He materialized at the edge of the waterfall pool like smoke deciding to become solid.
One moment: empty air, the last orange light catching the mist, the waterfall throwing white noise into the dimming sky.
The next: him. Both women. His arms around each of them, their unconscious weight distributed against his sides, the smell of what had been done to them still on his skin and theirs.
He looked at the water.
The pool was wide and deep and clear — fed by the fall above, churning white at the center where the water hit, settling to glass at the edges. The light was going red at the treeline and the mist above the pool caught it, turning the air pink.
He looked at his hands.
He looked at the two women against him — Rika, thick and still and wrecked, her dress destroyed, her dark hair spread against his chest. The other woman, small and limp, the open shirt hanging from her shoulders, the insignia still faintly luminescent at her inner thigh.
He considered the water.
