What plea, what reasoning, would Fenimore understand? “Knife sent me!” Chet choked out.
The blade was reluctantly removed from his throat. Fenimore settled back onto the gurney, his snarl transformed into a wary frown. “Knife sent you?”
“He did.” It was the truth, after all.
“He?” Fenimore raised the blade once again, his eyes so intent they seemed to burn.
Oh, shit. Anytime a Flame was not in visible sight, they were always assumed to be female. Chet couldn’t remember where he’d learned the rule; he’d never needed to know it before. It was just one of those cultural things you learned by osmosis, like never tease a doedicu, which Chet knew even though he’d never seen one of the enormous, hump-backed animals outside a zoo.
“She, she!” he said hastily. The blade did not retreat. “Um, Knife said you were a rake and a scoundrel, and a, a libertine, and a liar, and a cheater, and not to trust anything you said!”
Fenimore lowered the blade with a snort. “She would say that,” he murmured. “It’s true, you know.”
Chet dared to breathe. He looked at the driver’s seat, but no one had even glanced back. They were still smoking and talking, the radio belting out a contemporary song with lots of silly “do-wap do-wap" harmonies. While the attack had seemed all-encompassing to Chet, he realized belatedly that Fenimore had kept his voice down. Chet reached up and touched his throat. His hand came away with a thin trail of blood. Fenimore had cut him. This was real. The man was a killer. Well, of course he is. The century he came from was a bloody one, even within one of the most cultured civilizations on Uos. Even now Fenimore’s eyes took in his surroundings, darting this way and that, as if... as if he were a prisoner.
Fenimore’s free hand instinctively tried to scratch at the IV needle the nurse had taped to his forearm. He jerked in surprise, then eyeballed it. “What slow torture on Uos or the God Plain is this?”
Answer his questions about this century, Knife had said. Chet licked his lips. “It’s a needle designed to put liquid into your body," he began.
“I know that, you slit-eyed, red haired bastard. Are you poisoning me with poppy vapors? You fail. I do not feel... weakened.” Fenimore’s roving eyes had now caught sight of passing traffic out the windows. “Where are the ceroses for those carriages? Are they... they’re holy contraptions, aren’t they? I’m surrounded by holy contraptions. Is this the God Plain? Are you the servant of some god?”
Chet found himself bristling at both the racial epithets and Fenimore’s assumption that he was a mere servant. Just about everyone in Wetshul was flaxen. His race was no longer so despised and poor as they had once been. Well... it made sense, too, given the time period in question. Fenimore was from a Tache high court, for Pantheon’s sake. He’d assume almost every other race was beneath him, except perhaps the bistre-colored people of the Jantrael Straight.
Chet decided it was time to assert himself. “We’re in Wetshul. You fell into lucid mud, Fenimore LaDaven. Don’t you remember?”
“I...” Fenimore gulped, suddenly less fierce. “It’s a blur. I remember rain, and a fight. I was being... hounded down. My servant betrayed me; he was following me in a stolen carriage. He couldn’t shoot me because of the dark and wet powder. But I don’t remember why.”
“The lucid mud is just dust now. I’m a, a scholar, a student with a Literati university. We were digging for artifacts and found you.”
Fenimore grunted and eyed Chet with rather more curiosity than before. Then his expression grew horrified, as if Chet had sprouted a second head. “Oh, Pantheon. You again. I thought... but no.”
“What?” Chet blinked, totally lost.
Fenimore’s expression grew reserved, almost pleasant. “So, you are a student up the mountain at Semaphore this time around?”
This time what? Chet nodded, grateful Fenimore was making sense—if only a little bit—and that there were some cultural commonalities between them. Belatedly, he realized they’d both been speaking in the Tache language. He hadn’t noticed when his life had been threatened. “It’s been a long time since you were enveloped by lucid mud.”
“How long?” Fenimore seemed to hold his breath, his whole being focused on Chet.
“Three-hundred years.”
