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Page 64.
 Jack and Miranda drove out to find something to eat, and wound up in Neustadt for an excellent meal of Szechuanese. The owners were authentic, as was the fare. Faint moon lute music tinkled through the comfortably gloomy air as Asian servers in white shirts and black trousers hurried about. Jack shared with Miranda a generous portion of Mu Shu Pork with purple duck and plum sauce. They had brandies after dinner.
Miranda yawned.
"Been a long day," Jack said.
She looked at him strangely. In a very low voice, she said: "You killed three people today." She blinked, dazed. “I'm sorry, I must be overtired."
"You'll kill a few of your own if you decide to do this for a living when you grow up."
"I'm sorry, Jack—I know they attacked you first."
"That's the game plan for us good guys. We don't shoot innocent young artists, from outer space. We don't try to kill strangers who come looking for some shade."
In a blue twilight, they walked down the picturesque streets. Neustadt (New City) was a barometer of German history. The small city was spared the bombings of World War II. Its picturesque half-timbered buildings, medieval alleys, and 18th Century cobblestones survived into the 21st Century. It is located on the famous Weinstrasse (Wine Road) established in 1933, highlighting the region's world-famous wine production—the year Adolf Hitler was appointed as Chancellor of the dying Weimar Republic in its final months. The Weinstrasse runs through the Rhein and Palatinate historic districts of Germany to the French border of Lorraine near Haguenau.
Miranda somewhat absently thrust her arm through Jack's arm as they walked leisurely on cobblestones, where long ago the ornate carriages of 18th Century barons rolled into the elegant center of theater and opera—in the age of Baroque, of powdered white wigs, of low-cut bodices and running footmen with elegant hunting dogs.
Other couples sauntered along the curving sidewalks, and Jack Gray and Miranda Coldstream did not look out of place. As Jack glanced at her, she seemed to be romantically mesmerized by the setting, the brandy, the dinner.
She took her arm from his when their car came into sight, perhaps remembering their mission. He held the door for her as she climbed in. She thanked him in a whisper.
Within a half hour, traveling at the edge of the headlights along dark roads, through forests interrupted by small, neat towns along the rail line, the arrived back at Frankenstein. Though this was most likely not the particular village from which Mary Shelley in 1816 picked the name for her Promethean hero, Victor Frankenstein, the medieval ruin presented a grim and fearsome atmosphere. Illumined from the corners and below by spotter lights, the ruin had a House of Usher look amid the black carpet of pine trees and the rolling clouds of fog. Though the area was well-populated today, Jack could well imagine that wolves must have howled in the neighborhood only two hundred years ago—not to mention the fierce wild boar rooting about, favorite of German hunters and local emblem of nobility.
Pension Adler was busy with three other sets of guests who were just settling in for the night. There were a French family with three small children, an older German couple from Bavaria, and an attractive young Italian couple with business in the Frankfurt financial district.
Jack checked the grounds. All seemed in order.
He parked the car under a shady willow in a corner of the gravel lot. That way, German intelligence operatives could switch cars unnoticed later in the night.
By the time Jack got back to their suite, Miranda had already turned the lights down. Her clothes lay across the futon in the front room, and a steamy shower was in progress. Good idea, Jack thought, as he locked the door and hard-bolted it. Extracting his 9mm Sig-Sauer, kicked his shoes aside and padded on stocking feet to the main bedroom in the building's corner.
He'd given her the bed, but she apparently was insisting on the futon.
He would just rest for a moment.
As he landed, bouncing, on the bed, he fell asleep fully dressed.
A while later, he half-woke to pull the cover around his upper torso without opening the bed.
Then, when it was dark, a clock somewhere chimed eleven p.m., and the bed bounced a bit. He opened one eye, to see Miranda's blonde hair coming toward him. She had undone it, and it fell in a straight silken pageboy around her face. She tugged at him, until he woke enough to sit up. She pulled the covers down, and they both crawled inside.
"My god, you're cold," Jack said. Her naked body felt like a bag of peas and carrots in the freezer.
He opened his arms to her, and she snuggled, shivering, against him. He rubbed her long, soft curves to generate heat—in himself as well as on her skin.
"I can feel your goose bumps," he murmured as he slipped his clothes off.
She snuggled even closer, with her arms crossed against his chest. Her teeth rattled in his ear. Her icy knees pulled up as high as she could force them in a fetal position. Jack reached down and pulled up another layer of blankets. "Get in here with me."
"Brrrr," she said. "Futon is impossible."
He pulled her arms apart, and she slipped them around his back. Her breasts were small, but firm against his chest.
Miranda cuddled even closer, if that was possible, especially for a tall woman. She thrust her icy hands, folded as if in prayer, between his thighs. "Hold me," she murmured.
She rubbed her hand provocatively against his throat, large ring and all.
"Raspy," he said.
"Wake you up," she murmured. Her hands moved upward to play. "Mmm," she murmured contentedly.
"Mmm," he echoed. His voice tapered off into a long groan as he threw himself on his back and let her have her way. She was passionate and imaginative.
After a few minutes of drowsy, intoxicating snuggling, it was so hot that they thrust all blankets aside.
He rolled on top and held her arms down. Her eyes looked up at him, half closed with pleased surrender. He found her, and her eyes opened wide and hard like diamonds. She stared at him, wanting him, and her mouth worked in silent phrases until his lips covered hers and their tongues found one another.
Naked, sweaty, and noisy, they made love on the firm bed.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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