Mongrel

by K. Z. Snow

  Well, well. There could be no stranger bedfellows than a hunter and his potential prey.

  “I thought you’d embraced celibacy.”

  Marrowbone lifted and dropped his fingers on the sofa arm. “I’m apparently not immune to persuasion.”

  After an uncertain glance at the shutters, Fanule lowered his gaze to the floor. Hands on hips, he weighed the advantages and disadvantages of allowing Bentcross into his home. True, the man didn’t seem to be an irredeemable jackass. And he could provide some valuable information.

  Fanule went to the door and opened it. Bentcross turned.

  “You’re free to come in,” Fanule said. “Just be aware you’ll have to answer to me and Clancy if you betray us in any way.”

  Sheepishly, Bentcross ground out his cigar and approached the stoop. “Facing twin barrels always makes me behave.”

  Once they were all inside, Fanule was suddenly struck by Will’s quiet determination. He didn’t have to get involved. Without shame, Fanule walked to the chair where Will sat and knelt at his feet. He took Will’s hand and looked into his eyes.

  “Thank you for coming here. It means more to me than I can say.”

  Will blushed and smiled. After returning his smile, Fanule turned and sat before the chair. He linked his arms around his upraised legs.

  Bentcross cleared his throat. “I think, gentlemen, we need to start putting pieces together. I’m getting some damned bad feelings about my job.”

  “Simon’s right,” said Marrowbone. “We all have insights and suspicions to bring to the table.”

  “Why don’t you tell us what you think is going on?” Will said, touching Fanule’s shoulder.

  So Fanule told them. Maybe sharing his concerns with three other concerned men would invigorate his sense of purpose. Countless people depended on him. He couldn’t founder under the weight of this task.

  He began with the historical evidence of Purintonian contempt for Branded Mongrels, something Marrowbone verified. The stories actually made Bentcross wince. From all indications, this contempt had led to an escalation in disappearances and questionable arrests that coincided with other developments: courtroom and institutional secrecy; Hunzinger’s planned opening of the Demimen exhibits; the banning of Mongrels from the Circus.

  Fanule told his companions about the petition drive and his meeting with Pushbin. And then, with a spring of bitterness, he spoke of Twigby Hartshorn’s injury and the beggar’s murder.

  He rose and grabbed the newspaper so he could show the item to the other three men.

  “You’d given him your cloak?” Will asked as Fanule stood before him.

  “Yes.”

  Apprehension crossed Will’s face. “It’s a unique piece of clothing. That purple satin braiding….” He handed the paper back to Fanule, who carried it to the sofa.

  Frowning, Marrowbone scanned the few dreary lines. “How tall was the victim?”

  “Maybe two inches shorter than I,” Fanule said. “Bony, though.”

  “And his hair?”

  “Dark. Matted but dark.”

  Marrowbone nodded. “The cloak would’ve concealed his emaciation. And if his back was turned to his assailant—”

  “The shooter wouldn’t have seen his face,” Bentcross said as he, too, read the notice. He took a seat beside his new lover.

  Fanule resumed his previous position in front of Will’s chair.

  “Tell him,” Will abruptly said to Bentcross. “Tell Fan what you told me about that meeting you were called to.”

  Haltingly, Simon recounted the conference he’d attended in Hunzinger’s office. Marrowbone listened with narrowed eyes, his thumb and forefinger curled around his mouth. Fanule absorbed the story but didn’t react. His face felt like a mask, frozen into blankness.

  He dimly realized this was how he always greeted the arrival of something inevitable. He’d been the same way in that endless fraction of a second before the shears had bitten into his ears—anaesthetized by a resignation to his fate, a resignation that had given him temporary respite from the terror that had preceded the act and the pain he knew would follow.

  “Fan? Are you all right?”

  It was Will, leaning over his shoulder, flattening a hand on his chest.

  William. My second wing….

  “Where are the ribbons?” Fan murmured, laying his hand over Will’s fingers.

  Will’s head lowered. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” His hair brushed the side of Fanule’s face.

  “Nothing.”

