Dei Ex Machina

by Kim Fielding

  Mors narrowed his eyes. “You do know.”

  “I… it’s stupid.”

  “Everything humans do is foolish,” Venus said. “That’s what makes them so entertaining.”

  Sabbio had been watching people for a long time, and he was inclined to agree with her. “I wanted someone to love me,” he said quietly. “Nobody could, not when I was nothing but a ghost. But I wanted it anyway.”

  Both of the gods nodded at him. Mors even smiled a little. “Death is necessary. But so is love.” And he reached over to stroke Sabbio’s cheek with ice-cold fingers.

  “People talk about us all the time,” Venus said. “Even now. They paint us and sculpt us and name all sorts of things after us.”

  “Nobody names anything after me,” Mors said morosely.

  She patted his hand. “Because you’re dreary, darling. But my point is that they talk about us, but they don’t talk to us. Not anymore. But you did. And Mason does, which is very sweet.”

  “Mason talks to you?”

  “He’s built us an altar! Can you imagine? And he leaves little things for us—flowers, fruit, a glass of wine. He feels silly about it, but he does it anyway. And he begs us to help you.”

  The dizziness increased, and Sabbio would have fallen into the pit if Mors and Venus hadn’t each grasped one of his hands. They were strong. There was no way he could fall with them holding him in place. “He remembers me?”

  Venus looked older now—more like a mother than a lover—but still stunning. “Of course he does, baby. Mors and I, we were playing around a little when we brought you together. But you know what? I think those Parcae bitches got involved.”

  “The Fates?” Apparently Sabbio could speak only in questions.

  Mors grunted. “They like to stick their noses into human affairs. And Morta, well, I think she feels a little bad over the death she chose for you. It was cruel of her. It was probably her idea that you and Mason should be together.”

  “We should be together.” Sabbio managed to make it a statement, because it was important. “But I’m dead.”

  “Bah.” Mors waved his hand. “We can fix that. We may be retired, but we haven’t given up all our powers.”

  For the moment, Sabbio dismissed the ridiculous notion of being brought back to life. He shook his head. “Mason didn’t ask for any of this. He didn’t choose—”

  Mors interrupted rudely. “Bah! Not that old tripe again. The discussion’s deader than you are. Free will, destiny… what difference does it make? Mason wants you. You want Mason. You’ll be much happier together than apart. So why should you care whether you chose each other or whether the whole thing was the Parcae’s idea?”

  And this must have been a favorite topic of his, because he continued, pointing a long thin finger at Sabbio while he spoke. “Humans blather on about making choices. But you can’t choose the most important things—when and where you are born and to whom, or when, where, and how you die. They happen. You didn’t choose to be a slave. It’s not about making decisions, Sabbio. It’s about dealing gracefully with what you’ve been given. It’s about finding joy where you can.”

  Sabbio wasn’t about to argue with a god, retired or not. And anyway, Mors made good points. “I want Mason,” Sabbio said firmly. “And I want to make him happy. I think I could do that.”

  Venus leaned over and kissed his cheek, making his skin tingle. “We think so too, darling.”

  “What… what do I have to do?”

  “Hold our hands. Close your eyes. Promise to honor us now and then. And have faith.”

  Perhaps Mason had difficulty believing Sabbio was real. That was understandable. Sabbio would believe enough for both of them. He took the hands of Mors and Venus and squeezed his eyes shut.

  10

  As Doug poured three glasses of wine and Pete relaxed on a kitchen chair, Mason chopped chicken for the stir-fry. He was hungry. He’d put in an especially long day at work—trying to finish a job before a storm hit—and he was looking forward to dinner and a quiet evening with his friends.

  “So how come no date tonight?” Doug asked, leaning against the island.

  “Because I’d rather hang with you guys.”

  “What about, uh, Colton?”

  “Carson.” Mason tossed a handful of chopped meat into a bowl and grabbed another breast. “He’s a nice guy and everything, but we kinda… fizzled.”

  After returning from his European trip, Mason had decided it was time to jump into the dating pool. He’d seen a few guys—real dates, not hookups—but nothing had clicked. He hadn’t disliked any of them. They were fun and good-looking, and he’d even seen a couple of them more than once, hoping mutual interest would grow. It didn’t. There was no spark. Not like he’d had with Carl and not, gods help him, like he’d had with Sabbio.

  Doug sipped his wine. “I could introduce you to a bassist. Giovanni. He’s Italian, obviously, and he—”

  “Thanks, but I really don’t want a matchmaker.”

  Over at the table, Pete hummed the corresponding tune from Fiddler on the Roof.

  Mason dumped the last of the chicken into the bowl and used his fingers to work the spice mixture into the meat. He was trying a new recipe, and he hoped it would turn out all right. “I think this spring I’m going to redo some of the backyard,” he announced.

  “Yeah?” said Doug. “How come? It looks really nice.”

