by Lee Isserow
“What? That's a terrible idea!”
“It makes it a little more. . . voluntary.”
“Didn't you say it made ghost babies?”
“I don't think I'd ever say 'ghost babies'. . .”
“Whatever, it's possessed and eventually bites your dick off!”
“We only need it for a second, to get. . . in the mood. I'll throw it across the room when we're there.”
“I don't like this plan. . .”
“Would you rather transubstantiate into a man and have sex with your best friend yourself?”
“Is that an option?”
“Probably not. . . the Dictis would likely be able to tell you're not a man.”
“Fine,” Ana huffed. “Do whatever you need to.”
Having finally tracked the condom down, Rafe hopped over to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of salad tongs from a drawer. Gingerly, he picked the ancient leather sleeve up with the implement, holding it ahead of him as he returned to the bedroom. Mallory turned with a sigh, and followed him in, sending a muted smile to her best friend as she closed the door behind them.
Ana glowered to herself whilst she sat on the couch, as the sound of frantic movement began to reverberate through from the bedroom. The haunted condom was doing its thing, and she wished she could be anywhere else―even though there was nowhere else she'd rather be. She had to be there for support. For her friend.
There was movement from the corner of the room, and she glanced up as Sticky, the sentient walking stick, levitated over from the umbrella stand and came over to her. Her rubbed his handle up against her knee, as if to offer some affectionate support for what she was going through. He had been a silent observer to the partnership between the two of them, and seemed all too aware of the subtextual affection that had been brewing.
The rug picked itself up from under her feet and slapped up against the door, muffling the sounds of coitus from beyond.
“Thanks guys,” she said, appreciating the thought from the inanimate objects, that seemed to be more human than most of the people she knew. It was a kind gesture, but wasn't enough to stop the tears that were welling in her eyes from finally starting their descent down her cheeks.
Chapter 39
A cure
A half hour later, the door to the bedroom opened, and Ana heard confused thumps as Rafe and Mallory walked straight into the rug.
“Grandpa, get out he way!” Rafe grunted.
The rug acquiesced, and returned to its place on the floor.
“Did you say grandpa?” Mallory asked.
“Long story.”
“That I still haven't heard. . .” Ana grunted. “Is that it? Done?”
“Yeah,” Mallory said, reluctant to meet her friend's gaze.
Rafe spun on his heel, leaned in to Mallory, and muttered “You're on the pill, right?”
Mallory nodded sheepishly.
“You ask her that now?!” Ana shrieked.
“I've been celibate for a while, these things don't come to me like they used to. . .”
“You're celibate?” Mallory coughed. “Like a monk?”
“A monk? No. . . it's just. . . I don't. . .” he sighed. “Sure, like a monk.”
“And I was the first time you. . .”
“First for a while. It's not a big thing.”
“It sounds like it should be a big thing,” Mallory said. It was beginning to feel like she had taken something precious from Rafe. “You should have saved yourself for someone you love, like. . . a re-virginity.”
“That's not a thing, and it wasn't like that. . . I wasn't celibate because I was waiting for 'the one', it's just. . . how things have to be.”
“But. . .” Mallory glanced over to Ana, hating herself a little, wishing it was her who took Rafe's re-virginity.
“It doesn't matter, really.” Rafe insisted. “We did what we had to, to try and cure you.”
“Try?” Ana said, over a lump in her throat. With all the emotion that had been overwhelming her, she had forgotten that it wasn't a guaranteed fix.
“Like the doctor said, we don't know if she's passed the point of no return. . .”
Silence hung in the room. None of them could say anything that would help the situation. They had done the one act that might have saved Mallory, and now all they could do was wait and see if she was cured.
But as much as she was concerned for her friend, all Ana could think of was that they had just delayed the inevitable. One way or another someone she cared about was going to die.
She was determined not to let that happen. Ana couldn't bear the thought of losing another person in her life―she wouldn't let it happen. The very idea of it was already starting to tear her up inside. They would find a cure. No matter what it took, no matter how far they had to go. She wasn't going to let Rafe die.
Chapter 40
Scars
The three of them sat on the couch in silence deep into the night, occasionally checking Mallory's skin to see if the writing was still there. Every time they glanced at it, there seemed to be no sign of improvement, and at some point fatigue got the better of them all.
Ana and Rafe woke the next morning to Mallory's jubilated screams. “It's gone!”
Shadows ripped themselves from the corners of the rooms into sharp spikes, as Ana was ripped from slumber, fearing an attacker. When she saw Mallory's expression, her hands let the darkness return to their natural place. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah! Well, not all of it, but my left hand is clear!”
Ana grabbed it, tugging up Mallory's sleeve, looking for any signs of the writing. There was none. She pulled her closer and inspected her neck, the other arm, her belly. It looked as though all the other writing was fading too. They embraced one another, as Rafe sat awkwardly to the far side of the couch.
He caught Mallory's eye, and shot her an awkward smile. As soon as she looked away, his gaze dropped to the floor and the smile faded.