  “I believe you’re safe in Taintwell,” Bentcross told Fanule, “for what it’s worth. Purinton’s lawmen know this isn’t a friendly place for them.” He glanced uneasily at the windows. “I don’t feel too good here myself, considering I’ve picked up some of your citizens.”

  Fanule didn’t bother trying to reassure him. Taintwellians hated bounty hunters, and with good reason. “Where do you suppose the search for me will be concentrated, then?”

  “The places you’re known to frequent. So stay out of City Center. Stay off Whitesbain Plank Road. Stay away from shops you usually patronize. Believe me, Perfidor, Pushbin’s office and the EA have had a loose net around you since that incident in the Truth and Justice Building. The net tightened when you became the Eminence of Taintwell. I don’t know what you did lately to irk both Hunzinger and Pushbin, but now they’re intent on closing the net.”

  Will put both his hands on Fanule’s shoulders. It seemed like a protective gesture as much as a comforting one.

  Marrowbone sat forward and addressed Fanule. “So somebody obviously knew to look for you on Skipskin Mews.”

  “A good many people would know that. I’m there often enough.”

  “Focus on that night,” said Bentcross. “The night before you gave that beggar your cloak. Did anybody seem to be following or watching you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Looking at you strangely?”

  A switch tripped in Fanule’s memory. “Robin Thornwood.”

  The name visibly piqued Simon’s interest. “What about him?”

  “We spoke. He seemed uneasy. And I think he was with another fellow. Short, wiry. With muddy-yellow hair and whiskers.”

  “What did you and Thornwood talk about?”

  Fanule balked at any revelation of his private life. He looked at his lap before again meeting Simon’s curious gaze. “I… thought we could get together again.”

  Bentcross stared at him in puzzlement, then groaned and looked away. “Oh, don’t tell me….”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Robin Thornwood is nothing more than a worm with a good barber. That’s what the matter is.” Simon blew out air and shook his head. “And to think I’ve had him.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. What of it? I’m hardly a member of an exclusive club.”

  “I’m all too aware of that,” Fanule muttered.

  Bentcross chuckled as he shook his head in disbelief. “I swear, Perfidor, you’re as much a whore as I am.”

  “Just to keep the record straight,” Fanule said, “no, I’m not.”

  “I don’t stand a chance in this competition,” Will mumbled at Fanule’s back.

  Impatiently, Marrowbone sighed. “I’ll accept the honor of King Whore if it will keep the two of you from bickering.” He obviously meant Simon and Fanule. “Now let’s get on with it.” He turned to look at Simon. “What exactly is suspect about this Thornwood character?”

  “He’s the most venal piece of shit I know,” said Bentcross. “He’ll do anything for some coin.” Now Simon addressed Fanule. “So if the Enforcement Agency knows you’re a twor and he’s a twor—which they surely do, since they even have my proclivities on record—they probably paired Robin up with one of their scorpions and instructed him to take the scorp around, show him where he might be able to waylay the Dog King.” Bentcross winked as he made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Big money for both of
them if the scorp ever got to you, Perfidor. The people who set this up would prefer that route, believe me.”

  “Why is that?” Fanule asked in a grim monotone. He tried to ignore the sick flare of fear in his gut. Don’t let this push you off the bridge. Stand firm.

  “Because a random act of violence in a district known for its crime wouldn’t lead to the kinds of questions that detention or disappearance would.”

  “Wait, Simon,” Will said. “What do you mean by a ‘scorpion’?”

  It was Marrowbone who answered. “A scorpion is a hired assassin. One tailed me after I applied leverage to end Mongrel branding.”

  “What came of it?” Fanule asked.

  Marrowbone’s look turned sly. “Let’s just say I had a very large dinner one evening.”

  “Did the man ever rise?” Fanule knew that in Marrowbone’s lexicon, a “large dinner” meant severe exsanguination. Depending on how Clancy had conducted the feed, his victim would’ve either died and then arisen transformed or died and stayed dead.

  Marrowbone shrugged. “I don’t know what became of him. If he did revive, he avoided me. I like to imagine he laid low and went about grubbing for rodents and fish in another province. In any case, I never ran into him again.”