  “I’m having some irrigation issues because of that slope near the back fence. The higher ground never holds enough water, and the lower gets too soggy. I want to do a little terracing and build a retaining wall.” He’d have to hire someone for that part. Despite his name, his masonry skills were limited. Hell, maybe he’d have a portico added while he was at it, just as Sabbio had suggested. The extra shade would be nice, and the back of the house was architecturally bland.

  “Terraces would look good,” said Doug, and Pete nodded his agreement.

  Deciding the meat was adequately mixed, Mason washed his hands, poured a little oil into the wok, and turned on the flame. While he was at it, he turned the jasmine rice down to a simmer. It was already smelling pretty good.

  While he waited for the oil to heat, he grabbed his wineglass and took a taste. Not bad. “So tell me about this trip you guys are planning.”

  “Doug’s been invited to play at a festival in Helsinki,” Pete said, his voice full of pride.

  “Hey! That’s great! Congratulations.”

  Doug beamed. “And since we’ll be in Finland anyway, we thought we’d visit some nearby countries. We’re torn between Scandinavia or the Baltic states. My vote’s for Sweden.”

  “And I think Estonia sounds really interesting,” Pete added. “Want to join us? Your vote can be the tiebreaker.”

  “Thanks, guys. I appreciate the offer, but my bank account’s still crying after last summer’s trip. Unless I strike gold while I’m digging up the yard, I’m gonna be stuck in California for a while.” And, he didn’t add, if he did go abroad, he’d head straight to Split.

  “Well, the offer stands if you hit the mother lode,” Doug said.

  Mason grinned at him before pouring the chicken into the pan. The meat began to sizzle at once—and then someone knocked on the door. “Damn!”

  “I’ll get it,” Pete said, standing.

  “Thanks.” Mason stirred the food. “For some reason, solar panel and satellite dish salesmen can never find my doorbell. Don’t know why. I mean, it’s right there next to the door, and it looks exactly like a doorbell.”

  “What about UPS and FedEx?” asked Doug.

  “They use the bell. They’re fancy that way.”

  “Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

  “They—” Mason interrupted himself when he heard Pete returning. “Who was it?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

  Pete had a very odd expression. “There’s… somebody here to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “I think you’d better come to the
door.”

  Mason would have argued, but Pete’s normally placid face was pale, his eyes extra big. He didn’t look scared, just freaked out. And as far as Mason knew, Pete didn’t do freaked out.

  Fuck.

  “Um….” Mason could have asked Doug to man the stove, but he didn’t trust him, not with a mystery in progress. So instead, Mason turned off the stove and hoped dinner wouldn’t be ruined. “Okay.” With his friends in tow, he hurried into the living room.

  And came to a screeching halt halfway through. Pete had left the door ajar, so the visitor on the doorstep was easily visible.

  It was Sabbio.

  “Oh gods,” Mason whispered.

  Sabbio wasn’t naked this time. He wore perfectly ordinary modern attire—a pair of jeans and a plain white tee that hugged his muscular torso and upper arms. His hair was longer than before, curling slightly around his neck. He was chewing his lower lip and clenching his fists. “Mason?”

  Mason whirled around to face Doug and Pete. “Can you see him? Is he there?”

  “We see him,” Pete answered quietly.

  “And I’m not…. Jesus, this isn’t a dream, is it?” He pinched his arm to make sure; it hurt very realistically, and he didn’t wake up. Yet he felt as if he were sleepwalking as he moved slowly to the door. He reached out and placed his hand against Sabbio’s chest.

  Sabbio shuddered slightly but didn’t disappear. Beneath his palm, Mason could feel Sabbio’s heart beating and his chest moving up and down as he breathed. “Real?”

  “Alive.”

  “How?”

  Sabbio gave a tiny, nervous smile. “Ex deorum donum. A gift from the gods.”

  It didn’t make any sense, and it couldn’t be true. But here Sabbio was, with the porch light turning his skin golden and his eyes shining with unshed tears. And Mason wanted more than anything in the world for him to be there, so he didn’t care if it was impossible. He was going to believe.

  He gathered Sabbio tightly into his arms.

  With a soft cry, Sabbio embraced him back.

  They may have both wept a little. They may have exchanged whispered endearments in several languages. They may have squeezed each other so hard they could barely breathe. Didn’t matter. Because Mason was positive about one thing: the man he held was as real as he was.

  Eventually Mason released Sabbio from the hug, then immediately grabbed his hand and pulled him inside the house. Turning to look at his friends, he said, “Guys? I’d like you to meet the only living man who makes me spark. This is Sabbio.”

  11

  Mason gripped Sabbio’s hand so tightly it hurt, but Sabbio didn’t mind. He’d held Mason’s just as tightly as their airplane lifted into the air—and for most of the long flight from San Francisco to Frankfurt. He’d done it again when their second, smaller airplane took off. He couldn’t help it. It was easier for him to believe in gods than to believe giant metal machines full of people and suitcases could fly like birds.

  But now they were safely on the ground again, and it was Mason’s turn to need comfort. Their hands were clasped under the café table, where few people would notice.

  “I am not going to become a ghost again just because we have returned to Split,” Sabbio said.

