Critical Failures VI (Caverns and Creatures Book 6)

by Robert Bevan

“Dave,” said Frank.

  “No, you're right. I'm sorry I brought it up. I regretted saying it as soon as the words came out of my mouth. I can't expect to be forgiven for whatever it is that I've done just because I potentially saved all of our lives.” Did that sound as insincere and passive aggressive to them as it sounded to him? “I'm just saying, maybe we could look past whatever indiscretions I may have committed while intoxicated, and focus on the positive.”

  Someone sighed.

  “Let him out,” said Frank.

  Dave listened as tables were dragged away from the door, then pushed it open a crack. “Can someone give me my pants?”

  “You can get them yourself,” said Tony the Elf. “You lost your shit before you lost your shit.”

  A little bit of the previous night came back to Dave. He remembered shitting himself. Murkwort was walking him to the outhouse, and... Where was Murkwort now? Why was he so quiet?

  “Come on, guys. Can you at least give me, like, a tarp or something?” He wrenched a hand axe free from the door to hide his junk with and pushed the door open a little wider.

  Murkwort was sitting on the floor against the wall next to the rear exit. His lifeless eyes were wide open, as was his jaw, showing off his precious metal teeth, as was the gaping hole where his throat used to be. His robes were thick with drying blood.

  “What the fuck happened to him?” asked Dave.

  “You did,” said Tony the Elf.

  This was so much worse than fucking Rhonda. At least definitively worse.

  “How could I? He's a high-level wizard, and I'm just... I'm just Dave.”

  Frank shook his head. “Not anymore you're not. You're a wererat.”

  “What?” said Dave. “That's impossible.” He assumed that Frank had some kind of solid evidence to make that specific an accusation, and tried to think of when or how he might have gotten infected by a wererat, but there was nothing. He shook his head. “Whatever went down last night, you misinterpreted something. I'm not a goddamn wererat.”

  “There's nothing to misinterpret,” said Tony the Elf. “We heard a scream out back by the outhouse. When we went to check it out, there was some fucking rat-man monster tearing out Murkwort's throat with its teeth. I grabbed a shovel and clobbered it over the head, knocking it unconscious. It was too late for Murkwort. You were unaccounted for, so instead of killing it, we locked it down in the cellar, just in case.”

  Rhonda wiped a tear from her eye. “We were really hoping you'd run away or something.”

  Dave sat down at a table. Lycanthropy explained the memory loss and the nakedness. He vaguely remembered a full moon. And a shovel to the head explained his headache well enough. But...

  “How could this have happened? Lycanthropy isn't an airborne virus. I haven't been bitten or scratched by anyone. I haven't had sex with anyone. I haven't – Shit.”

  “What is it?” asked Frank.

  “The turkey leg.”

  “The one you picked up off the floor?” asked Rhonda.

  Dave nodded. “Someone else had taken a few bites.”

  Rhonda and Tony the Elf exchanged a grimace.

  “You ate a partially eaten turkey leg you picked up off the floor?” said Rhonda.

  “I was starving!” Dave thought back to that dwarf who'd been writing the scrolls and how quickly he'd disappeared. If he'd changed to his dire rat form, he could have easily hidden in the tall grass. Dave pounded the table with his fist. “Fuck. I'm a goddamn wererat.”

  Chapter 29

  Julian woke up on a massive white pillow in a large luxurious room, at least by the standards of this world. The walls and furniture all gleamed white, and the air smelled like rose petals. He was wearing a white satin robe with nothing underneath it. The huge window gave him no indication as to where he was, as the view was completely obscured by a heavy white mist.

  “Shit,” Julian whispered to himself. “Am I in heaven?” If so, shit was probably an inappropriate first reaction.

  “Stacy!” he called out. His head felt foggy. He may have still been a little drunk. “Stacy!”

