Guarding The Soldier's Secret. Kathleen Creighton

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      Laila waited for her mother to come and tell her it was time for lessons and supper. But her mother didn’t come.

      Laila didn’t want to be a baby, but she couldn’t help it. She cried and whimpered, “Ammi... Ammi...”

      The mother dog whined and licked the tears from her face, and after a long, long time, Laila slept.

PART I

      Afghanistan

Chapter 1

      The room was dark, but the darkness was not absolute. By staring with wide-open eyes, Yancy could make out shapes against the whitewashed mud-brick walls: the foot of her narrow cot with the slight mound of her feet beneath the blanket; the pile in the far corner that was her personal gear; the table opposite the door and the water jug from last night’s supper.

      Nothing appeared out of place. Nothing appeared to be amiss.

      But something had awakened her.

      Tense and alert, she listened for the faint rustle of clothing, the barely discernible sounds of breath and heartbeat. She heard nothing but her own. And yet she was absolutely certain she was not alone in that room.

      Then...a lightning flurry of movement...a sudden sense of bulk and heat...and before she could draw breath to scream, a hand clamped over her mouth. Adrenaline flooded her body and coiled through her muscles, but even as she recognized the futility of struggle, a stirring of breath warmed the shell of her ear, carrying with it the softest of whispers.

      “Yankee...it’s me. It’s me.”

      The adrenaline froze in her veins. There was a rushing of wind in her ears. She felt an easing of the pressure of the hand covering her mouth and turned her face to escape it before drawing a shallow breath, making an effort to keep her voice light and steady even though she knew he could feel her body’s shaking.

      “I’d assumed you were dead,” she said.

      His laughter was all but soundless and held no trace of amusement. “I must be a ghost, then.”

      She didn’t reply, and his weight and heat shifted away from her, leaving her feeling not relieved, but chilled and vulnerable.

      His voice came from the darkness, low, musical, slightly sultry. “You used to call me that—Ghost. Remember?”

      Remember? Oh, how she wished she did not. But her senses hadn’t forgotten. Defying her will, they stirred with familiar responses.

      She cleared her throat and this time answered him. “Of course I remember.”

      A sense of unreality had settled over her, and with it a blessed numbness. She hitched herself into a sitting position and drew up her knees under the blankets, rested her elbows on them and combed back her hair with her fingers. Deliberately, she yawned and spoke to the shadows into which he’d withdrawn.

      “So...what are you doing here?” And how long will you stay...this time?

      She could keep her voice devoid of emotion in spite of the shakes, confident she would sound merely curious. She was Yancy Katherine Malone, after all. She’d stood before cameras and reported live while bullets and rocks and bottles flew and bombs and mortars exploded around her and the air she breathed was filled with the screams of the injured and the shouts of the enraged and the stench of burning flags and tanks and human flesh. She was known for being cool under fire.

      This was a piece of cake.

      It should have been.

      This time his laughter brought a vision to her mind, so clear it seemed more real than memory: a mouth upturned at the corners in a smile so at odds with the fierce golden glare of the eyes that went with it. Lion’s eyes.

      “You didn’t used to have to ask,” he said.

      Oh, I remember the night you came as you so often did, coming into my bed with a rush of air, your body cold against my back but warming quickly with my heat. Already wide-awake and shivery, I smiled in the darkness and murmured a sleepy “Who’s that?”

      “Who do you think?” A chuckle and a rasp of beard in the curve of my neck.

      I turned in your arms, feigning surprise. “Oh—it’s you.”

      You said in a growl from deep in your chest, “You were expecting...someone else?”

      I laughed, and your mouth silenced my reply.

      I remember thinking, So it’s been a month? Four weeks without a word from you?

      But you are here now, and I’ve learned not to wonder or ask why.

      I’ve learned to be thankful for the moment...this moment. And to remind myself again that it is never wise to fall in love with a ghost.

      * * *

      “Nice deflection,” Yancy said, but even as the words left her mouth she realized this was different from all the other times he’d come and gone and shown up again without word or warning.

      He was different. He sounded different. Almost...wary. Even uncertain, impossible as that would seem to most who knew him as Hunt Grainger, man of steel, Special Ops warrior, a man high on adrenaline and in love with the life of risk and danger he’d lived for so long. A man without fear, not even—perhaps least of all—of death.

      Superhuman.

      That was how she’d seen him first. More machine—a killing machine—than man.

      * * *

      The worst thing about battle is the sound. You’d think it would be the images, wouldn’t you? Or even the smells, that nose-burning, throat-clogging mix of smoke and explosives and blood and dust and fear. And it’s true that even now a whiff of one or the other of those will bring the images back in full horror and living color. But the sound is simply intolerable. I still watch raw footage with the sound muted, to save myself another round of those recurring nightmares.

      That day I remember curling into fetal position with my hands over my ears, praying my flak jacket and helmet would stop the bullets, that the mud-brick walls wouldn’t bury us alive, and if that was too much to ask, at least that I would die quickly and without too much pain. Even in that hideous din, I remember hearing Will, the cameraman, swearing, and someone else, I don’t know who, muttering something in rhythmic cadence that might have been the Hail Mary.

      I heard—no, felt—the percussion of machine-gun fire, so close it was a physical assault on my eardrums, and between bursts there were shouts, unintelligible at first, but then... Oh, my God, yes, it was—it was English!

      I heard the scrape of boots, felt the thud of heavy feet on the hard-packed earth beneath me, and the blessed shout: “You all okay in here?”

      I dared open my eyes and saw the room fill with what seemed almost to be alien beings. Superbeings, certainly, more machine than men, laden as they were with their gear and weapons СКАЧАТЬ