by K. Z. Snow
Yes, there was a clearing in that direction. Fanule didn’t know if it was accessible to a team of horses and a wagon. He hadn’t explored it since his youth.
The sun withdrew, steeping the wood in chilly gloom. Birdsong stopped. The trees went still.
“I swear,” Fanule shouted, turning in circles, “if you’ve harmed Clancy Marrowbone and William Marchman, I will find you again and I will make you pay.”
Giddy laughter came from everywhere, nowhere. “So you want to add patricide to your other sins, eh, Fanule? I’m afraid you’ll find that quite difficult.”
That was Zofen’s voice, no doubt about it, but where had it come from? The squirrel that stared down at horse and rider, flicking its tail? Or the jay that flitted from branch to branch? Fueled by apprehension, Fanule’s imagination raced. Had the Mongrel Extraordinaire mastered shape-shifting in addition to his other abused power?
In any case, he had spoken the truth, and Fanule had no answer. For all his blind rage at a man who was essentially a villainous stranger to him, he knew he could never take his father’s life. And Zofen was his father. The cord that connected them was hopelessly frayed and stretched thin, but Fanule could still feel it, like a tight pinch in his solar plexus. It was through that connection he’d recognized Zofen, instantly, on the Green.
“Be on your way,” the voice said wearily. “You cannot find me if I choose not to be found. There’s nothing we can do to one another, anyway… except scar each other’s soul.”
“You’ve none to scar,” Fan said bitterly.
“I hope you’re right” came the reply. “By the way, your friend Simon Bentcross is lucky you stayed with him last night. I’d intended to put him in the same boat as his bloodsucking paramour.”
“Stay away from him!” Fanule yelled. “Haven’t you done enough damage?”
“I don’t see it that way. But you needn’t worry about Bentcross. I’ve decided to focus on Taintwellian Mongrels. That Fober fellow, for example—he’s quite the insatiable tomcat, isn’t he? Perhaps I’ll visit him tonight.”
Fanule was hardly an admirer of Jusem Fober, but he couldn’t in all good conscience encourage this course of action. “I wish I knew how to stop you,” he said.
“Ah, if wishes were horses….”
Frustrated by his impotence, Fanule mounted Cloudburst and continued his journey. He couldn’t waste time playing games with this madman. He had to find William. Once that was done, he would track down Zofen. And he would be prepared to take whatever action his conscience allowed.
Chapter Thirteen
THE GUTTER at the Mechanical Circus looked as pathetic as Fanule’s house felt. Many of the caravans were gone. Most of the others seemed deserted. Staked canvas covered some, an attempt to protect their colorfully painted exteriors from the ravages of winter. The dining tent, which served as the Gutter’s social hub, had been taken down and put in storage. Only the voxbox post remained, a vertical timber with nothing to support.
A nipping wind made trash cartwheel across the rutted dirt. Some pieces paused in the charred pits left by campfires. Finding these accommodations unsuitable, they tumbled on until caught by one of the fences.
Just north of the Gutter, the buildings and amusement rides of the Marvelous Mechanical Circus looked decidedly unworthy of that name. The weathered Rolling Surf Trackway seemed as skeletal and rickety as old, abandoned scaffolding, and the dance pavilion and concert hall sent out echoes of silence.
Filling in the vista to the west, Purinton belched more filth into its perennial haze.
All this bleakness insinuated its way into Fanule. He walked Cloudburst toward William’s caravan as he looked around for any sign of life, tried to smell someone’s lunch or hear someone’s laughter or see a curl of smoke from the narrow pipe of a chimney.
“My living wagon is easy to find. It is yellow with blue trim and a mollycroft roof. There are carved painted panels with nymphs and satyrs around the door. My name is on the doorplate. I’ll keep one lamp lit.”
Tears sprang to Fanule’s eyes as soon as those lines sprang into his mind. They were from the first letter William had sent him, shortly after they’d met.
