Cabs weren't running anymore, too risky. No one from the Coach Inn was willing to give Juniper a ride into the city either. Going back held little appeal, but the city offered the only other hotel still open: the Four Seasons. Though pricey, Monroe's wallet would absolve her money problems for awhile. His billfold overflowed with over three-thousand dollars. Why a school accountant carried so much cash was none of her business. He could have emptied out his savings in anticipation of escaping the city.

Juniper planned to use the money to remain in the city.

She didn't have the same itch Ashley did. Juniper knew the city, knew its ugliness. Hell, she was part of the ugliness, and looking into the mirror never felt better. Of course, there were days when the underbelly of the city dragged and sagged and stunk to high heaven, but the pros outweighed the cons. The city was her friend, even as it cascaded into darkness. And after Christopher, she refused to accept a future beyond the dingy walls of her urban home. Since she had skipped out on rent, she no longer had a home, but wasn't a real problem.

Let's just hope I make it back home alive. Walking back into the city at night was never smart. To avoid trouble, Juniper navigated shortcuts through the suburbs, passing the entrance of Christopher's subdivision. His house was in view, and she swore the curtains fluttered. She hurried onward, not wanting to be seen. Tranquility radiated from most every house, indicative of sleep.

A few blocks from the hotel, she picked up an idle presence. The persona was calm, but quickly morphed into excitement when they heard Juniper's footsteps. Most people felt trepidation when a stranger approached, not excitement.

Juniper positioned her hand on the gun in her coat. Whoever it was, she wouldn't be unprepared. Around the corner, she came face to face with a young man. He was handsome and appeared non-threatening, until he smiled. It was a predatory smile, one Juniper had seen before.

She walked briskly without acknowledging the boy. Instead of his excitement fading, it increased. It wasn't sexual, though there was some of that mixed in too. Mostly, he broadcasted delight at what he perceived to be a scared girl, alone at night on the big bad streets.

"Hi."

Juniper kept moving.

"It's polite to say 'hi' back," he said.

He followed behind her. If he touched her, he would get a response.

"Hey." His hand clamped down on her shoulder. "You've been rude, and now I have to hurt you and take your money."

She cocked the gun without removing it from her jacket. The boy lifted his hand.

"I thought you looked like a fighter," he said.

"Oh, I am." Juniper spun around with the gun out, pointing it at his groin.

The boy looked amused. "That's cute, but I bet you've never shot anyone before in your life."

"You're right." Juniper aimed lower and squeezed the trigger. The bullet tore into his left thigh. "Now I have."

He cursed, his enthusiasm flaring to anger. Red was the norm, but his anger was black, with blinding white at the edges.

"You bitch," he groaned, only the voice changed.

Juniper looked away. The glare of his white-hot anger was too intense, a small mushroom cloud in the distance bringing heat, light, and horror. An instant later, the glare subsided. She checked again, but the boy was gone. There wasn't time to figure out how he had run off with an injured leg. Staying on the streets meant an increased chance of meeting more assholes. And Juniper only had so many bullets left. She planned on saving one for herself if need be.

****

As she dried yet another dish, Juniper resisted the urge to look at the clock. He's just a little late, she told herself. Four hours isn't a "little late", her pride shot back.

"He's working late," Juniper informed the empty kitchen.

Anyhow, it was on the early side. Nine o'clock wasn't late. Traffic had probably gotten the best of him. She tried not to think about how easily people were disappearing. To better distract her mind, she switched on the kitchen television.

It was set to the international news station. A blond anchorman was speaking, and none of what she was saying was good news.

"The worldwide crime epidemic has finally reached Europe. Citizens have fallen victim to senseless violence, some of these acts being committed by the police authorities. Our cameras managed to capture some of the brutality in Spain. We warn you, the images are extremely disturbing."

Juniper turned the television off. She had seen plenty of disturbing images in her lifetime. She didn't need to see anymore. A glance at the clock told her it was 9:10. Damn it, where was he? He could have at least called.

