Close Quarter

by Anna Zabo

  Rhys did as instructed, and in a short amount of time, they had the deck cleaned. Rhys washed his hands in the cold stream of the hose and dried them on his jacket. This tux he’d never wear again. With the amount of blood on it, it was fit only for an incinerator.

  He and Vasil stowed the gear back in the closet. “I have no proper way to thank you,” Rhys said. “Hell, I don’t even know what way would be proper.”

  Vasil smiled. It was a tiny thing, just a slight upturn of his lips, but it lit up the man’s face like a firebrand. “If you happen to see an angel, please ask him to pray for me.”

  Rhys caught himself against the hull. “If you happen to see an angel.” Nothing would ever be normal in his life again. The flutter of light-headedness might have been fear or elation. “I’ll remember.”

  They returned to Silas. He gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly that his hands appeared skeletal. Paler and thinner, he looked even more wilted than before they had cleaned the deck and far worse than the night he’d nearly died.

  “My God.” Vasil’s voice cracked. “Mr. Quint!”

  Silas wasn’t glamoured. Rhys caught the waiter’s arm before he touched Silas.

  Vasil shook him off but didn’t reach for Silas again. “He needs to see a doctor!”

  “If I were to see a doctor,” Silas said, his voice as thin as paper, “they’d cut me apart to see how I work.” His eyes were close to black and full of pain. “Thank you, though, for your concern.”

  Vasil stilled. “What can I do to help?”

  “Forget this night ever happened,” Silas said.

  “Oh, I can help with that.” A man’s voice—not one Rhys recognized—snaked out of the night, soft and delicate. Delectable. The air about Rhys felt like shattered ice. He stepped closer to Silas, even as he turned to find the speaker.

  A man dressed in a suit as dark as the ocean at night walked toward them from the stern of the ship, hands in his pocket. With his black hair and golden, sun-drenched skin, Rhys would’ve mistaken him for a normal passenger had he not been smiling. Bright, jagged teeth shone in the deck lights. Inhuman and sharp.

  Vasil, too, took a step back and clutched at something beneath his uniform.

  Behind him, Silas cursed in a string of guttural Latin syllables.

  The vampire clicked its tongue. “And here you called our people barbarians.” The creature took its hand from its pockets and curled a clawed finger at Vasil. “Although you did bring me a snack. How kind.”

  Vasil took a step forward. Shit. Rhys grabbed Vasil’s arm and yanked him back. The waiter stumbled onto the box of life jackets, his chest heaving.

  “Little Quarter.”

  The need to move forward, to surrender to that voice shot through Rhys. He twisted his hands into fists, and his nails bit into his palms. The pain cleared his head. He turned to Silas—and saw terror in those eyes.

  Silas couldn’t stand. While upright, he leaned over the life jacket chest, his arms and legs trembling with exertion. No way he would remain on his feet if he pushed off the chest. He still gripped his sword, though.

  “Oh shit.”

  The vampire chuckled. “You needn’t worry, Quarter. Neither you nor your master will die—not tonight.” It stepped closer, held out his hand to Vasil. “This one, however…”

  Vasil rose and took the vampire’s hand.

  “Sword.” Rhys touched Silas’s right hand. “Give it to me.”

  “You don’t know—”

  Of course he knew nothing about swords, but this wasn’t the time to argue. He wrenched the hilt from Silas’s grip and ignored the hiss of pain that followed.

  “Let him go.” Rhys took a swing at the vampire.

  It laughed, avoided the blade, and pulled Vasil against its body. Vasil, held in the vampire’s embrace, faced Rhys—a living shield.

  “Careful. The angels don’t like it when you harm one of their precious humans.”

  “Rhys!” Silas hissed his name. There was pain there and fear too. The vampire must not have been kidding about the angels.

  But what else could he do? He adjusted his grip and tried to find some memory of Silas’s that might help.

  Nothing.

  Vasil’s eyes tracked the blade of the sword. So he wasn’t entirely in the thrall of the vampire. Whatever Vasil wore beneath his shirt, he still clutched at it.

  Silas must have noticed as well. “Vasil,” he said, and spoke words Rhys didn’t know, but they held the same clip as the waiter’s speech.