He spied the caravan ahead on his right just as two boys in knickers, their shins rail-thin and grubby, came into view on the other side of the pitted pathway. Alternately laughing and bickering, they rolled a rusty barrel hoop between them, each trying to steal it from the other. The boys stopped when they saw Fanule and Cloudburst. The horse greeted them with a few bobs of his head. Fanule pulled out his handkerchief and quickly swabbed his face, as if to clean away the dust of a long ride.
“You a rozzer?” one of the boys asked with a suspicious squint, “or one of Fizzing’s men? We’re up on our rent and di’n’t steal nothin’, just so’s you know.”
The other lad set his newsboy cap at an angle, undoubtedly to convey his tough worldliness.
Fanule let out a curt, disbelieving chuckle. “I’m neither. I’m actually a Branded Mongrel.” He pulled aside his collar to display his inked ratio, and the boys’ eyes rounded like crown coins. “I’m looking for Leander Wadsworth, just to ask him some questions about the night of those disappearances. We’ve had some strange goings-on in Taintwell, too.”
His honesty seemed to disarm them, and the fact he was a Mongrel had certainly piqued their interest. Boys that age always liked to think they were flirting with danger.
The taller one stepped forward. “I’m Leander.”
Fanule dismounted. His height, and probably other aspects of his appearance, must’ve been daunting. Leander retreated farther than he’d advanced.
“It’s all right. I’m not a monster.” Fanule dropped to a squat, forearms resting casually on thighs, to make himself less imposing. “So tell me what happened.”
A female voice called out of a nearby wagon, “Lee? Curly? Come in now and eat some lunch!”
Curly, who did indeed have corkscrews of blond hair erupting from under his cap, looked indecisively back and forth. He didn’t want to miss out on anything, but he didn’t want to risk a cuff, either.
Fanule smiled slightly. He understood the boy’s dilemma. Impossible as it now seemed, he’d once been Curly’s age, which he estimated at eleven or so. Leander looked two or three years older. Fanule had once been that age, too.
Curly, opting for a placated mother and full belly, dashed off.
Leander didn’t budge. “Whatcha wanna know?”
“That night you were crabbing along the shore, you said you saw a strange man when you got back here.”
“Sure did.”
“Did you see a gold wagon as well? A circus-type wagon?”
Leander nodded and pointed. “Back there, in the south lot. Same one as I seen earlier at the flea market on the plaza.”
“And this man was looking for Will Marchman?”
“Yeah, but I told him—”
“I know that part. The deputy mayor filled me in. Now, did you see that man drive his wagon into Caravan Park?”
Leander’s face puckered in thought. “I… mighta heard him. I seen him go back to the lot, but I di’n’t keep watching him. I’s mighty tired and wanted to get to my bed. But later I think I was waked up by weird noises.”
“You’re not sure?”
With an exaggerated shrug, Leander said, “Coulda been dreamin’. That man gave me the fantods. Somethin’ gives me the fantods, I almost always dream about it.”
“What kind of noises did you hear?” Fanule asked.
“Like… I dunno, like pieces of somethin’ moving around. Slithery noises and whooshy noises. And gears grinding like somethin’ metal was turning.”
“And the next morning, a lot of people were missing from the Gutter?”
“I’d say so. Then by nightfall they was back. ’Cept for Lavinia and Justina. But, see, they coulda went to City Center to celebrate end-of-season and took up with vamps or got kilt by a maniac. The chum say it’s happened befor
e.”
Fanule’s brow crimped. “The chum?”
“Yeah. Chum. Y’know, like bait. That’s what circus people call theirselfs.”
Had William ever used that term? Fanule was too preoccupied to remember. “The people who came back—did they say where they’d gone?”
Leander cast a nervous glance in the direction of his living wagon, which seemed to be around a bend in the makeshift road. “They said they couldn’t remember. So someone told Mr. Fizzing, who reported it to the city, and all kinds of speculatin’ started. Most folks blamed it on liquor or poppy—said that bunch musta went on a toot in City Center—and the older chum whispered about enchantments and such. So”—Leander lifted and dropped his arms—“who knows?”
“Where are all those people now?” Fanule asked. He knew he had to wrap this up before Leander got in trouble with his parents.