  “So… why can’t you do the same thing again?” Will asked Marrowbone. “Threaten Purinton’s leaders. Threaten Hunzinger too, if he’s involved.”

  “It wouldn’t be wise.”

  Bentcross slid a glance at the vampire, who didn’t seem inclined to say anything further. So the bounty hunter explained his answer. “I assume he can’t resort to the same tactic because Purinton is better prepared now.”

  “How?” asked Will.

  “The EA has a Special Threats team,” Bentcross said. “They’re trained to hunt and snuff out ‘unusual enemies of the people’.” He again looked at Marrowbone. “Am I correct, Clancy?”

  Simon’s tone amused Fanule nearly to the point of laughter. The brawny, swaggering bounty hunter had sounded as deferential as a doting young girl.

  “That’s part of the reason,” said Marrowbone, folding his hands in his lap. He didn’t seem too troubled by it. “More to the point, I think I can better serve this investigation if no Purintonians know I’m around.”

  “But what about my neighbors?” Will said. “You spent hours at the Gutter last night. Many Circus employees have very keen senses and instincts, especially the sharks who work on Wheel of Fortune Avenue. They could’ve recognized you as a vampire. Or even recognized you as Clancy Marrowbone.”

  “I made certain none of your neighbors saw me,” Marrowbone said calmly.

  Fanule envied his laconic confidence. Immortality combined with superhuman powers certainly had its advantages, not the least of which was peace of mind.

  “What about Taintwellians?” Will asked.

  “They wouldn’t betray me.”

  “No,” Fanule said, “they wouldn’t.” As he got up from the floor, he realized he was still rising from the murky pit into which he’d plunged as dawn broke. The crippling sorrow and lethargy had, for the most part, released him, but their residue continued to stain his mood. “Anybody care for a glass of wine? I’m sorry I haven’t been a very good host.”

  When both Marrowbone and Bentcross expressed an interest in some refreshment, Will got up and said he’d help. He followed Fanule into the kitchen. Once they were beyond the other men’s line of sight, they fell into an embrace that seemed as natural as walking. The joining of their mouths seemed the same.

  The kiss was slow and savoring. Fanule gently cupped Will’s face and surrendered to the sweet press of his lips, always so pillow-soft, always so welcoming. At that instant, kissing William was like balm for his spirit.

  “I can stay with you if you’d like,” Will said. “Hunzinger knows I’m waiting for a new shipment of elixir. I could extend my absence if I sent him a message saying I had family business to attend to.”

  “But you don’t have any family.” Fanule drank in the sight of Will’s face.

  “He doesn’t know that. Besides, he should understand that I need to be away from the park once in a while. And I am an independent, after all. I’m not in Hunzinger’s employ.”

  “You truly wouldn’t mind staying here?”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all. I enjoy being with you. And time away from my sales platform will give me the freedom to help in whatever this mission is you’ve undertaken.”

  Fanule slowly wagged his head.

  “What’s wrong?” Will asked.

  “I can’t believe my good fortune, that’s all.”

  Will blushed. “We’ll see how good it is. I’m a fair salesman, Fan, but I seem to bumble like a boy through every other part of my life.”

  Fanule’s hand fell to Will’s crotch and gave his not-so-buried treasure an appreciative squeeze. “Not every,” he said as Will abruptly drew in a breath. “Now, let’s fulfill our host duties. Then we’ll all work out some kind of plan.”

  “Our host duties?”

  “Yes. As long as you’re here, this is your home too.”

  Will’s smile carried such obvious pleasure that Fanule was certain he wouldn’t regret his hospitality. He was still a bit daunted by the prospect of having a houseguest—Will was unused to Taintwell and to Fanule’s disordered disposition—but he was a remarkably resilient young man with a reservoir of fortitude he’d only begun to tap.

  What’s more, Fanule was totally smitten by him.

  Fanule opened a ventilated trapdoor in his kitchen floor. Beneath it, in a shallow, ceramic-lined pit, a small rack held nine bottles of wine. He plucked out the Lorique and lowered the door. As he uncorked the bottle, Will gathered glasses from a cupboard.