Fenimore sank back in the gurney, letting it take his whole weight. “...Oh.”
“Rather a lot has changed since your time.”
“My time?” Fenimore gave him a wild eyed look. “My time? Pantheon. Everyone’s dead or they’ve forgotten, haven’t they? Except... except Knife. Reincarnating bastard.” He shook his head, his sensuous lips turning up at the corner. “Where is Knife, anyway?”
“Back at the dig site," Chet took a deep breath and was about to go on when Fenimore sat bolt upright.
“Where is the—oh, Pantheon.” Fenimore clawed at the IV and clumsily withdrew the needle. He clearly didn’t care about blood, his expression grim, eyes filled with intent will.
Chet hissed, “What are you doing?”
“Hey! What’s going on?” The nurse twisted around to see them.
Now she noticed something amiss. Chet ignored her, focusing on Fenimore. The man was frantically clawing at the closed windows like a trapped animal, but he couldn’t escape, not unless he figured out the window or door latches. Chet’s smugness faded as Fenimore drew back his knife pommel and shattered the glass of the nearest window.
Chet yelped, arms raised to protect against flying glass. Fenimore began grimly punching away the remaining shards with the pommel. The techs and nurse were yelling and cursing. Chet suddenly realized that Fenimore was about to climb through the small window with its remaining glass shards poking out like teeth.
“No, not that way,” Chet cried out.
He scrambled to the backdoor and pulled on the latch. The door swung outwards, then slammed shut again as the ambulance came to a screeching halt, catching Chet’s fingers. He swore and cradled his hand. Fenimore pushed through the hanging door like a panicked animal, not even looking for traffic. Chet followed reluctantly.
It was rush hour in Wetshul, and they were blocks away from downtown.
Oh, shit.
They were surrounded by vehicles of every description, stopping for the light. At least, they had been stopped for the light. Drivers were inching forward and leaning on their horns to clear the traffic snarl of two men in the street. Chet scrambled over to grab Fenimore—who seemed to be frozen with shock—but his hands met air. Fenimore had lightly jumped onto the hood of a car. Chet watched, horrified, as Fenimore raced up the curved frame to the top. The metal buckled under Fenimore’s weight. Apparently reacting to the sinking feeling, Fenimore leapt from the top of the car to another. Then another. He left dents—even holes in convertibles—wherever he landed. Drivers came boiling out of their vehicles, yelling and swearing, fists shaking. Behind Chet, the nurse and medical techs were arguing loudly with one another. One was complaining that he didn’t have a tranquilizer gun, for Pantheon’s sake.
“Fenimore, what are you doing?” Chet said, zipping around the stalled traffic to follow him.
“It’s just like wrangling a herd of doedicus,” Fenimore replied in a cheerful tone, “only without the spiked tails!”
Chet stifled hysterical laughter. He could see the connection: the stylish, curved tops of the cars certainly did look like the hump-backed creatures that had once roamed most of rural Uos. Fenimore, apparently spotting the sidewalk, took a running leap. Pedestrians—mostly men wearing suits and carrying briefcases—dove out of his way. Fenimore didn’t stop but began plowing through the crowded sidewalk like a, well, like the razor-sharp blade he still held in hand.
Chet raced after Fenimore, as if sucked into the void left in his wake. He was the only one. Most people ran—or careened, or waddled—out of the armed man’s way. Fenimore seemed like a wild-eyed madman with his reams of puffy hair and old fashioned clothes. He was a wild-eyed madman. Fenimore even took to yelling at the top of his lungs, brandishing his weapon to clear the path in front of him. The crazy act—if it was an act—didn’t account for his sheer speed. After a time, Chet stopped trying to offer calming words or apologies in Fenimore’s wake. He simply put his head down and ran, determined to keep up.
They broke through the crowd at the edge of the Shining Futures District, with its industrial warehouses and gritty, potholed streets. Rush-hour traffic thinned and died as Fenimore sprinted on. Chet gulped for air like a fish, a stitch at his side. He’d thought he was in shape. Apparently not.