  “Look who's finally awake.” Stacy strode into the room in a white satin robe like the one Julian was wearing. She was followed by a man Julian couldn't recall ever having seen before. He was wearing an identical robe. His brown hair was pinned back in a ponytail, and he had a nicely trimmed goatee. Julian supposed he could have been Jesus, and wondered if his own Jewish upbringing was going to cause any complications.

  “Hello,” Julian said politely, but with just a pinch of 'Who the hell are you and why are we all within a napkin's difference of being naked in this room together?'.

  “Julian,” said Stacy. “This is Darton. Darton, Julian.”

  “It's a pleasure to meet you.” Darton stepped forward to offer Julian a handshake, but tripped on the edge of a rug and slammed his shin into the coffee table. “Nnnnnngggggggg!” he said in lieu of swearing. Perhaps he was still drunk as well.

  His hand was still extended, so Julian accepted the handshake, but kept his foggy gaze centered on Stacy. “Where are we?”

  “I met Darton at that last bar we went to earlier this morning. He invited us to stay in his suite.”

  “Sounds like you made the responsible choice.” That came out a little harsher than he'd meant for it to, but the harshness might be justified, depending on her answer to his next question. “Where are our clothes?”

  “I had to carry you here,” said Stacy, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “You threw up on me. Darton here was kind enough to send our clothes out to be cleaned.”

  It was easy to see how he was currently the dick in the situation, but Julian didn't think it was entirely fair.

  “I didn't ask to start doing shots at six in the morning. You were the one who –” A more important thought occurred to him. “Do you have the –” Not knowing who this Darton guy was, Julian didn't know if he should be mentioning the dice in front of him.

  Stacy smiled and pulled back the left side of her robe enough to expose the silver chain. “Don't worry. I told him about the dice. He knows a guy who has another one mounted on the head of a walking cane. That's our mark for this evening.”

  “Do we have a plan?” asked Julian. “Or am I supposed to just grab his dick and see what happens?”

  Darton, still rubbing his shin, looked at Julian quizzically. “Perhaps I was unclear, but I was actually referring to a literal walking cane.”

  Julian put his inexplicably hostile feelings toward Darton aside and looked at Stacy. “What do we know about this guy?”

  Stacy frowned. “Darton?”

  “No. The guy with the cane.” But now that she mentioned it, it might be appropriate to discuss what they knew about Darton as well next time they got a moment alone, since they were sharing all their secrets with him.

  “Aleric of Whitewood,” said Darton. “Nothing terribly valuable on the surface. He got his start making scrolls and potions, then moved up to rods and wands. Now he mostly trades in real estate. He makes quite a bit of money, and he likes to show it off. I met him a few days ago over breakfast. He was eating a poached pegasus egg.”

  Stacy gasped. “That's terrible.”

  “Yes. By all accounts I've heard, they taste atrocious.”

  “Then why would he eat one?”

  Darton shrugged. “Simply to be seen doing so. They may taste like fermenting garbage, but a pegasus egg demands two thousand gold pieces on the open market. And that's typically for people who intend to hatch it. Eating one is merely a means of saying Look how much I can afford to throw away on breakfast, without actually saying it.”

  “What a douche,” said Julian. “And I can't think of anything we could possibly offer him any douchier than a pimp cane.”

  A sharp knock on the door made Julian jump.

  “You needn't be alarmed,” said Darton. “That will be our clothes.” He turned around, seemingly unaware of the space he occupied, as his right hand swun
g straight into an expensive-looking vase sitting atop a pedestal on the rear of the plush white sofa. Stacy had to dive, but she managed to catch it, keeping it from smashing to pieces on the floor. She stood up and sighed as Darton walked obliviously to the door.

  “That must be what a low Dexterity score looks like,” Julian muttered to Stacy while Darton talked to whoever was at the door.

  Stacy placed the vase back on top of the pedestal. “I hope he survives the trip back across the room.”

  Having concluded his business with the person out in the hallway, Darton returned to Stacy and Julian with a pile of clean and neatly-folded laundry.

  “Damn,” said Stacy, holding up her shiny black leather rogue outfit. “I can't believe I can fit in this.” Now that she mentioned it, it looked like a leather onesie for an adolescent stick figure.