Christopher's call became obsolete when Juniper heard his key in the door five hours later. The house was a tomb. Every step was slow and heavy. He lumbered downstairs, and then upstairs, going from room to room. He was looking for her.

Well, let him keep looking. Juniper had waited up for him. Christopher was alive, therefore he had chosen not to call. He had worried her unnecessarily for hours. Juniper wondered where he could have been. Most of his work was done from home. Occasionally, he was called in to do technical work at the office, but Juniper knew the office that contracted him closed before 9 p.m.

"June!" Christopher yelled.

The other guest bedroom door slammed shut. He would open her door next. Juniper didn't know why the thought scared her. No, she did know why. Through the walls, she acknowledged anger unlike any she had felt before. Christopher's body was flushed with darkness, tinged with white at the edges. Even before he reached her door, she saw him, a silhouette outlined in white.

Juniper stayed in the bed. Part of her wanted to draw the covers up over her head and disappear. Another part wanted the confrontation, even since their wedding day.

He threw her door open. Shadows from the hallway hid Christopher's expression, but she made out yellow eyes.

"What is wrong with you? Why are you so angry?" she asked.

"I'm not angry." Christopher moved from the doorway into the room. The light from his eyes and body faded somewhat. "I'm horny."

"Hmm, you're drunk and I'm tired. So that's not happening." She rolled over to face the wall,

He plopped down beside her anyway., the weight shifting her back toward him. When he spoke, his hot breath blew into her face, the smell equivalent to rotting cherries.

"Yes, I'm drunk. Two more of my colleagues disappeared. A couple of the guys and I needed to have some drinks, talk things over."

"You've needed to do that a lot," Juniper remarked.

"What's that?"

"Drink."

Christopher's hand tweaked Juniper's nipple through her nightgown. She slapped his hand away. She didn't enjoy pinching anymore. His head reared up, again revealing yellow eyes.

She edged out of reach. "What's wrong with your eyes?"

"Nothing. What's wrong with you? Why won't you fuck me?"

Fuck me. He'd never asked her like that. She didn't like it.

"Because I don't want to right now."

She calculated the number of steps between the bed and the door. Christopher's attitude was something she'd experienced many times, and he was after the queer mix men sometimes craved of sex and violence.

"How many?" Christopher interrupted her plan.

Juniper sighed. "How many what?"

"How many guys have you fucked?"

If he had punched her then, Juniper would have been less shocked.

She swallowed her shock and her pain, allowing her to answer without tears.

"You could have asked me that before, asshole, and not so crudely."

Christopher stood up. "Right, because I offended your slutty morality."

Another punch. "If you feel this way, why the hell did you marry me?"

Inside, the darkness sparked inside of Christopher, spreading like a cancer, taking root in his heart.

"Did you let yourself feel what they were feeling while they fucked you?"

Of course he knew about her ability. He had known for years, but he hadn't asked. Though, Christopher might have guessed she could and would use her power in such a way. Yes, she had put herself inside the feelings of another man's pleasure. Juniper had done it because it was the alternative to feeling her own feelings: self-disgust, hate, pity. Could she ever admit her secret to Christopher? In his state, he wouldn't understand. He would use it as an excuse to call her more names.

"Get out before you say more hurtful things you can't take back."

"Okay, I'll go."

Mid-stride, Christopher stopped next to the dresser. On top of it, he left something that resembled folded paper.

"Maybe this'll change your mind about fucking me."

When he walked away and out of the door, Juniper saw what he had left for her. A stack of money.

Bastard.

The odd thing about their conversation was Juniper hadn't been talking with Christopher at all. A stranger had been in the room with her. His feelings, his mannerisms, his words, his eyes had all been foreign to her.

In the master bedroom, she heard things falling over. Drunken idiot. She wondered how much longer she could stay.

Turned out, three more weeks was her max; Christopher apologized for his words and behavior the morning after the first time. Two days later, he came home black-out drunk. Juniper let it happen five more times before leaving a few notes of her own on Christopher's dresser. Except her notes were not greenbacks.

He was lucky she left him anything at all, because she planned never to come back.

It would be another two months before they saw each other again.