Close Quarter

by Anna Zabo

  “Pity. Even you believed my performance.” Rhys shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Now what?”

  “Up.” He nodded to the stairs. “Let’s see where this thing came from.”

  “From me, Quintus. She came from me.” Anaxandros stood at the top of the stairs to the next deck. His jagged teeth gleamed in the moonlight for a moment. “Just as you did.”

  Breath refused to enter Silas’s lungs. Years fell away in a rush of memories, and he stood on the blood-soaked grass of Campania, the corpses of his family and the rest of the fae court lying at his feet. Anaxandros’s hand wrapped his throat, and that voice slipped into his ear, into his soul. “You belong to me now.”

  Rhys gripped his wrist, snapping the image and pulling him sideways. “Come on!” He headed toward the port deck.

  An uncontrollable burning rose up from Silas’s chest, setting his heart and soul in motion. Twisting away from Rhys, he rounded on Anaxandros, his sword flashing forward.

  Anaxandros caught the blade with one hand, skin hissing under its edge, then stepped in and drove the other into Silas’s side.

  Pain, so intense white spots flickered before Silas’s eyes, replaced rage.

  “Do you need this, Silvanus?” Cool, whispered words licked against his ear. Anaxandros’s tone was conversational. Friendly. Then the soulless squeezed what he held.

  Agony shunted every other sense out. A whine, like the high-pitched sound only electricity produced, filled Silas’s mind. His vision turned completely white.

  A voice overrode the whine. “Perhaps not. What is it you Romans say about the liver? The seat of passions? You always had too many.”

  Oh great and powerful gods, preserve him. Silas tasted blood in his mouth. Not again. He couldn’t bear this again.

  Under the roar in his ears, metal clattered to wood. His sword falling to the deck. His muscles spasmed, and every nerve shrieked in time to the squeezing of Anaxandros’s hand. He shouldn’t be standing, yet he was, held upright by Anaxandros’s arm about his waist.

  “Are you in such a hurry to join your court? Have you truly lived long enough?” Words murmured against his throat.

  No. Not nearly long enough. Wait—horror snaked through his thoughts—what was he thinking?

  Another sound cut through the cacophony in his mind—Rhys yelling. “You leave him alone, you fucking bastard.” Rhythmic banging followed. “Let him go!”

  Anaxandros did, with a cry that was half a snarl and half pain.

  Silas crumpled, but falling to the deck hurt less than having his liver palpitated through a hole punched into the side of his body. His vision cleared enough for him to stare at the painted steel underside of the deck above.

  “Have you lived long enough?”

  “No.”

  He wasn’t ready to lose— Oh Great Father Jupiter. Anaxandros would tear Rhys apart.

  “Rhys!” Silas tried to push himself up. A searing like hot iron on flesh burned down his spine, and his limbs spasmed. “Rhys, run!”

  “It’s okay.” Rhys loomed over him. Knelt. “It’s gone.” Blood—and something else—coated his hands. “Don’t move.”

  Easy enough. Silas closed his eyes, took a painful breath, and then opened them. Element whipped around Rhys like tongues of flame, but his faint color and the rising panic in his face betrayed his youth and humanity. “God, what do I do? How do I stop the bleeding?” He stripped off his coat.

  “Not like that.” He had no idea what his side looked like, but from the blazing stabs stripping his veins, he had a good guess. Cloth against that would likely hurt more than Anaxandros’s claws. “Give me your hand.”

  “I have to stop the bleeding.”

  Silas grabbed Rhys’s arm and pulled as much element as he could into his body. Contact made it so much easier.

  Rhys hissed, and his face twisted. After a moment, he relaxed, and the flow of element increased.

  “Sorry,” Silas said. “First aid’s a bit different for fae.”

  “It’s okay. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “That makes two of us.” He let go of Rhys. He needed more element, but there wasn’t time. He struggled upright. “We need to move. Anaxandros won’t be gone for long.”

  Rhys sat back on his heels. “Actually he might.”

  Silas took a closer look at Rhys’s hands. Then surveyed the ship deck. A metal box—an ashtray from the railing—lay on its side, one end mangled and covered in blood, flesh, and hair. “What did you do?”