“Fenimore! Fen!” he called futilely, gasping for breath as he finally gave up the chase, bending over his knees.
To Chet’s surprise, Fenimore slowed, then stopped. He strutted back to where Chet was crumpled over. Fenimore wasn’t even breathing hard.
“You’re a moist little cream puff, aren’t you? What has become of men these days? You’re more fit for an embroidery circle of dotardly ladies.”
Chet shot him a horrified look but couldn’t reply, beset by the need to breathe. His hand was throbbing: no broken fingers, but his knuckle was starting to swell. Wonderful, just what I need, he thought. Digging would be so much fun now. The sky overhead had thickened with bruised-looking clouds, the air hotter and more humid than ever. At least the street was quiet.
Chet leaned against a large van parked against the curb. Then he jerked back; the van was gently rocking. It had been moving before, he realized, but he hadn’t noticed until he’d touched it. Blue and nondescript, it blended into the dour industrial surroundings. Except that it was bouncing up and down on its shocks. Chet realized with a start that it was a prostitution van, one of the mobile brothels.
Fenimore blinked. He walked around the van, then pressed his face against the windows, covered by sheer curtains from the inside. Though he couldn’t have seen much, he grinned. It was a saucy, knowing grin.
“Ah, yes. Things have not changed too much in these distant times. I wonder what her rates are.”
Chet felt his face growing hot. “Come on, let’s keep going?” Why had his words twisted into a question? He really was a cream puff compared to Fenimore, who was lean, whip sinewy and filled with the vitality of ancient men. Or did he just exhibit more testosterone? Chet didn’t know and abruptly didn’t care.
Fenimore ignored him. He sheathed his knife and hummed tunelessly under his breath, face pressed against the window far longer than Chet felt comfortable with. In fact, Chet felt humiliated, lingering here like this, so near the undeniable intercourse taking place only feet away. The look in Fenimore’s eye was willful and lusty, as if he were imagining exactly what he wanted to do to the prostitute within.
Turning away from the window, Fenimore glanced at Chet, about to make some comment. Then Fenimore studied him more closely. “Ah, your virginal cheeks betray you, my flaxen cherry pie. You are like a girl before her wedding night.”
Chet jerked away from him, angry and confused. Fenimore’s racial taunting, hard as it was to take, was nothing compared to this—baiting. Hadn’t Knife warned him? Hadn’t...
Chet was brought short by Fenimore’s hands on his lapels. What was Fenimore doing?
Fenimore seemed to know exactly what he was doing. Chet fought, mumbling inarticulate uncertainties, eyes wide. Fenimore drew him in as if reeling a particularly feisty fish. He slammed Chet against the van and kissed him on the mouth. Chet froze, bewildered and targeted. Fenimore penetrated his lips and thrust his tongue inside Chet’s mouth, his leverage excellent. Oh. But... oh. Chet’s cock rose like a flag, his muscles contracting and releasing. He should, he should... what? The kiss continued unabated as Chet struggled weakly.
Fenimore released him slowly—ever so slowly—and stepped away, grinning. His control was appalling. “Oh, how sweet your bum will be; I look forward to its sundering. But I’m afraid there is business at hand first. Come, my virginal catamite, let us be off.”
Chet noticed the dig site was less populated than before, mostly because graduate students were milling inside the processing pavilion. The students were apparently taking a break with the professors gone. A refreshing breeze cut through the stifling humidity as ugly, bruised clouds roiled overhead. A few graduate students were covering half-unearthed items up with tarps. Chet wasn’t worried. The dust had the tendency of only absorbing half an inch of water—if that—before the rest rolled off. Lucid dust did not soak through like soil because it was not a water-based medium. Complex chemical reactions of lucid mud, so important for his last final, flitted through Chet’s brain as he followed Fenimore down the steep grade.