  Julian's robes were whiter than they'd ever been. All the blood stains were gone. The multitude of tears, slits, and puncture holes caused by blades, claws, and teeth during his time in this world had all been mended, the stitching almost invisible except upon very close inspection. His serape, which had grown dull with dust and dirt, was now more vibrant and colorful than it had been when he bought it off that guy driving the shit cart.

  “An interesting choice of clothing for a wizard,” said Darton when he re-emerged from his bedroom. He'd changed into his own more conventional wizard attire consisting of royal blue robes decorated with embroidered golden bamboo leaves. He was carrying two folded bundles of similar fabric, one of which was forest green and the other maroon. “Wherever did you acquire such an outfit?”

  “This is considered very fashionable where we come from.” Julian didn't know why he felt the compulsion to lie to this guy, especially with Stacy right there to call him out on it. But she just shot him a quick curious glance and left it at that.

  “The height of fashion it may be wherever you're from,” said Darton. “But here it draws attention, which we don't want on a reconnaissance mission.”

  “Reconnaissance mission?” Julian looked at Stacy. “Where are we going?”

  Stacy shrugged.

  “I had the hotel boy alert me as to Aleric's whereabouts. He's currently having lunch in the restaurant on the top floor of this hotel. Once we all have a clearer idea of who he is and what he's like, we can speak more intelligibly about how we might go about relieving him of his stick.” Darton handed the green bundle of fabric to Stacy, and the maroon one to Julian. “I apologize if these don't meet your high standards of fashion, but they should help you to blend in a little easier.”

  Julian wanted to tell him he was going to blend his foot up his ass, but he decided against it after considering that Darton was doing them a favor and that it was a stupid thing to say.

  When they were all dressed in Darton's clothes, they went upstairs as separate parties. Julian and Stacy would be a couple, while Darton would be dining alone. He claimed he didn't want to be directly involved in whatever scheme they hatched up, and that he was there only in an advisory capacity. That sounded kind of cowardly to Julian, but Stacy didn't seem surprised by it at all. It must have been part of the deal they'd struck up while he was passed out in the bar.

  It was probably for the best that they were dining as separate parties anyway. While they were waiting to be seated, Darton bent over to wipe a smudge off his boot, then slammed his head into the serving tray of a passing waitress when he stood back up. They were both covered from head to toe in exotic fruit juices and surrounded by a corona of shattered glass. For as suave and dapper a man as he seemed to like to present himself, Julian couldn't see Darton as anything but a moronic buffoon.

  The hostess clearly thought so as well. Julian caught her shaking her head before she caught him catching her and snapped back into employee mode, flashing him a wide smile.

  “Will it just be the two of you?”

  “Yes,” Stacy said before Julian had a chance to respond.

  “Please follow me.” The hostess grabbed two menus and led them across the dining area. The food smelled amazing, like Thanksgiving dinner in a flower garden.

  Julian thought about how remarkably similar restaurants here were to restaurants back home. He wondered if that was because Mordred hadn't been thorough with his historical research when he created this world, or because the restaurant business actually hadn't evolved much in the past millennium.

  The hostess led them to a small table with a white satin tablecloth that hung down to the floor. Like the other tables they'd passed, this one came with two intricately folded napkins, a stoppered glass bottle of some kind of brown sauce, and three shakers. Julian assumed, for now, that the dark grey and white contents of two of them were pepper and salt, respectively, and he was curious as to what the granular red contents of the third was.

  When they were seated and the hostess left them, they opened their menus.

  There wasn't much of a selection. One side of the menu said PORK, and the other side said PHEASANT, with accompanying pictures of a pig and a pheasant under the respective text. Julian didn't think this looked like the sort of restaurant that had much of a barbarian clientele, so he assumed the pictures were there to fill what would otherwise be a lot of empty space.