  “I beat it in the head until it let you go.” Rhys looked at his hands. “I think I broke its skull.”

  “You think…” There were little flecks of brain matter on the deck. Words fled Silas. Once more, Rhys had injured Anaxandros when he couldn’t even lay a finger on the soulless.

  “I didn’t kill it…destroy it. Whatever. It went back the way it came, up the steps.” Rhys stood, wiped his hands on his pants, and held one out to Silas. “I thought about following, but I couldn’t leave you bleeding like that.”

  He hated the tremble in his limbs and the malaise in his body, but losing that much blood was one of the few injuries he couldn’t heal quickly. He grasped Rhys’s hand and climbed to his feet. It was far harder than he wanted to admit. Every inch of him felt battered. The ship lights seemed to dim and brighten, and the world felt more tenuous than he liked. If Rhys had followed Anaxandros, he wouldn’t be standing now.

  On the teak planks of the deck, his sword lay in a large puddle of blood.

  “We should find Vasil. Ash will blow away. But this?” Rain at sea wasn’t something he relished, but just this once, it would’ve been nice. Stars studded the achingly clear sky.

  “I should find Vasil,” Rhys said. “You should stay here and hide the blood. Glamour up some caution tape or something.”

  If only it were that easy. He ignored Rhys and walked over to retrieve his gladius. Or rather, he tried. After a few steps, he collapsed into Rhys’s arms. Agony traced lightning in his veins.

  “When will you fucking listen to me?” Rhys dragged him over to a wooden chest set against the bulkhead. LIFE JACKETS, the sign read. “God, Silas. That thing had its hand in your side. That’s not something you just walk away from.”

  “Says the human.”

  Rhys gripped his chin and forced Silas to look up into his face. His bloody and sticky fingers smelled like iron. “Says the quarter-fae who has more than a little bit of your memories.”

  Rhys’s grip was like iron too. Silas couldn’t turn away.

  “I don’t want to die,” Rhys said. “I don’t want you to die either.”

  Unease stirred in Silas, like a forgotten memory triggered by a smell or a song. “I have no plans to die.”

  “You could’ve fooled me.”

  Silas grabbed Rhys’s arm and struggled to push him away. It was rather like fighting against a mountain. “This isn’t the time or the place to have this argument.”

  “Yeah, well. Here we are.” Rhys let go and straightened. “What do you want, Silas?”

  Not the question he’d expected. “I… What do you mean?”

  Rhys looked down the ship deck, toward the stern of the ship, his profile strong, proud. “My life was chaos when I got on this boat. No idea what I wanted, what I was going to do when I got home. God, there are a thousand people clamoring to take my money and run. Funny how being hunted by vampires changes your worldview.” Rhys licked his lips. “I want to walk off this boat in New York with you. Then spend a week in bed, preferably fucking you. Then I’m going to tell those thousand people to go screw themselves.”

  “After that?” The rapid rate of Silas’s heart had nothing at all to do with his injuries.

  Rhys turned to face Silas. “I don’t know. It gets kind of fuzzy after that. Something about spending the rest of my life with you.”

  Silas leaned his head against the bulkhead. “You hardly—”

  “I know you better than anyone else in this world.”
He paused and added, “And you know me.”

  There was no defense against the truth. Oh, he cast about to find some lie to throw in front of Rhys, but there was nothing. Fate had thrown them together, Quarter and fae. He knew Rhys.

  “What do you want?” Rhys asked again.

  Silas spoke the truth to the wind and sea and to Rhys. “Hope. A future. Not to care when the sun sets and rises. To be free of this pain. To stop seeing Isatis’s lemur. Stop hearing his screams.”

  Rhys said nothing. Young, beautiful Rhys.

  “You deserve so much better than I can give you.” Silas gestured at the blood-strewn deck. “Look at this. Look at my life. I’m…a shell. Nothing but pain and hatred and blood.”

  “You’re lying again.” Rhys sat down next to him on the wooden trunk. “Or you really don’t know yourself. One of the two.”

  Silas stared out at the dark ocean. A bit of both, most likely. He’d been running for so very long. “I want to give you the world. There’s so much you haven’t seen, that you don’t know.” He exhaled. “A week in bed sounds like a fine place to begin.”