“What is this barren wasteland? The work of your university?” Fenimore seemed taken aback. “This was all swamp. Trees and swamp, nothing more.”
“Oh, that’s long gone. They’re building a new highway nearby," Chet said absently, wiping his sweating forehead.
Ah, there were the Flame. He’d been expecting them to seek shelter, but they were still out on the dig site, same pit as before. Both were digging frantically. Chet saw Journey glance upwards at the coming thunderstorm with panicked eyes, her expression terrified.
“Knife!” Fenimore cried out as they drew closer. “You old cynodict, you look exactly the same. Why am I not surprised?”
Chet blinked at Fenimore’s words, and it wasn’t because he had just compared Knife to a skinny, hairless canine with a whip-like tail. Chet hadn’t realized that a shapeshifter would use their infinite flexibility to remain the same for three-hundred years. Or more.
Knife glanced up with a grin but didn’t stop digging. “Hello, Fenimore. I had a feeling those misguided doedicus couldn’t hold you long.”
“Why aren’t you two in the pavilion?” Chet said. Didn’t they realize rain would burn them? It was a stupid question, of course they knew. They must know. Lightning arced overhead.
“We won’t get another chance thanks to Clementina. We’re so close. It’s almost—” Journey gasped as the object they’d been unearthing popped free. She toppled backwards, the relic in her hands.
They all froze, staring at the dusty thing. It was about ten inches in diameter, a spherical shape with spikes coming out, like an archaic morningstar, or a doedicu’s tail. Under the dust, Chet realized the object was wrought of copper and glass, set with jewels. It was unabashedly gaudy. Chet knelt for a closer look, not yet touching the piece. There were Magician's symbols etched around the spiky parameter. He knew some of those symbols from years of study.
“Oh, Pantheon," Chet whispered.
This was fantastic! What a find. The god Foex had encouraged his honey-eyed affiliate Magicians to delve into dark, blood-bound magic. Real magic, not the fake stage stuff. Every affiliate had powers of one sort or another, gifted by their chosen god. Even Literati, like Professor Tibbets, had their mysteries and tricks. But no one—not even Flame with their showy shapeshifting—could hold a candle to Magicians. Foex had gifted his followers with astonishing power: the ability to draw energy from spilled blood, a power which ancient peoples had called magic. It hadn't mattered if the blood had been animal or human. Chet had always been taught that magic had vanished from the world since Foex’s death, yet here was something that looked like a magical relic.
Thunder echoed throughout the dig site.
“That would be mine,” Fenimore growled, making a grab for it. Journey pulled it away as he scrambled after her. “I lost three hundred years of my life because of the Raptus.”
So this is the Raptus. Chet stared as Knife placing a restraining hand on Fenimore’s shoulders. “Absolutely not, Fenimore,” Knife said soberly. “We’re taking the Raptus to the nearest Shadow-Dancer Cluster. It won’t be hard; their representative is nearby.”
“What? You want to give it away? Knife, we both know it was the Shadow Dancers who failed in their vigilance, letting the Raptus fall into the wrong hands. Why give it back to them when they’re clearly not the correct guardians for it?”
“It’s their god-given responsibility. Better than that professor woman, anyway. Petitioning a Pantheon member to destroy it would be best, but first we’d need to unlock it. Too risky. Not a task I was planning on taking on this week.”
“Destroy it?” Fenimore was obviously enraged.
He grabbed the object—the Raptus—and tried to pull it away from Journey. Knife grabbed it as well, and the two Flame united to keep it from Fenimore’s possession. A fierce tug-of-war ensued.
Chet was growing angry, too. “Stop it! That’s a valuable relic! Anyway, you can’t remove something from the site before it’s been catalogued.” Who did these Flame think they were? Give away or destroy a cultural artifact? The idea was repulsive. Horrifying. Instinct rallied against his training, and Chet grabbed the object, too.
An enormous pressure hit him, slamming him into unconsciousness.