  The vampire bared its teeth and answered in the same language, talking over Silas.

  Vasil closed his eyes. When he spoke, it was in English. “I’d rather die by an angel’s blade than from the bite of an upyr.” Then he began to sing in his own tongue.

  It was, Rhys realized, a prayer.

  The vampire snarled. “You’re a fool if you think that will save you.” It bit into Vasil’s neck.

  The chant broke off into silence. Though Vasil mouthed words, no sound came from his lips. Tremors raced through his body.

  Rhys gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands. He might not know how to swing the blade, but he damn well could run it through something. He lunged forward while the vampire gnawed at Vasil’s neck and pierced its side. Smoke and the smell of searing flesh rose into the night air, as did the wail of the vampire. It let go of Vasil.

  And took hold of Rhys. Claws pierced his arms. Ice and fire traced up his veins as the burning vampire held him close. “At least I’ll take one of—” Flame licked out of the vampire’s mouth, before its face fell inward.

  “Rhys!” Arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him backward. Metal clanged against wood—he had dropped the sword. He felt nothing in his arms below where the vampire had held him. There was no way to break his backward fall.

  Rhys toppled over onto Silas; then a different kind of fire burned in his arms—pain, yes. But the itch and fire was of healing flesh.

  “No!” He threw himself away from Silas. He scrambled a bit farther and lay still on the deck. Cold, uneven grain ribbed his cheek and smelled faintly of damp wood and blood.

  Once more, Silas called his name. This time it was a mere whisper.

  “Sorry,” Rhys said. “I’m not letting you die for me.”

  Silas didn’t answer, but the metallic clang of his sword scraping across wood caused Rhys to sit up. What remained of the fabric of his tux was crisp and blackened. His arms were a red patchwork that looked like freshly scrubbed flesh peeking out from under flakes of burned and curling skin.

  He should’ve been screaming in agony. Was it the poison that blocked the pain or something Silas did?

  Even as he watched his arms, old skin flaked off to reveal new underneath. Healed.

  “Goddamn it, Silas.”

  Silas sat on the wet deck, hunched over his sword. For once, Rhys was glad he couldn’t see Silas’s face. Something about the way he sat, the way his hands shook as they curled around the hilt of his sword, filled Rhys with fear. Maybe Silas was angry, but Rhys wouldn’t let Silas hurt himself even more. If only the man would listen.

  Near the bulkhead, Vasil groaned.

  Shit. Vasil. Rhys crawled over to the waiter. Vasil clutched his shoulder, blood weeping from between his fingers.

  “Let me see.” He pried the waiter’s fingers up and then pushed them back down. “Oh God.” A chunk of skin had been torn away—bitten off.

  Vasil’s pupils were huge. “I can’t feel my legs.”

  Poison claws. Poison fangs as well?

  “Bring him here,” Silas said, his voice harsher than the crashing waves.

  “I don’t think we should—”

  “Now.” That one word shot through Rhys like lightning and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Vasil pressed his lips thin but nodded.

  Rhys helped the waiter crawl—pulled him, really—to where Silas sat.

  Gone from Silas was any sign of kindness. He said nothing, just
gripped Rhys’s thigh and drew a painful amount of element out of him.

  His bones—his skin—ached, and he gasped for air. His heart twisted.

  Silas didn’t even flinch. “Vasil, move your fingers.”

  The waiter did as told. Silas cupped his hand over Vasil’s shoulder. Silas’s lips curved into a deep frown.

  Lightning seared Rhys’s veins as another pull of element flowed from him, and a hot coal of fury formed in his gut.

  Vasil exhaled and twitched his foot. Silas folded his hands into his lap. “You may feel weak for a bit. I can’t heal the loss of blood. Only time can.”

  “I’ll manage. Thank you, Mr. Quint.” Vasil shifted his gaze to Rhys. “And thank you. For my life.”

  “I couldn’t let you die.” Truth. He would’ve been happy to help heal Vasil, if only Silas had asked. Rhys’s arm shook, and his fingers felt numb. Damn it. “But all that effort to clean the deck…”

  “Not a waste.” Vasil climbed to his feet. He swayed a bit but managed to walk back to the storage closet and pulled out the dented ashtray. “If we leave this, the crew in the morning will assume a drunken passenger caused some trouble.” He placed the box near the pile of ash that used to be the vampire.