  “Yeah. Well, there’s still the whole walking-off-the-boat bit before we can get to that.”

  “Quite.” He didn’t like saying the next words. “You’re right. I need to stay here.”

  Rhys didn’t smile. He simply turned his head and kissed Silas. His lips and mouth were warm and tasted of rosemary and red wine. Tender and sweet.

  It had been a very long time since anyone had kissed Silas so.

  When Rhys drew back, more truth slipped free from Silas. “I love you.”

  This time Rhys did smile. “I know.”

  He didn’t ask how and refused to ask if the feeling was mutual. Later. Later he would, if Anaxandros didn’t kill him first. He clutched his side, though it wasn’t his liver that hurt.

  Rhys caught his chin again, brushed a thumb over his jaw. “Silas.”

  “You should find Vasil.” His voice was as raspy as the ocean against the ship’s hull. He pulled away. The burning in his throat wasn’t from any wound.

  “Te amo.”

  It took a moment for the words to register. Gods, his pronunciation. They’d have to work on that. Then the meaning hit, and for the third time that night, he had trouble catching his breath.

  “I mean it,” Rhys said.

  “You don’t know ‘quintus,’ but you know that?”

  Rhys shrugged and looked out at the ocean. “There was a guy once who made me memorize ‘I love you’ in fifty different languages. Had me recite them when he fucked me.”

  Cretins. Self-absorbed plebeians, every single man who ever let Rhys go, who ever treated him with such disrespect. “Does he have a name?” Silas dug through the memories he had from Rhys.

  “No.” Rhys’s eyes were dark in the fluorescence of the ship deck. “You’re not allowed to kill him.” The corner of his mouth, though, was fighting against a smile.

  “I won’t kill him.” Silas shifted. When he made it to New York, he’d start a different kind of hunt. “I’ll only break a few of his fingers.”

  “No.” The smile won. “Save the violence for the vampires.” Rhys stood. “I’ll go find Vasil.”

  “Take your coat,” Silas said. Blood stained the side of Rhys’s white shirt. “I can’t glamour you when you’re gone.”

  Rhys scooped up his jacket and donned it. It hid all but a trace of the blood on his shirt. Hopefully that would be enough.

  Rhys stooped again, this time to pick up Silas’s gladius. “You might need this.” He handed it to Silas. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  Element flared when their fingers met.

  Silas nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Only when Rhys had vanished down the deck did he allow himself to voice the moan he’d been holding.

  Rhys knew. He had to have felt how much damage Anaxandros had done. Casting a glamour over the floor—even the simple caution tape Rhys suggested—sapped more of his strength than he’d hoped. He laid his sword across his thighs and leaned his head against the bulkhead.

  It wasn’t the loss of blood or the breeze that set him shivering, but the memory of Anaxandros’s lips against his throat, the question he—it—had posed, and the fact that the soulless hadn’t killed him.

  Silas had never been afraid to die, especially during that long century of torture in Anaxandros’s cave. No, death had held no terror.

  That had changed. Utterly and completely.

  Silas shivered again. Anaxandros had felt that change and knew its source.

  “Oh, Fortuna,” Silas prayed into the night, “be with Rhys. Smile on him. Bring him back to me.”

  Rhys breathed deeply upon entering the tropical garden and slowed his steps a fraction. If he was a battery, this was where he could recharge, and certainly Silas needed all the energy Rhys could give him.

  The damn fool kept going after Ajax—or whatever that thing’s fucking name was—and nearly getting himself killed. Rhys balled his hands into fists in his pants pockets. They were still stained with Silas’s blood and whatever the vampire leaked.

  Silas.

  Rhys stopped walking and drew in the energy of the trees. Or at least he hoped he did.

  Silas wanted to stay with him. Silas loved him. They could be together in New York. It would’ve been a dream come true, but for the nightmare of the vampires and all that blood…

  Long strides took him across the distance between the far end of the garden and the bar in moments.

  Vasil—and no one else—was cleaning the empty bar. He didn’t look up from his task. “I’m sorry. We’re closed. We open again at six for breakfast.”