“We should celebrate!”
“Definitely!”
“Anywhere but Day Drinkers, you see too much of that place. . .“
“You want to come, Rafe?” Mallory offered.
“No,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “I'm going to look into what this thing is, see if I can get a start on finding a cure without having to pass it on again. . .”
Ana shot him a nod, “I'll come and help, later.” Although she tried to make her tone as supportive as possible, she wasn't sure if it came across as convincing. Throwing her fingers ahead of her, she called a door.
“Have I told you how freakin' cool that is?” Mallory giggled, as they walked through to wherever Ana had chosen for their celebration destination.
Rafe sat alone on the couch, holding his head in his hands. He did the right thing. It was the only way to cure Mallory―and it obviously worked. However, knowing that didn't make him feel better. It certainly didn't stop the weight of the whole situation from hanging around his neck like a damn albatross.
He expelled a heavy sigh, lifted his head up, and glanced down at the scars leading up under his shirt cuffs. There was something new there, under his shirt, amongst the scars. Writing.
'I should tell her how I feel'
He scowled at the words, his inner most thoughts etched on his skin, he pulled the shirt cuff down to hide it, from the world, and from himself.
Chapter 41
The words she had been looking for all day
Ana was amazed that she had managed to forget how much fun it was hanging out with Mallory, and despite the drinking and laughter and jovial conversation, she was overcome with guilt at the realisation of how she had unconsciously pushed the friendship to the sidelines ever since she started working with Rafe.
They walked through a market in Berlin, their blood thick with alcohol from a stop off at a bar on the beach somewhere in Australia. Their plan for the afternoon was to try and find some awful art to laugh at, which they had done with much success.
Feeling a little more sober, Ana gave them more modest clothing with a quick glamour, and they took a door to a market in Jerusalem, walking through busy cobbled tunnels full of stores selling trinkets and jewellery.
When they got bored of that, they took another door straight into the heart of the Louvre, where they pretended to be interested in art, stroking their chins and making 'hmm' and 'ahhh' sounds in between fits of laughter.
Next, they darted through a door to the Royal Opera house, and sat and watched something loud and German-sounding until they got bored, and doored over to a Chinese restaurant.
It was the kind of thing they used to do together with their days off, but never quite as swift, let alone globe-trotting.
Two hours later, they sat outside a cafe in Portugal, drinking wine and enjoying the baking sun on their skin. Mallory chewed on her lip, as she tried to find the words she had been looking for all day. They had managed to distract themselves with fun, and whether by intent or accident, hadn't said a single word about anything real, let alone their emotions.
“Are you. . . okay?” Mallory stuttered.
“I'm drunk. . .”
“Obviously. . . But are you okay?”
Ana forced a smile as she met Mallory's eye, and looked away, pursing her lips. “I am. I will be. . . It's just. . .” she couldn't work out how to say what was on her mind.
“Complicated?” Mallory suggested.
“Yeah, complicated.”
“Isn't it always.” She sipped her wine, and decided not to push the matter further.
Ana stared down into the glass, and found herself absent-mindedly tracing her finger over the top, starting to cast the sigil to scry on its reflective surface to get a glimpse of Rafe.
She pulled her fingers back, took a deep breath, and downed the remnants of her wine. She needed some time away, time thinking of anything else. Rafe would be fine for the moment, for at least two weeks. Plenty of time to swoop back in and do her regular thing of saving him.
Of course, this time, the only thing she could do to save him was a whole lot more emotionally complicated than beheading or eviscerating something big and ugly. . .
Chapter 42
Alone
Rafe tried not to pay any attention to the nagging voice in the back of his head, that seemed to want to constantly remind him that he was going through the search for a cure all by his own damn self.
He hadn't heard from Ana since she walked out the door with Mallory. Three days had passed, and he was running out of ideas, desperate for someone to act as a sounding board for his notions about how to cure the damn Ferocibus Dictis.
Returning to the doctor had been a bust. Even though he visited when the very first signs of the condition presented themselves, all the old man did was put on six pairs of spectacles and go “hmm” a lot.
His next option was Reva. He had hoped that since she said the condition “seemed familiar”, she might have more light to shed. When he tried to knock on her door, she promptly told him to go away―albeit with much harsher language, which sent mental images of her naked, writhing body shooting across his mind's eye.
Tali echoed those sentiments, and Slugtrough just plain laughed in his face.
Rafe's rolodex of people he could call on for help―let alone pay for help―was thin at best. And no matter who he tried to contact, either they had never heard of the damn thing, or if they had, knew nothing about a cure.
He had one hope left: manually leafing through every medical text at the Library Arcana. He couldn't even begin to comprehend how many massive, heavy old tomes there would be there, but it was the last option he could think of, a hail Mary. And with an estimated nine days left until his death-by-explosion, it was better than nothing.