“Took off for their winter places. You can see there ain’t many of us left here.”
“And those two women who never returned?”
“They prob’ly done the same. Just didn’t bother comin’ back here first.”
Fanule stood. “I only have one more question, and then you can go enjoy your lunch. Has Mr. Marchman stopped here at all since Flea Market Day?”
Leander jerked a thumb to his left. “He’s here right now, in his wagon. We been bringin’ him food, and it looks like he’s mostly been eatin’ it, but he don’t talk. We figure he’s sick or hidin’ from the law or somethin’.”
Fanule’s heart began thumping. He nearly bolted straight for William’s caravan but instead took a second to say thank you.
“Le-an-der!”
“Welcome,” the boy mumbled before darting away.
Fanule charged toward the caravan. Its door wasn’t locked. As he let himself in, he gasped at what he saw inside.
William lay on the floor, curled on his side, his eyes open but glazed and unfocused. Scraps of food were scattered across a plate that sat on the wagon’s little table, up against one wall. Some had fallen to the floor. Fanule dropped to his haunches and lifted the listless figure into a sitting position.
“Oh dear gods, oh no, he got to you.” Face twisting in pain, Fanule held William around the waist with one arm and petted his hair and face with his free hand. His fingers trembled. He turned William’s head toward him and tenderly kissed his lips, but they were as unresponsive as chilled gelatin.
“Oh gods, my sweet darling. What has he done?”
William was filthy, nearly unrecognizable, and dressed haphazardly. How had he made it here? Walked? Had instinct led him step by step to his beloved caravan, the place that had sheltered him for so many years?
“William, it’s me, Fan. We’re going home. All right? To our home, the one we share. I’ll bathe you and tuck you into bed and keep you warm. If you’re hungry, I’ll feed you. Would you like that?”
No answer. This was Yissi Sweetgrass all over again.
Supporting William in the saddle wouldn’t be easy, but Fanule knew he could do it. He not only had to, he wanted to. William would sit in front of him, and Fanule would brace him in place with his arms as he held the reins. They’d go slowly. Even if a craggy mountain muscled up from the earth, Fanule would carry his lover up and over it in his arms.
He lifted William to his feet, guided him out of the caravan, closed the door, got him down the short flight of steps, and led him to Cloudburst. At least William had no trouble moving, although he did so like a sleepwalker. Still supporting him with one arm, Fanule fumbled through his coat pocket and pulled out the flower. Surprisingly, it hadn’t wilted.
“L-look what I brought you.” Fanule raised his hand. “See? It’s a compass flower, like you wanted. Because I love you and I’ve missed you and my life isn’t worth the dirt I’m standing on without you. Oh gods, William, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
William’s blue eyes shifted toward the bloom. Their movement was the first sign of awareness he’d shown. “Not yet,” he said thinly, with effort. “Later.” His gaze moved haltingly to Fanule’s face. “And more.”
Hearing him speak, as dull and rusty as his voice was, gave Fanule hope. “I’ll bring you as many as you want, my sweet. But now you must get on Cloudburst. Can you do that? Here, I’ll help you into the saddle.”
William was obliging in the way a trained animal might be. He did what he was told, but without enthusiasm and with only minimal comprehension. Fanule climbed up behind him and held him securely in place. Directed again by instinct, William closed both hands over the pommel.
Taking the Crosstown High Road directly to Whitesbain Plank shortened their trek back to Taintwell, but dusk was already closing in by the time Fanule guided Cloudburst toward the barn. He got William into the house and sat him at the kitchen table. While he filled the bathtub with water from the sun-warmed gravitational tank, he gulped a cup of tonic, then gently removed William’s clothing.
William hadn’t soiled himself, which meant instinct had also led him to Caravan Park’s outdoor privies when Nature called, but the exposed portions of his skin were begrimed, and his hair was stringy.
It would take considerably more than dirtiness to make him repellant to Fanule, who struggled against arousal as he bared his lover’s lean body, its muscles perfect as a swimmer’s.