  Pork was a safe choice, but Julian had never tried pheasant. He was actually hoping for something a little more exotic, like griffon or owlbear meat. Or even one of those giant ants. Sure he'd already tried it, but not as prepared in a kitchen by a professional cook. As good as it had been just roasted over a fire, imagine what it might –

  “I didn't sleep with him,” said Stacy without lowering her menu.

  Shit.

  “Who?” said Julian, feeling pressured to respond before taking the time to consider whether or not playing dumb was really the right move here.

  “Darton.”

  “I don't know how I'm supposed to respond to that.” Julian suddenly grew more indecisive about the pork or pheasant options as he shielded his face with the menu. “I'm sorry to hear that? Congratulations? You'll get him next time, Champ? Why are you even telling me this?”

  “You've been scowling at him since we walked out of his bedroom together.”

  “I wasn't scowling,” Julian lied. “It's this island. All the hopping around between different time zones. My internal clock is off.” After a moment of silence, Julian peeked over the top of his menu, then jumped when he discovered Stacy staring at him stoically.

  What the hell did she want from him? What had he done to get this third-degree business? She was the one who didn't do the act in question, which didn't even actually qualify as an act in question until she brought it up. Maybe he could come at it from a different direction.

  “I'll be happy to listen if there's something you'd like to get off your chest.” No, that was terrible. He was making himself sound like he was ready to hear a confession, and maybe hoping to get a glimpse of her tits. Say something else. Say something else. “When you say you didn't sleep, do you mean...” He really needed her to say something, just to shut him up.

  “I mean we didn't fuck.”

  “Oh.” Julian really wanted another look at that menu.

  “We just made out a little. Things got a little feely.”

  “I'll just give you two a few more minutes,” said a visibly uncomfortable waitress who neither Julian nor Stacy had seen approaching. She scurried away from their table before Julian could plead with her to stay.

  “Listen, Stacy,” said Julian. “This is really none of my business.”

  “I'm making it your business,” said Stacy. “We were drunk. We got to talking. One thing led to another. I might have actually gone all the way with him if fate hadn't intervened.”

  As long as she was forcing him to talk about it, Julian couldn't be faulted for asking about this particularly curious detail.

  “How, exactly, did fate intervene?”

  “His, um... weapon went off prematurely.”

  That made Julian happi
er than it should have. He tried not to show it. “Oh,” he said again.

  “I want you to know, I'm not telling you this because I feel I owe you an explanation.”

  “Of course you don't,” said Julian, somehow feeling like he was the asshole here. “You're a grown woman. You're free to do what you want with whom you want.”

  “I also wasn't asking for your permission.”

  “And I'm not trying to give it!” Julian calmed himself when he saw their approaching waitress turn around and walk away again. “Maybe it would help if you told me why you're telling me this.”

  “We spent the night together in a grove of trees on a flying island below a full moon and a sky full of stars. If you didn't want me then, is it safe to assume you don't want me at all?”

  “No, that's not a safe assumption at all.” Julian had sensed that tension between them coming to a crescendo last night. He supposed this conversation had to happen sooner or later. “Back home, I would have been all over you given the slightest hint of an invitation.”

  “What's wrong with me now?” asked Stacy. “I'm objectively and quantifiably more attractive now than I was then.”

  “It's not you. It's me.” Upon seeing what looked like the desire to stab him in Stacy's narrowed eyes, Julian realized the genericness of what he'd said. “Wait, I didn't mean it like that. I mean in a real, physiological and emotional way. My wiring's all screwed up or something. Do you know that I've only masturbated once since I've been in this world? And even then it was because I hadn't felt the urge to do so for so long that I started to get concerned. It took me over half an hour to get an erection. I'm not –”

  Stacy cleared her throat.

  Julian sighed. “The waitress is behind me, isn't she?”

  “I'm going to leave these here for you.” The waitress placed two tall glasses of orange liquid on the table, then started to retreat.

  Julian was ready for her this time. “Excuse me. I believe we're ready to order.”

  “Very good, sir.” She flashed him a nervous smile. “And what would you like?”

  “The pheasant.”