Eira shook her head slowly. "No. It is not a fixed room, Marcus. The Slipgate is not a door to a house. It is... a drain."
"A drain," he repeated flatly.
"It pulls from where the current is strongest," she explained, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood. "Sometimes it opens to the Shadow-Weald, where the black trees grow. That is where we came from. But sometimes... it opens to the Ash Plains. Or the Sunken Cities. Or places that have no names in your tongue."
Marcus rubbed his temples. "So it's roulette. I open the door to get the mail, and I might step into a volcano."
"It is not random," she corrected gently. "It follows the weight. The Pig Men came from the Weald because they were hunting us. Their intent was heavy. It bent the Gate toward them. Now..." She glanced at the pocket where he had shoved the coin. "Now you carry the hesh-kel. The Mark. It makes you heavy, Marcus. It pulls the Weald to you."
"That explains the geography," he muttered. "But not the mechanics."
He turned to face her, his hip leaning against the bar. "I've stepped outside that door fifty times since I opened this place. I've taken out the trash. I've signed for deliveries. I've watched sunsets. Nothing happened. The air stayed hot. The ground stayed concrete. What pulled me this time?"
Eira looked down at her hands. "The coin," she said softly. "Before, you were just a man standing in a doorway. You were neutral. The Gate did not see you. But the hesh-kel... it is an anchor. When you stepped across the threshold, the other side recognized its own mark. It grabbed you."
"It didn't just grab me," Marcus said, his voice rising slightly. "It swallowed me. Did you see it? Did you see me go?"
Eira looked up then, and the raw fear in her green eyes stopped him cold.
"I saw," she whispered. "One moment, you were there. You turned your head to look at the road. And then... the air just folded. Like a book closing. You did not walk away. You were erased."
She reached out and touched his forearm. Her fingers were cold. "I thought you were dead. Or worse. I thought you were lost in the Grey, where there is no up or down. When you vanished, Liri screamed, but I... I could not make a sound. My heart stopped beating, Marcus. The sky-bond went cold."
Marcus looked at her hand on his arm, the contrast of her pale, slender fingers against his tanned skin. He felt the echo of that coldness she described.
"I tried to find the door," he said, his voice dropping. "I was standing right there. I hadn't moved an inch. I reached out, hoping to feel the glass, or the wood, or you. There was nothing. Just mist. How the hell did you find this place? When you and Liri came through... how did you target a failing diner in Texas? I couldn't see a single marker on the other side."
Eira sighed, a long, weary sound. She moved closer, stepping into his personal space, as if she needed to be near his heat.
"I did not use my eyes," she said. "If you look for a door, you will never find the Slipgate. You have to look for... a lack of pain."
"A lack of pain?"
"We were running," she said, her voice distant, remembering. "The Hunters were behind us. Their dogs were baying. I was exhausted. I had used all my light. I knew we were going to die. And in that moment, I stopped looking for a path to run on. I looked for a place where the Hunters were not."
She looked up at him, her gaze intense. "The Slipgate is a wound in the world, Marcus. But to us... it felt like a bandage. I felt a draft of air that did not smell of blood. I felt a quiet place. I pulled Liri toward the quiet. We didn't walk through a door. We fell through a feeling."
"People come from different places through this gate," she continued, her voice gaining strength. "Refugees. Wanderers. Things that are lost. The Gate connects the broken parts of many worlds. It is complicated. It is not straight lines and maps. It is... messy."
Marcus ran a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. He felt dizzy. The neat, orderly world of cause and effect, of ballistics and logistics, was dissolving around him.
"It's too much," he admitted, the vulnerability scraping his throat. "I'm a soldier, Eira. I deal in terrain I can see. Enemies I can shoot. I can't fight physics I don't understand. I can't protect you.. or myself.. if the ground under my feet can just decide to turn into a different planet."
He looked at the whiskey glass, fighting the urge to throw it against the wall.
"I stood there in that mist," he whispered, "and I felt small. I felt like nothing."
Eira moved then. She didn't offer platitudes. She didn't tell him to be brave. She stepped in between his spread knees and pressed her body against his.
It wasn't a tentative hug. It was a collision.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin, the rapid beat of her heart against his chest.
"Stop thinking," she commanded, her voice muffled against his pulse. "You are trying to build a map of a storm. You cannot."
"Then what am I supposed to do?" Marcus asked, his hands hovering for a second before settling on her back. He pulled her closer, the contact acting like a drug, slowing the frantic spinning of his mind. "I'm flying blind."
Eira pulled back just enough to look at him. Her face was inches from his. He could see the gold flecks in her irises, the slight parting of her lips, the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
"Then do not fly," she whispered. "Land."
She took his hand.. the one that had held the coin.. and pressed it flat against her chest, right over her heart. The Sky-bond hummed, a low, resonant vibration that traveled up his arm.
"It will make sense later," she said fiercely. "The mechanics. The rules. The maps. We will figure them out. But for now... just love where we are."
"Where are we?" Marcus asked, his voice rough.
"Here," she said. "Alive. Solid. Together."
She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him.
It wasn't a gentle, exploring kiss. It was desperate. It was the kiss of two people who had just watched the abyss yawn open and decided to grab onto each other instead of falling.
Marcus groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding down her back to grip her waist. He lifted her easily, setting her onto the edge of the bar. She wrapped her legs around him instantly, pulling him into the cradle of her hips.
The kiss deepened, becoming wet and hungry. Her tongue swept into his mouth, tasting of the honey she put in her tea and the wild, unnameable taste of her magic. Marcus responded with a soldier's intensity, his hands tangling in her hair, tilting her head back to devour her mouth.