  “I know. It’s just… sometimes I’m afraid I’ll wake up and find out the last two years have been a dream.”

  Sabbio smiled. “If so, it has been a wonderful dream.”

  It had. They’d spent every day working together, Mason teaching him planting and Sabbio instructing Mason on how to build walls. Laboring under the sun as a freeman—with his lover at his side—was marvelous. Even better, though, were the evenings they spent alone together, cooking, eating, leaving small gifts on the altar, watching TV, or practicing Sabbio’s reading skills. And then they tumbled into bed, making love and falling asleep in each other’s arms.

  “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Mason said.

  “Nor I you. But the Fates have been very kind.”

  When Mason smiled like that, he was more handsome than any god.

  A moment later, a man approached their table, and Mason stood. “Viktor! It’s good to see you.”

  Viktor grinned. “I am so happy you called me.” He shook Mason’s hand and looked curiously at Sabbio. “You have brought friend?”

  “Viktor Lulić, meet Sabbio Gould.”

  Viktor’s eyes went wide when Mason said Sabbio’s name. “Is this your sablast? Your ghost?”

  “Not anymore. Now he’s my husband.”

  Recovering unexpectedly quickly, Viktor sat and gave Sabbio a hearty handshake. “Predivan! Wonderful! I have never seen ex-ghost before. How is this possible?”

  Mason answered simply. “We believed.”

  That must have been good enough for Viktor, because he smiled again and leaned back in his chair. “I am no longer mechanic. Now I show Dalmatia to tourists almost every day.”

  “Do you have room in your schedule for us?” Mason asked.

  “Always for you! But, Sabbio, you do not need guide.”

  Sabbio shrugged. “I know the palace and the old city. But when I was alive the first time, nothing else was here. And when I was dead, I could not move far beyond the walls.”

  “Ah.” Viktor stroked his chin. “Then you must visit islands. I will take you. But also we will go to Dubrovnik and Ston. And I will show you best wine, best seafood, best everything.”

  Mason turned to Sabbio. “Sound good?” Over the past two years, he had taken considerable delight in introducing Sabbio to the wonders of America. They’d visited mountains with towering trees older than Sabbio, deserts full of darting lizards and prickly plants, cities with buildings so high they reached the heavens. And he asked Sabbio about all the ancient things he’d seen, which made Sabbio feel treasured and wise.

  “It sounds very good,” Sabbio said. And it did. But in the end, he and Mason both knew that where they went and what they saw was far less important than the fact that they were together.

  Viktor slapped the table enthusiastically. “Dobro! Stay here. I will make one phone call. My cousin Frano will take other group today. His English is better, but I know more about Split. And we will begin our tour. I think… this is special tour. We begin with Mama, who will be very happy to see you both.” And without waiting for their response, he scurried away from the table, rummaging in his man-bag as he went.

  “He is happy to see us,” Sabbio observed.

  Mason took Sabbio’s hand. “Without him, we’d never have met.”

  “The Fates would have found another way, I think.”

  “Maybe. Whatever. But I still think we owe the Lulićes at least a really nice dinner out.”

  “At least.”

  Sabbio and Mason sat at the café on the Riva, looking out at the blue-green sea. The air smelled of salt, the breeze tickled their hair, and if Sabbio licked his lips, they tasted of Mason’s kiss. Today was a good day.

  The gods had given him a young body, and since Mason was young too, they’d have many years together if they were lucky. But even if their luck ran out—even if one of them died early—Sabbio knew they would both pass peacefully into the afterlife, secure in having been loved.

  “Gratia, dei,” Sabbio murmured.

  Mason squeezed his hand and repeated the phrase in English. “Thank you, gods.”

  And perhaps Mors and Venus heard them and were pleased to be remembered. In any case, two men who had been born seventeen centuries apart now sat in front of an ancient palace—and simply enjoyed being in love.

  About the Author

  Kim Fielding is very pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. A Lambda Award finalist and two-time Foreword INDIE finalist, she has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space. She’s a university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full time. She also dreams of having two daughte
rs who fully appreciate her, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a house that cleans itself. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others.

  Kim can be found on her blog: http://kfieldingwrites.com/

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/KFieldingWrites

  and Twitter: @KFieldingWrites

  Her e-mail is kim@kfieldingwrites.com

  For a complete listing of Kim’s titles, visit her website: http://www.kfieldingwrites.com/kim-fieldings-books/

  Coming soon!

  The Golem of Mala Lubovnya

  Created out of clay to protect the citizens of Mala Lubovnya from persecution, the golem is strong but desperately lonely. Confined to an attic, his only joy comes from listening to the evening prayers and watching a stonemason work across the street. Then the golem meets the mason—Jakob—who gives him the name Emet and becomes Emet’s friend. But Jakob is caught between his faith and his attraction to men, while Emet knows he may eventually be used as an instrument of violence. Emet’s name means truth—but can honest love survive for a golem and a devout man?

  Releases April 28, 2020

  Preorder now!