He awoke to dust. Chet coughed and raised his head. He was lying on the ground, his hand still grasping the Raptus. Chet glanced around and realized Journey, Knife and Fenimore were all lying on the ground, unconscious. They formed a human cross around the object, each positioned at right angles with regard to each other. To Chet’s relief, the others stirred as a flash of lightning split the sky. No one was dead apparently.
“What was that?” Journey whispered.
Fenimore groaned, still face down in the dust. “Were we hit by lightning?”
Knife was frowning at own hand, still grasping the Raptus. “I can’t... can’t seem to let go.”
Chet tried and found that the ancient relic was stuck to his palm as if it had been superglued. “I can’t, either.”
“We must have triggered some reaction in the Raptus, asleep as it is,” Fenimore said as he looked up, his face plastered with dust.
“Locked as it is," Journey correctly sharply. “Neither of you two are god affiliates. This should not have happened.”
Chet stared at the Raptus. Journey’s condescending attitude was like a slap in the face, but it was a familiar feeling. Not like a magical relic which shouldn’t still work. Foex was dead, and nothing would ever bring him or his Magicians back. So why did this object still hold power?
Thunder cracked overhead, loud and immediate. “About fifteen miles away now," Knife whispered under his breath. Had he been counting the pause between lightning and thunder? “We don’t have much time.”
Chet grabbed his own hand and attempted to lever it off, using all his upper body strength. Fenimore was doing the same. They locked eyes. Fenimore’s pupils were enormous. No one had to say it aloud: they were trapped, and the Flame were about to burn. Chet wondered what that would look like and immediately decided he didn’t want to know. Journey and Knife didn’t deserve to suffer and die.
Chet licked his lips. “We’ll all run together. But where to?”
“Not the processing pavilion,” Journey said. He could see the whites around her eyes. “Clementina will be coming back.”
Reminded, Chet glanced over his shoulder. A few graduate students had spilled out of the pavilion and were headed straight for them. They must have seen the Raptus... Chet was suddenly possessed with an unfathomable urge to get away from them, to protect the relic stuck to his hand.
“We’d best run now,” Knife growled, as if echoing Chet’s instinctive urge.
Chet scrambled to his feet, dreading another marathon. His body was already aching. The alternative, however, was to witness Journey and Knife—do what? Melt or bubble away, hissing and sputtering like pure sodium dropped in a bucket? Not much of a choice.
Journey and Knife murmured, conferring as everyone scrambled up the grade, but this time, Chet didn’t understand the language. Journey glanced over her shoulder at him. “Chet, when you and Fenimore traveled here, did you see any of those prostitution vans?”
“Yes!” Chet cried out. “In the Shining Futures District.”
“Lead us there.”
“But... the prostitute had a customer," he said, gasping with exertion. Was that a drop on his cheek just now?
“Unless men are made of stauncher elements than they once were, he should be done by now,” Fenimore put in. He loped along at a steady pace, his expression grim.
Chet counted blocks and watched for landmarks. Yes, they’d passed that bank, that laundrette. Right, left, another left. People jumped out of the way as they ran. Chet saw a mother with her daughter, both of them wearing white gloves, neat and clean. The mother issued a short scream and grabbed her daughter, clutching her in fear as they passed. Chet blinked. Why is she afraid of us? Then he glanced at the Flame and got it. Knife had lost his cap somewhere along the way; his bald head was exposed for all of Wetshul to see.
The random drops resolved into a light pattering rain as they crossed over into the Shining Futures District. Three blocks or four? Knife and Journey were sprinting, and Fenimore’s loping had resolved into an all-out run. Perforce, Chet raced as fast as he could, yet he was slowing the others down. He could not breathe. The stitch at his side was agony, but the Flame must be in worse pain in this light rainfall. He could hear their labored, gasping breaths, their small whimpers. They should really duck into one of these buildings. Any of these buildings. It was stupid to keep going, but the Flame did not stop. Knife’s jaw was set, Journey’s eyes half closed to slits. Chet realized he could see the answer in the expressions of just about everyone they passed. This was Wetshul. Knife and Journey did not know what their reception would be in random locales, only that it would be unpleasant, possibly lethal if one or both of them were thrown out again. Who knew how long the rain would last?