"This is real," she murmured against his lips, nipping at his lower lip. "Feel this. This is not a ghost world."
"Yeah," Marcus breathed. "Real."
He needed to feel it. He needed to overwrite the sensation of the cold, dead mist with something hot and alive.
His hands roamed over the cotton of the t-shirt, tracing the curve of her spine, the flare of her hips. Eira wasn't fragile. Beneath the soft skin, she was made of whipcord muscle and ancient resilience. She arched into his touch, a low sound of approval vibrating in her chest.
"Show me," she whispered, her hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt. "Show me you are here."
The urgency took over. There was no slow undressing, no romance of candlelight. This was survival sex, primal and necessary.
Marcus pulled the t-shirt over her head, tossing it onto the floor behind him. She was naked beneath it, her skin glowing in the dim light of the bar. Her breasts were high and firm, the nipples flushed a deep rose, hardened by the air conditioning and the heat of the moment.
He didn't stop to admire. He leaned down, burying his face in the valley between her breasts, inhaling her scent. She smelled of life. Of blood and heat. He ran his tongue over her skin, tasting the salt of her sweat, and she gasped, her hands tightening in his hair.
"Marcus," she breathed, her voice taking on that musical lilt of her native tongue. "Uncle... warrior... mine."
She shoved his jeans down, her hands impatient, her fingers seeking him. When she wrapped her hand around him, hot and firm, Marcus hissed through his teeth, his head falling back.
"Eira..."
"Not a ghost," she said fiercely, stroking him. "Flesh. Blood. Hard."
She guided him to her entrance. She was wet, slick with desire and the aftermath of adrenaline. She didn't wait for him to set the pace. She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him forward, lifting her hips to meet him.
He entered her in one long, smooth stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
Eira cried out, a sharp, clear sound that echoed in the empty diner. She threw her head back, her back arching off the bar top, her nails digging into his shoulders.
For Marcus, the sensation was overwhelming. The tightness of her, the heat, the way her inner muscles clamped around him.. it was the absolute antithesis of the Slipgate's void. This was presence. This was gravity.
He began to move, driving into her with a rhythm that was hard and fast. He wasn't being gentle, and she didn't want him to be. She met every thrust, her legs tightening around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
"Stay here," she gasped, her eyes locked on his, dark and dilated. "Stay in this world."
"I'm not going anywhere," he grunted, grabbing her hips to anchor them both.
The bar creaked rhythmically under their weight. The bottles on the shelves rattled softly. But Marcus didn't hear them. His world had narrowed down to the woman in his arms, the friction of their bodies, the sweat slicking their skin.
He watched her face as he moved inside her. He saw the way her lips parted, the way her brow furrowed in concentration and pleasure. He saw the ancient, exotic beauty of her features.. the high cheekbones, the pointed ears that flushed pink with heat.
She was an alien. A refugee from a nightmare world. And she was the only thing making sense right now.
Eira reached down between them, her fingers finding the sensitive nub of her clitoris. She rubbed in circles, her rhythm syncing with his thrusts. Her breath hitched, turning into short, panting gasps.
"Close," she whispered. "Marcus... close."
The sight of her touching herself, combined with the feeling of her tightening around him, was too much. Marcus felt the coil of tension in his belly snap.
He drove into her harder, faster, abandoning all control. Eira cried out his name, her body bowing taut like a drawn bowstring. She clamped down on him, pulsing, shuddering as her climax hit her.
Marcus groaned, a guttural sound torn from his chest, and poured himself into her. He thrust deep and held it there, his forehead pressing against hers, his heart hammering against her chest like a trapped bird.
They stayed like that for a long time, locked together on the bar top, breathing the same air, sweating in the cool of the diner.
Slowly, the world began to seep back in. The hum of the fridge. The distant sound of a car passing on the highway. The smell of spilled whiskey.
Eira relaxed her legs, letting them slide down his thighs, but she didn't let go of him. She kept her arms around his neck, her fingers idly stroking the hair at the nape of his neck.
Marcus pulled back slightly, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. His pulse was finally slowing down. The panic that had been clawing at his throat since he stepped out of the mist was gone, replaced by a heavy, satisfied exhaustion.
"Better?" she asked softly, a small, tired smile touching her lips.
Marcus looked at her.. really looked at her. He saw the fierce intelligence in her eyes, the loyalty, the shared trauma.
"Yeah," he said, his voice rough. "Better."
He kissed her forehead, then her nose.
"You were right," he murmured.
"I am usually right," she said, tracing the line of his jaw. "About what?"
"About landing." He pulled away gently, adjusting his clothes, then reached down to pick up her t-shirt. He handed it to her. "We can't map the storm yet. But at least we know we're still on the ground."
Eira pulled the shirt on, covering herself but leaving her legs bare. She hopped off the bar, her movements graceful despite the fatigue.
"The ground is good," she said. She picked up the whiskey glass he had abandoned, took a small sip, and grimaced. "But this... this is poison."
Marcus laughed, a genuine sound that surprised him. "It's an acquired taste. Like Texas."
He walked around the bar, his hand brushing the spot where they had just been. He felt solid again. The coin was still in his pocket, a cold weight now, a problem for later. The Pig Men were still out there. The Slipgate was still a trapdoor.
But as he looked at Eira, who was now leaning against the counter watching him with warm, possessive eyes, Marcus knew one thing for sure.
He wasn't fighting this war alone.
"Come on," he said, holding out a hand. "Let's go find your sister before she invents a reason to use the fire extinguisher."
Eira took his hand, her grip strong. "Lead the way, Uncle."
As they walked toward the kitchen, Marcus realized that for the first time since the war, he didn't just have a mission. He had a home. And he would tear apart any dimension that tried to take it from him.