he hadn’t gone out to explore the storm’s aftermath. Yet, sensing somehow, this woman could have a powerful effect on his life if he weren’t careful.

You’re just saying that.

He shook his head. You’re like one of those optical illusions, he said. You see two columns, then your mind switches gears, and you see two faces staring at each other.

She nodded. I remember the ugly big-nose witch becoming the back of a young woman wearing a fancy hat.

Or plastic toy screens that can display two different pictures, Rhinegold said. Look at it one way, and you see Mickey Mouse. Tilt it, and there’s Minnie.

SeeJai nodded, breathing deeply, struggling for control, but not crying, thank goodness.

You’re like that. All right, one picture is kind of butch. The other is a lovely elven princess.

SeeJai blew a loud, fast sputter of air mouth of her mouth, and laughed. Princess. Yeah, right.

To me.

She rolled her eyes, then started, and stepped back. I’ve heard of you! The Gold Knight. My friend told me to watch out for you, you’re crazy.

He nodded. Lots of people say so. He added, Just like people say you’re a lesbian. They don’t understand. Come on, sit down and eat.

After they ate, they lay on the floor in front of the fire. Rhinegold basked in its warmth, and let the flickering flames mesmerize him.

How do you make money? SeeJai asked. You don’t look like you’d make a good panhandler.

That’s a good one, Rhinegold said. I run a protection business.

Like the Mafia? Pay me off, or I’ll blow up your store?

Like there’s any made guys come close to this neighborhood in the last forty years. No, I really protect people. Ordinary people.

You mean, like I want to go into another neighborhood, but I’m wearing the wrong colors?

I’d tell you to change clothes. No, I can’t afford to get the gangs angry at me, because if ten homey punks start shooting at me, one of them might actually hit me.

They don’t shoot straight?

Don’t you ever watch the news? Gangs pile into a car for a drive-by shooting, but just hit the little kids next door. Safest place to be is where they’re aiming at.

SeeJai looked stunned.

They’re all crackheads, Rhinegold continued, amping up the voltage through his nerves. Brain-wiped cretins.

You don’t like drugs, do you?

What’s to like? Rhinegold spread his arms out. Look around you. The cities’re imploding, sliding into the Abyss, just like Detroit. People say it’s poverty. It’s not poverty, it’s escapism. It’s irresponsibility. People can work and save and get ahead. Or they can blow everything they own this minute, and wind up on the street.

SeeJai grinned. So why don’t you tell me how you really feel?

Anyway, I guard people against the small-time crooks—muggers and rapists. I’ve studied kung fu and karate.

Tonight you saved me from the police, didn’t you?

Maybe. Maybe they would have busted you, or maybe only threatened you.

She nodded, tore open a bag of the potato chips, and placed them into her mouth one at a time, chewing thoughtfully, prolonging how long it took to eat each one. With the courtly delicacy of a true lady.

With the fire blazing, she finally removed her winter parka, spreading it out on the floor behind her, so the warm air circulating from the fireplace could dry the ice coating the outside.

A narrow, slim figure, with round though smooth and subtle curves. Her presence honored his rough house. Just her breathing the same atmosphere somehow charged the stuffy, musty gases with energizing ions. The darkness beyond the fire’s uncertain glow shifted, so it emanated comfort and rest, not hidden menace.

As though the Lady Galadriel and Princess Ozma graced him with their presence.

Or a Divine Angel of Light.

Quit tripping, she was just a woman. Attractive, but not overwhelming.

Why’d you ask about my business? he asked.

You have all this food, costs money. I want to work, I don’t want to walk the Red Line—a real job. But I don’t think I could protect anybody. My only black belt’s in running away.

He had to grin. You’d need a gun bigger than you.

So that’s out. How about you? Why’re you here? You don’t talk like you belong in a condemned house.

He looked down at the rough wood floor. I’m in exile. Let’s just put it like that.

You don’t sound like you belong here, but you sound American. Just suburban American.

In another land, I’m a prince. But I had to leave.

Like the Lion King, right? Your uncle killed your father, and stole the crown from you.

Her sarcastic tone of voice wrenched his heart. Rhinegold pulled out his sleeping bag and extra blankets. He tossed them to her. Here. Wrap up good. If you get too cold, just throw more wood on the fire.

I’m sorry. You look so glum, it must be a woman problem.

He tossed her one of the pillows. And what’s your story? You don’t act like someone belongs in a condemned house either, let alone walking the Red Line. Why tonight?

She cocked her head to the side, stared away from him, at the fire. I used to live in my mother’s apartment, but we got thrown out.

I’m sorry.

"Maybe