The Jennifer Morgue - Charles Stross [157]
I flick the Zippo’s wheel and then throw the flaming dart at her martini-irrigated head.
AFTERWARDS, AS THE PARAMEDICS LOAD HER ONTO a stretcher and zip the body bag closed, and Internal Security removes the CCTV hard drives for evidence, I hold Mo in my arms. Or she holds me: my knees feel like jelly and it would be downright embarrassing if Mo wasn’t shuddering, too. “You’re all right,” I tell her, “you’re all right.”
She laughs shakily. “No, you’re all right!” And she hugs me hard.
“Come on. Let’s take a walk.”
There’s a mess on the floor, fire extinguisher foam half-concealing the scorch marks, and we skirt it carefully on our way to the door. Security has placed us under a ward of compulsion and we’ll be seen by the Auditors tomorrow: but for the time being, we’ve got the run of the Village. Mo seems to want to head back to our quarters, but I pull back. “No, let’s go walk on the beach.” And she nods.
“You knew that was coming,” she says as we jump down off the concrete wall and onto the rough pebbles.
“I had an idea something bad was in the air.” The onshore breeze is blowing, and the sun is shining. “I didn’t know for sure, or I’d have been better prepared.”
“Bullshit.” She punches me lightly on the arm, then puts an arm around my waist.
“No, would I lie to you?” I protest. I stare out to sea. Somewhere out there Ramona is lying in a watery hostel, learning what she really is. A new life lies ahead of her: she won’t be able to come ashore after the change is complete. Hey, if I really was James Bond, I could have a girl in every port—even the drowned ones.
“Bob. Would you have left me for her?”
I shiver. “I don’t think so.” Actually, no. Which is not to say Ramona didn’t have glamour of the non-magical kind as well, but there’s something about what I have with Mo—
“Well, then. And you’re cut up about the idea that I might have been cheating on you.”
I consider this for a few seconds. “Surprised?”
“Well.” She’s silent, too. “I was worried. And I’m still worried about the other thing.”
“The other thing?”
“The possibility that we’re going to be haunted by the ghost of James Bond.”
“Oh, I dunno.” I kick a pebble towards the waterline, watch it skitter, alone. “We could always do something totally un-Bond-like, to break any remaining echoes of the geas.”
“You think?” She smiles. “Got any ideas?”
My mouth is dry. “Yeah—yes, as a matter-of-fact I do.” I take her in my arms and she puts her arms around me, and rests her face against the side of my neck. “If this was really the end of a Bond story, we’d go find a luxury hotel to hole up in, order a magnum of champagne, and fuck each other senseless.”
She tenses. “Ah, I hadn’t thought of that.” A moment later, and faintly: “Damn.”
“Well. I’m not saying it’s impossible. But—” My heart is pounding again, and my knees are even weaker than they were when I realized Eileen hadn’t shot her. “We’ve got to do it in such a way that it’s completely incompatible with the geas.”
“Okay, wise guy. So you’ve got a bright idea for an ending that simply wouldn’t work in a Bond book?”
“Yes. See, the thing is, Bond’s creator—like Bond himself—was a snob. Upper-crust, old Etonian, terribly conventional. If he was around today he’d always be wearing a tailored suit, you’d never catch him in ripped jeans and a Nine Inch Nails tee shirt. And it goes deeper. He liked sex, but he was deeply ingrained with a particular view of gender relationships. Man of action, woman as bit of fluff on the side. So the one thing Bond would never expect one of his girls to say is—” it’s now or never “—will . . . will you marry me?” I can’t help it; my voice ends up a strangled squeak, as befits the romantic interest doing something as shockingly unconventional as proposing to the hero.