  “Good,” Silas said. “Might we use your garden?”

  We. Rhys finally looked at Silas who had turned an even more unhealthy shade of yellow. His forehead glistened with beads of sweat. Fury at being used mixed with concern for Silas and turned Rhys’s stomach.

  Vasil brushed his hands off on his pants. “Of course.”

  “I promised Vasil I’d help him finish cleaning up the bar.”

  The sword in Silas’s hand flashed as he shifted his arm. He didn’t reply.

  “It’s not necessary.” A gust of wind swirled the ash at Vasil’s feet. “And I believe Mr. Quint needs your assistance more than I do.” He nodded to both of them and walked toward the stern of the ship.

  Silence fell over the deck. Then Silas spoke. “I owe him quite a recompense for what I have done to him.”

  “What you have done to him?” Rhys didn’t bother to keep the anger from his voice. Emotions tumbled like rocks in his gut. Fear that Silas would die, bitterness that Silas had stolen element without thought, and terror that they’d never see morning.

  Silas laid his sword down on the deck. He placed both hands on his thighs and looked at Rhys. “He can’t be glamoured. He’s seen too much of the truth. Bitten by a vampire. Healed by a fae.” He shook his head. “He won’t be able to ignore us anymore. His mind has learned how to see.”

  “So he’s like me?”

  Lines formed on Silas’s forehead for a moment before smoothing out. When he spoke, his words were gentler than before. “In a way, yes.”

  “Then maybe he should be the one giving you assistance.” Rhys rose, turned toward the sea. The view held no comfort. He watched Silas from the corner of his eye. A cold nausea rose in his throat. All that talk about Silas not wanting to use Rhys. The arm Silas had gripped while healing Vasil still felt like lead.

  Silas grunted. “Fine.” He gripped the sword and used it to help him to his feet. Twice he swayed, and Rhys almost—almost—reached out to catch him.

  When Silas straightened, he ran a hand through his matted and bloodstained hair. “We should discuss what just happened.”

  Understatement of the year. “Yes.”

  “I do need to sit in the garden for a bit. As I said to Vasil, there’s nothing I can do about the blood loss, but the poison… Well, let’s just say that Anaxandros knows quite well how to cripple me.”

  Rhys stared at the waves, caught between the desire to scream at Silas and the need to take the man in his arms and soothe his pain.

  Silas grunted again. “Take my key card, then. I’ll meet you back in my room when I’ve healed a bit more.”

  Heat touched Rhys’s face. He turned away from the sea. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t come with you.”

  The key card in Silas’s too-pale hand shook. “Nor did you say you would.”

  “I’ll come,” Rhys said. “I could use some time in the garden too.” Despite his healed arms, his joints ached, and the tips of his fingers prickled.

  Silas slid the card back into his pocket and walked toward the garden. With each step, he paused to correct his balance. At this rate, it would be dawn before they saw the inside of the greenhouse.

  Rhys’s throat tightened. He caught up in three short steps. “May I help you?”

  There was no change in Silas’s expression or tone of voice. Both remained flat. “I’d greatly appreciate that, yes.”

  Rhys supported Silas’s trembling frame the entire walk to the garden, but the pulling of element Rhys expected wasn’t there. Worry warred with his anger. Was Silas holding back out of pride? Or was he too ill to draw from Rhys? Then again, he wasn’t sure how he’d feel if Silas took energy unasked from him.

  When they reached the garden, Rhys helped Silas to a bench—the same one they had used before. But he didn’t sit. “Try not to kill any plants this time.”

  “Why not?” One hand gripped the edge of the bench; the other was still wrapped around his sword. “You can heal them.”

  True. And he would, if needed. He could heal Silas too, if he put his mind to it. He glanced at Silas’s sword. “Why don’t you put that thing away?”

  Silas’s bark of laughter bared his teeth. “Because if I do, I won’t be able to draw it again for some time. It’s not an effortless task, you know.”