  “It’s lovely being able to move about a real house,” Will said as if speaking to himself.

  The wistful sound of his voice touched Fanule, who suddenly realized Will’s only home for the past nine years had been a cramped caravan. He ran a hand down Will’s back. “Then move about as much as you want. Take a bath, dance through the parlor, roll around on the bed, recline on the kitchen table.”

  Will laughed. “I might just do all those things. Maybe more.”

  “And I might just watch.”

  When their eyes met, the potent alchemy of their attraction turned the glance into a multifaceted promise. They would welcome and understand and enjoy and help each other. Not even the simplest things would be taken for granted.

  No, Fanule would not regret his hospitality. At least, not as long as Will took joy in their companionship.

  Then guilt began to nibble at his certainty. Was he being selfish? The Eminence of Taintwell had a price on his head. Consorting with him could put Will in jeopardy. And that would not bring Fanule joy.

  They were about to return to the parlor when Marrowbone strolled into the room. “Simon’s grousing about the two of you delaying his refreshment with… well, I needn’t repeat that part.”

  Fanule and Will smiled.

  “You didn’t keep him entertained?” Fanule asked archly.

  “That wouldn’t have been seemly, now would it?” Marrowbone’s gaze alit on the Bloodroot Elixir that still sat untouched on the table. He took three steps and lifted the bottle. “I’ve been curious about this since I first saw it.”

  “That’s the patent medicine I sell,” Will told him.

  “Ah. Small wonder it has such a prominent place in Fan’s kitchen.” Marrowbone held it before the lamp that burned on the table. He tilted the bottle this way and that. The liquid within looked more opaque than transparent, and it left a viscous coating on the glass as it rolled from side to side. “Do you mind if I open it?”

  “No, go ahead.” With some embarrassment, Fanule looked at Will. “I confess I bought it just to break the ice between us. I really can’t risk taking other tonics while I’m taking the herbal compound.”

  “I understand,” Will said.

  Scowling, Bentcross stomped in f
rom the parlor. “I’d better not be missing out on some—” Craning his neck in Marrowbone’s direction, he squinted at Dr. Bolt’s bottled magic. “Did you bring that with you tonight?” he asked Will.

  “No. Fan bought it from me last week.”

  “Awful-tasting stuff,” Bentcross said. “But I must say, it’s increased my strength and vigor and sharpened my eyesight. I noticed the change within a few days.”

  Marrowbone uncorked the bottle. He began lifting it to his nose, then abruptly jerked his head back. Frowning, he more cautiously brought the bottle toward his face. He flinched again, his frown deepening.

  “This isn’t good,” he whispered.

  “What isn’t?” Fan asked, walking up to him.

  Creases had appeared on Marrowbone’s face. His preternaturally smooth skin looked like cracked alabaster. “I should taste it, but I’m afraid it would make me ill.” He turned his troubled gaze to Fanule. “Perhaps we should take this to Lizabetta, get her opinion.”

  “Her opinion of what, Clancy?” Fanule tried taking the bottle from his hand, but Marrowbone held it out of his reach.

  “I’d rather not say just yet. You have to check on that Mongrel anyway, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but… I don’t understand.” Marrowbone’s reaction was unnerving. Never had Fanule seen him upset.

  “This isn’t good.”

  Indeed it wasn’t.

  Chapter Ten

  IT WAS nearly three o’clock in the morning when Marrowbone took Fanule and the bottle of elixir to the healer’s cottage. Bentcross had by then fallen asleep on the sofa; Will, on the chair. The men had made progress toward forming a plan, and it would require the risky involvement of each of them.

  “You’re not comfortable leaving your young man alone with Simon, are you,” Marrowbone said. He and Fanule stood together beneath the night sky, preparing to fly to Lizabetta’s hideaway.

  “Not entirely.” Fanule glanced at his darkened house. “Stupid of me. We’re all adults, free to do as we choose. I have no claim on Will.”

  “In that case….” The vampire curled forward like a blade of grass. Long, cool fingers lay along Fanule’s jaw. Lips only slightly warmer touched Fanule’s lips.