He spent a full day leafing through the texts one by one, skipping whole chapters that were irrelevant, in a bid to make his search as efficient as possible, whilst also trying not to look at the stomach-turning imagery that accompanied the myriad graphic descriptions of mystical ailments.
By the time the sun was setting on the fourth day of his infection, he had only managed to get through a fraction of the books, and it was feeling like this whole crusade to save himself was hopeless. The librarian, picking up on his stress, conjured him a door, and he went home for the night.
*
As Rafe lay in bed, he couldn't get comfortable. It felt as though there was something hanging in the room, or perhaps something saturated in the bed covers. As if the memories of his short intimate time with Mallory were psychically woven into the sheets, going all the way through the duvet and mattress too, all the way into the damn bed frame. He picked himself up and decided to sleep on the couch.
*
Hours later, the warm embrace of slumber still eluded him, and Rafe found himself staring up at the ceiling, thinking back through all the choices that got him to where he was, a myriad poor decisions that he had made.
It felt as though the only legacy he would leave in life was those mistakes. Sticky and the rug nuzzled up against him as he lay on the couch, trying to remind him that he was not alone.
As much as he appreciated their support, and was grateful for it, the truth was he had never felt more alone.
Chapter 43
Essentially a puppet show
Returning to the Library Arcana the following day,. Rafe resumed his search through the books. If he realised nothing else in the sleepless night, it was that nobody else was going to swoop in and save him.
The only way he was going to survive this damn thing was if he found a cure himself. He wasn't going to give in to the negative thoughts swimming in the back of his mind, let his legacy be a series of mistakes. He was going to survive, whatever it took.
The plan for the day was to increase speed, put productivity into overdrive. He was more selective about the texts he chose to delve into, cross-referencing the Book of Ethereal Venereal Diseases with mentions of the condition in other texts.
He decided that going home was a waste of time. He wasn't able to sleep in his bed, and ended up aching all over from crashing on the couch, so figured it was more efficient to stay in the library through night and day.
After two days, he had made his way through every relevant medical text, moving on to the adjacent sections on mythophysics and mystiobiology. He sat on the tiled floor of the second tier balcony, leaning back against the iron railings with a giant tome in between his legs, describing cities as living organisms, smog and sink holes as white cell reactions to quell and decrease the human parasites that live in them―and it was only after he was twenty pages in that he started wondering to himself when he got quite so sidetracked. His exhausted brain was going off on tangents, and what was left of his fragile conscious mind was just letting it happen.
He slammed the book shut, picked himself up and heaved the damn thing back on to the shelf, browsing the adjacent titles for the next potentially helpful volume to go through.
“How's the research going?”
He turned with a start, eyes taking a moment to focus. He had been stating at tiny words just a few inches from his face for the best part of the week, and it was a weird feeling to be looking at anything more than a foot away.
“You okay?”
It was Ana. His jaw dropped of its own volition. In his obsession to find a cure, he had managed―unbeknownst to him―to push all thoughts of her aside. In that process, he had forgotten how attractive he found her. A terrible thought crossed his mind, that it wasn't his attraction. That it was the disease's, doing all it could to force him to pass it on. And yet he stared at her, unable to take his eyes away.
“Hello? Rafe?”
He shook off the goofy smile and wide eyes that had appeared on his face, and coughed, looking anywhere other than at her .
“Yeah, I'm. . . I'm fine.”
“Hear you haven't been home for a while. I was worried. . .”
“Who'd you hear that from?” he asked, going back to the sh
elf in search of the next suitable book to pull.
“Sticky and Rug laid out for me in what was essentially a puppet show, then Tali filled in some gaps, and the librarian said you've been here for days. . .”
“Thanks, I guess? For checking in on me.”
“Someone's got to―you do a terrible job of looking after yourself.”
“Don't I know it,” he said, tugging a book out and flipping through the pages.
“Have you been sleeping here?”
“To call it sleep would be an exaggeration.” He put the book back where it came from, and moved on to find another one. “Librarian let me nap up here. Don't exactly have much in the way of time to waste. Thought it'd be more efficient.”
“Has it been?”
Rafe glanced at her, then back to the shelf.
“Any luck finding a cure?”
He sighed. “Not in the damn slightest. . . but I do know a little about almost every mystical ailment that could possibly infect us in future.”
“Bright side!”
“Assuming I have a future beyond next week. . .”
“Less of a bright side.”
“Hard to be an optimist when you're definitely going to explode in a few days,” he chuckled with wry intent, but she could see the fear that he was trying to hide.
Ana shot him a muted smile, and his gaze darted right back to the shelf, seeking to evade her prying eyes. As he turned, something on his neck caught her attention, black ink in his own hand, written on the skin. She decided not to stare, let alone try to read it. The words were inscribed on the side of his neck, he likely had no clue it was even there, and was probably self conscious enough as it was. Drawing attention to the condition would only shake his nerves further.
But it was more than that. A part of her was all too aware that despite the death sentence, there was a chance that this condition would actually give her an insight into how he felt. . . about her.