Finally, he slipped off William’s drawers. His cock swelled further, making a long, hard hump within his trousers. Fanule laughed tightly, self-consciously, and cleared his throat. “However inappropriate it is,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “I’m ready to jump out of my skin at the sight of you.” He ran his hands along William’s trim thighs.
William remained blank and passive.
Fanule tested the tub water’s temperature. Not having absorbed much heat from the oft-hidden sun, it was merely warm. But Fanule judged that sufficient and sprinkled in some lavender-scented bath salts. He led William to the tub and helped him step inside.
He’d just finished washing William’s hair when a mist gathered inside the back door.
“Praise the goddess, you found him!” cried Betty. Loosely assembled, she drifted to the table and mimicked sitting.
“You mean I found what’s left of him,” Fanule said acerbically. He rinsed William’s hair and set to scrubbing his body. At least Betty’s appearance had shrunk his troublesome jack.
Her head wafted toward the tub, and she studied William’s slack face. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. Zofen and his Spiritorium must’ve made their way to the boardinghouse.”
“Zofen,” Betty repeated mechanically, as if her mind had suddenly gone woolgathering.
Fanule snapped a look at her. “Zofen Perfidor, my father. Quam Khar spiritdrainer. Or didn’t you discern he’s a spiritdrainer?”
“Yes,” she said distractedly, “I did. Which explains a good deal.”
“Then why are you acting like none of this makes sense to you?”
Betty lowered her head to make it level with his. “Fan, I used my gazing box to cast a look into the past. Your father died five years ago of consumption.”
Chapter Fourteen
THE SOAP and sponge slipped out of his hands as he gaped at Betty’s translucent face. “That’s not possible. I’ve looked at him, spoken with him, touched him.” Vacantly, Fanule kissed William’s forehead. He continued to dart incredulous glances at Betty as he grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and helped William out of the tub.
Betty considerately turned her head. “As sure as you’re standing there, Fan, your father died. He’d taken up residence somewhere west of Purin, not close to the provincial border but not far. A friend or lover was somehow involved in his death—not in a causal way, of course, because his passing was natural, but there was somebody at his side.” She faced him and William, then caught herself and again turned away. “That’s why I couldn’t look into Zofen’s present or future no matter how hard I tried. By all cosmic rights, he shouldn’t have a present or future.”
“Then who’s the Spiritmaster? And why do we resemble each other? And why do I feel a connection to him? Is some kind of trickery at work here?”
When Betty balked at answering, Fanule turned his attention back to William, murmuring endearments as he carefully toweled the moisture from his lover’s hair and body, promising to rub oil into his skin, kissing his face and back and shoulders. Gods, how it pained him not to elicit any response.
He slipped a clean nightshirt over William’s head, then pulled out the tub’s drain plug to let the dirty water run through a pipe and into the yard. “Before we talk more, let me try to clean William’s teeth and comb his hair and get him into bed. I doubt he’s been warm in days.”
“Of course,” Betty said sympathetically. “I’ll fill the parlor stove. Would you like me to cook him supper?”
“There’s plenty of food in the coldbox, Betty. We can leave something on the nightstand.” He almost asked William if he was hungry, then realized with a pang how futile any questions were. All I can do is take care of him and keep telling him how much he means to me. Then get to the bottom of this outrageous violation. “Have you been to Simon’s place to check on Clancy? I obviously haven’t had a chance to get back there.” He steered William into the bedroom, stood him over the washbowl, and tried to clean his teeth with a bone-handled, boar-bristle brush and a mint-flavored paste. Perhaps feeding him licorice would’ve been easier, but William took such pride in his appearance, he used that toothbrush every day without fail.
Grief clouded Betty’s face at the mention of Marrowbone. “I stole into the house just before coming here and kept to the shadows. Everything was as Mirabelle described. Clancy’s been more than burned by the sun, which is alarming enough. A vampire should be completely alert and active at night, but he’s….” Her voice broke. She was terribly fond of Marrowbone, so her distress was understandable. “I’ll fetch William some food,” she murmured, and floated out of the room.