They rounded a corner and Chet spotted the blue van. “There!”
The last hundred feet were the fastest he’d ever done in his life. Against all bets, the door was open. It was the usual sign of a prostitute waiting for a customer as Chet understood the process but still. They slammed inside the vehicle with the force and speed of stampeding doedicus, collapsing into a pile inside. Chet was buried beneath someone, but he didn’t care. Just so long as he could hold still and breathe.
“Hey, hey, this ain’t a playground. There’s no crack-the-whip games here. And I don’t do group rates!” a female voice complained. Chet groaned into the vinyl pressing into his face. He hadn’t considered that a prostitute van meant a resident prostitute.
Journey’s voice growled, “I will give you two-hundred gilt to let us stay here through the storm, and afterwards to drive us to the location of our choice in the city.”
“I ain’t fucking all of you. Well, maybe the two men, but not you, lady, or the Flame.”
“You will not be fucking anyone,” Journey said. Chet heard Fenimore protest wordlessly somewhere above him, and Journey added, “Or rather, if someone wants to have you, he can negotiate from his own belt purse. I’m not paying for it. Three-hundred gilt and that’s final. Best offer you’ll get in this rain.”
There was a sound like popping chewing gum, then, “What, I’m just supposed to sit here with you four, playing card games while it rains... for three-hundred gilt? Are you crazy?”
“Actually, we’d prefer if you stayed in the front seat and didn’t say anything," Knife put in. Chet realized the small whimpering noises filling the van emerged from Knife’s direction.
The prostitute snorted. “You’ve got a deal. Give me the money, and I’ll shut up.”
By the shuffling taking place above him, Chet assumed money exchanged hands. There was a slamming of van doors, and the space suddenly seemed darker. Of course, Chet thought. The windows were covered by gauzy curtains. Curious of his surroundings, he untangled from Fenimore—who had been draped over him—to looked around. Unsurprisingly, a majority of the space was taken up by a bed, built right into the van frame. It was covered by a demure, flowery comforter. The inside walls of the van were wallpapered with a print of sunshine and wildflowers. Chet hadn’t imagined a prostitute’s van would be so... homey.
Now that negotiations were out of the way, both Flame were hastily removing damp clothing. Sure enough, their skin was reddened and bubbled in places, as if from a very hot fire. Journey’s head had been mostly protected by her wig and hat, but Knife had been exposed. His bald scalp was covered in bubbling burns, some of them as large as a cherry. Water drops sizzled his skin as they dripped down his face; he swiftly wiped them off as he discarded clothing. Knife was crying, Chet realized. Journey murmured soothingly in some other language, perhaps the same tongue they’d conferred in earlier. Both Flame were down to their skivvies now. Journey’s bra was bright fuchsia and satiny—her tits filled it magnificently.
Chet looked away, his face hot. Then he gasped. “Knife, Journey, look! You’re not touching the object. The, um, Raptus.”
They appeared startled. “I still feel it, though,” Journey said as she retrieved Knife’s lighter from his discarded trouser pocket.
Chet tried to let go of it, and found that he could. Barely, but he could. He could feel an invisible cord running between the relic and his navel, as if it were physically tied to him. What a bizarre sensation. Journey was running the lighter over the worst of Knife’s head and face burns, which—depending on their size—smoothed out or burst under the tiny fire. Knife sighed in relief, his eyes shut tight as she ministered to him. Chet noticed that she ignored her own burns, which were admittedly lesser. Knife tended to his own hands, then gave her the lighter as he looked her over critically. Apparently satisfied with what he found, he turned to Fenimore, who was picking himself off the floor.
Knife took hold of Fenimore by his crocheted lapels, hauled him upright... and socked him full in the face. “You asshole.”