  Rhys didn’t know. How could he? Silas’s memories were there, yes, but they were visions and emotions. Nothing practical. He wanted to reach for Silas but couldn’t decide if that was to comfort or to shake him.

  If Silas had only listened, if he hadn’t returned to face Anax-bastard, he’d be well. Around Rhys, life shifted and groaned as it made its way to Silas. “The sword is important. You should take better care of it.”

  Silas leaned back onto the bench. “Ultimately it’s just a sword. Important to me, yes.” He laid the blade down next to him. “But there are worse things to lose.”

  Rhys chewed on his tongue. Pressure built in his heart, in his head.

  “I meant what I said, Rhys.” Quiet words.

  Everything burst. “Then why do you keep trying to get yourself killed?” Rhys spun about, looking for something, anything to grab and throw. Nothing. He slapped his hands against his thighs. “Why don’t you listen to me? Why don’t you ask for help?” His words echoed up to the glass roof of the garden. Palms swayed out of sync with the rhythm of the ship.

  Then silence descended around them, but for the hum of the ship.

  Silas shifted on the bench and rubbed his side. “I could ask you the very same set of questions.”

  Rhys turned on his heel and walked away, through the garden and toward the doors that led outside. White-hot fury haloed his vision. The joints of his finger ached nearly as much as his head. It wasn’t until he stepped outside and reached the railing of the ship’s deck on the other side of the garden that he realized why—he’d balled his hands so tight for so long that his fingers had locked in place.

  He massaged his fingers and stared out at the night sky.

  Damn it all to hell. He grasped for anger but found it flaming out, leaving cold despair in its wake.

  “There are worse things to lose.” Silas’s words seemed to linger on the sea breeze, as if it were those soft words that ruffled Rhys’s hair, stung his eyes.

  He didn’t want to lose Silas. But he was—either to the vampires or Silas’s own death wish. He leaned over the railing as exhaustion seeped up his legs. What the hell was he going to do?

  “Mr. Matherton?” Vasil’s voice was soft, almost reverent.

  Rhys lifted his head and pushed off from the rail. The waiter stood by the door to the garden. “Are you all right?”

  Rhys nodded. It was a lie, but one not spoken.

  Vasil glanced at the sea, then back. “I…” He rubb
ed his shoulder. “I’ve finished up. Cleaning.”

  Rhys nodded again.

  Wind whipped the collar of Vasil’s uniform. He inhaled. “I can’t imagine what has happened to you and Mr. Quint. But I do know that he’d move the world for you. You should know that.”

  “I don’t want the world moved for me.” His voice sounded alien in his ears. Too broken. The sea spray must have kicked up. He tasted salt water on his lips.

  “Of course not,” Vasil said. “You want to move it for him.”

  Rhys froze.

  “Good night, Mr. Matherton.” Vasil slipped away, up the deck and into the night.

  How long it took him to walk back into the garden, Rhys didn’t know. His face was wet, his eyes stung, his breathing harsh in his ears. Thoughts flicked about his mind. Silas’s laugh, the sharp hatred of Anax-bastard’s snarl, his father’s dismissal of him at the reading of his mother’s will. The flash of a silver blade.

  Rhys found Silas where he’d left him, on the bench in the garden. Silas had lain down on the length of wood. His eyes were closed.

  The sword lay under the bench.

  Rhys knelt down by Silas’s head. “I don’t want you to die.”

  “Nor I, you.” Silas didn’t open his eyes.

  “I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself for me.”

  Silas flicked open his eyes. They had returned to their warm-honey coloring. “Nor I, you.”

  “You didn’t ask when you took energy to heal Vasil.”

  Silas turned onto his side and brushed two warm fingers over Rhys’s cheek. “You didn’t ask when you took my sword.”

  “There wasn’t time.”

  Silas said nothing. Loudly.

  “Damn it, Silas.”

  “You very nearly burned to death.”

  Silas’s fingers against his lips stilled his next words.

  “You nearly burned to death,” Silas said, “because I couldn’t act. Because I let myself get caught by Anaxandros. Because I let my emotions get the better of me. Again.” Fire in those words. “Vasil nearly died and now has the burden of Sight, and you nearly burned to death because of my weakness.”