  “Vasil.”

  At the sound of Rhys’s voice, the waiter snapped his head up, and his hand froze in midwipe. “Mr. Matherton.” He let go of the rag. “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s not mine. It’s Silas’s. He’s been injured.”

  A bit of color drained from the waiter’s face. His lips pressed thin before he spoke. “I’m not a doctor.”

  “It’s not that. It’s the deck. We need to clean it. He can’t hide the blood forever.”

  “Blood?” Vasil let go of the rag. “On the deck?”

  “Yeah. The vampire—”

  Vasil cut him off with a gesture and something that sounded like a hiss. “Don’t speak of them.” He sighed and glanced around the bar.

  “I can help you clean up here afterward.”

  Vasil furrowed his brow. Then the skin smoothed. “Perhaps,” he said. “Take me to Mr. Quint, and let’s see how bad the deck is.”

  Silas was where Rhys had left him, his eyes closed, one hand wrapped around the handle of the sword resting across his thighs.

  No one else was on deck—at least not in this section.

  Vasil slowed to a stop and peered around the deck. “I don’t see the issue.”

  The deck was covered in coagulating blood, smeared in some places, and the smell—how could he not notice the smell?

  Because Vasil couldn’t see what he did. “Silas.”

  Silas opened his eyes and exhaled. “You found him.”

  “I thought you said—” Vasil then spoke in a language Rhys didn’t know. He made three quick gestures over his chest—the sign of the cross, but not in the way Rhys was used to.

  Silas’s chuckle was wrapped in pain. “Quite.”

  Rhys ignored everything but the pale, sickly cast to Silas’s skin. He crossed the deck and placed a hand against Silas’s forehead. Either his own skin was cold or Silas was burning with fever. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” Silas brushed Rhys’s hand away and then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. “Poison claws. It’s a bit hard to rejuvenate a liver and fight that at the same time.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” Vasil said.

  Rhys lowered his voice and gripped Silas’s shoulder. “Let me help you.”

  “Later.” Silas didn’t push his arm aside this time. “W
e can’t afford to have both of us weakened. And you need to help Vasil.”

  The waiter looked about ready to heave the contents of his stomach over the railing. “How is it that you live?”

  “I’m stronger than I look,” Silas said. “Even now.” He glanced up at Rhys during that last comment.

  Vasil inspected the planks of the deck for a moment. “Do you truly work for angels?”

  Rhys’s face felt hot. He probably should’ve mentioned his conversation with Vasil to Silas at some point.

  Rather than responding with anger, Silas smiled. “I do, yes.” He held up his sword. The edge glinted in a manner no blade should, like a blaze of tiny stars. “A gift from them.”

  Vasil followed the path the blade cut through the air. “I’ll help you.” His gaze fell on Rhys. “I’ll need your assistance.”

  Silas gripped Rhys’s arm. “Be kind to him. He’s seeing more than any mortal should.”

  Rhys swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded, and followed Vasil toward a door marked with a STAFF ONLY sign.

  Vasil was mortal. But what was Rhys? Not quite human, not nearly fae. Dark tendrils of doubt crept into Rhys’s mind. If he hadn’t met Silas, would he be oblivious to the vampires? Would they even have noticed him?

  Had he never spilled drinks on Silas, would he still be a normal human, as mortal as Vasil?

  He couldn’t pin a label on the emotions rolling inside him. What he most wanted was for Silas to be safe.

  The rest he’d deal with later.

  The door led to a closet with cleaning supplies inside. Vasil handed him a large squeegee on a broom handle, then hefted a coil of hose. “Your Mr. Quint isn’t well, is he?”

  “No.” Had he not met Silas, would he even be alive? “Look, I’m sorry about all this.” He gestured to the deck, to Silas. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  “It is.” Vasil dragged the hose out to a spigot and connected it. “I come from the intersection of practicality and faith. We do what we must, even when the world”—Vasil glanced at Silas—“is not what we might think.”

  “I wish I had your fortitude.”

  The look Vasil gave him was almost the same as when he’d tried to bribe the man. “You do.” He aimed the hose at the bloody deck and cranked on the water. “Push the puddles toward the channel along the edge.”