Their conversation was messy, continued to be awkward, but they drank more and cared less. Darya moved closer, put a hand on his arm, his knee, his thigh. In her presence he felt dizzy and weirdly dislocated. He repeatedly pushed away thoughts of Skye, playing over and over in the back of his mind those last words.
Is there us any more?
I guess not.
The evening rolled on and the bar became ever less occupied, then Darya leaned forward, whispering. Her lips were cold against his ear, but the words heated him. “Shall we go upstairs?”
“My room?” he asked, trembling like a teenager.
She nodded, slipped her fingers around his, gently pulled him up and away. They climbed the stairs quickly, stumbling drunkenly and giggling. In his room they didn’t speak again, plucked and fumbled with each other’s clothes, kissing every newly revealed bit of skin. Her tongue was cold and brackish in his mouth, as though she had drunk vodka and seawater all night not vodka and soda, but the taste wasn’t unpleasant. As they kissed he became dizzier still, lost in lust and booze.
She was cold all over, the poor thing not lying about never getting warm. He gasped as she took his cock in her mouth, his shock as much from the icy chill of her tongue as the sharp sexual pleasure. They rolled onto the bed, he atop her, and inside she was as cold as out, and though the fact discomforted him, he was too drunk and too rampant to care. The booze made him clumsy, but gave him time and the sex was good. She bucked beneath him, staring up with wide eyes as though she couldn’t believe her own orgasm, and that inflamed him and he was spent, explosively and totally. Still without words they rolled over and entwined. As sleep stole over him he realised she was still cold.
Howard dreamed of a city underwater. It’s twisting spires stretched up through waters strangely clear, the surface of the ocean unseen far above. This was no earthly sea, that he knew without doubt, intrinsically. This place existed everywhere, just below the surface of real life. It could be entered from anywhere, go from it to anywhere else, like it flowed intertwined with the threads of the tapestry of reality.
Howard walked its streets, marvelling at serpentine architecture, rounded byways, the smoothness of every feature. Straps of kelp rose in clumps, undulating in soft currents. He came to a temple in the city’s centre, a tower of intertwined columns winding upwards, surrounded by smaller spiralling towers buttressed to the middle with arcs of dark stone. Giant double doors, forty feet high, thirty feet wide, inscribed with disturbing symbols, swung silently open and he realised everywhere was silent. Inside the temple, rows of pews rose from the ground as if carved. Or as though they had been grown like intricately managed coral. Hundreds of people occupied them, rocking gently as if moved like the kelp by deep, gentle waves. All had hoods or long hair shadowing their faces, not a visage visible in the dimness. An altar at the end of the temple stood on a raised dais, impossibly tall figures stalking slowly around it. Whip-thin and angular in their movements, they reached long, stick-like arms towards the congregation. Those arms bent once about one-third along, the forearm too short. Then they bent again further up, double-elbows uncannily placed as they gestured complicated patterns, a silent sign-language Howard could not understand but yearned to know. He realised he was holding his breath, had been all along. For how long? Hours? He knew if he breathed in he would drown, but suddenly felt like he was drowning anyway. And part of him longed for that watery suffocation. Panicking, he gasped, ice cold salt water flooding his mouth and lungs.
He jerked awake, bounced on the cold bed, heart pounding, breath short. He tasted salt water, but realised that would be from kissing Darya, not from the dream. Wouldn’t it? He rolled over and saw she was gone. Disappointment carved a hole in him. His brain was foggy with sleep, with drink, with the remains of the powerfully clear dream. He lurched from bed to piss, the air cold against his damp skin. His feet squidged against the hard, worn carpet as he walked, leaving a trail of wet footprints. Still drunk, confused, bereft, he ignored it, pissed, and fell back into bed and a restless, dreamless sleep.
“You’re not the only one who got lucky last night!” Dean was enthusiastic over breakfast in the hotel dining room of dark wood and sallow serving staff. They looked a lot like each other. Just how big was the family running this business?
“What do you mean?” Howard had a headache from ruptured sleep and too much bourbon, his mood sullied by that and by guilt over what he had done. He and Skye weren’t finished yet, and Darya hadn’t even stayed the night, creeping out like it was nothing but a booty call. There had been a text message from Skye when he awoke: Sweetheart, we really need to talk. When you get back, let’s take a break somewhere. We need time together.
She was prepared to attempt reconciliation. And so was he, desperate for it, in fact. But would he have to tell her about last night? Could he live with the guilt either way? He found himself questioning what the fuck he was doing about anything in his life, but knew one thing. He wanted Skye.
Dean was saying something.
“Sorry, what?”
“Man, you are out of it. Too much to drink, eh? I was saying that a few of us scored last night. That girl you took upstairs, she’s not with the conference. She’s local.”
Howard frowned. Nodded dumbly. “She said something about that. But she moved away.”
“There’s a few of them, they came to hang out knowing we were in town.” Dean leaned forward, conspiratorial. “You look at most people here and who can blame them? It’s ugly central in this town, right?”
Howard tried to remember what he and Darya had talked about all evening but it was hazy. He couldn’t remember much at all. “You scored too then?”
Dean beamed. “And it was good, man!”
“Was she…” Howard swallowed, shook his head. He had been about to say Was she cold, but that just seemed absurd.
“Was she what?”
“Doesn’t matter. Good for you, man.” He pushed his plate aside, appetite gone. “I gotta call my wife.”
“Guilty conscience!” Dean grinned around a mouthful of toast, wagged a butter knife like an accusatory finger.
Howard walked around the harbour, talking to Skye about the future, and he felt encouraged. The conversation was uncomfortable, but she reiterated her desire for a break, he said he would like that. She told him to enjoy his conference and his party, and it sounded as though she meant it. He hung up wracked with guilt.
He looked around, wondering if he might see more of Innsmouth before day two of the conference but though the town wasn’t nearly as dilapidated as he had thought that first night, it was still run down, dirty, uninviting. Pale, wide faces stared around door frames, as if wishing him away, hoping he wouldn’t stray into their shop. One large building had a peeling sign, Maron Shipping and Freight. He’d seen that name in several places around town, for some reason that unsettled him. With a shiver he returned to the hotel.
During lunch, after eating floury apples and damp sandwiches of fish paste, Howard went upstairs to nap, to catch up from his disturbed sleep of the night before. He dreamed again of the underwater city, walked to the high, wide doors, but paused, nervous. He thought of Darya, of Skye, and cried out in frustration. Ice water flooded his mouth and he startled awake. His clothes were wet, like the mother of all cold sweats. He changed and went back downstairs for the afternoon session. What he would give to be warm and dry.