by Daryl Banner
And he knows this boy not.
“I need to ask you a few things,” Wick says plainly, drawing his eyes away from the boyishly beautiful face and body of Athan Broadmore. This may be the only way he can speak to him without being so cruelly distracted. “The sooner you answer, the sooner you go home.”
“Well … not that I’m in a hurry, but go ahead and ask your fill, Anwick Lesser.”
He might escape looking at Athan, but not hearing that velvety voice say his name like that. “I need to ask you … will you assist us in a mapmaking project? One of our guys is mapping the city and … and …”
“And you need help detailing the Lifted City?” Athan finishes for him. “Yes, I’ll help. I’ve lived there my whole life. What else?”
Wick is genuinely surprised. He wasn’t expecting this to go so easily—but he still won’t make the mistake of meeting his eyes again. Staring at the floor, he goes on: “We also need to know who brought down the garden.”
“Lord’s Garden? I wish I knew myself.” His throat tightens. “I liked Lord’s Garden. A lot. I went there every day.”
“Don’t have any idea at all? Even a suspicion?”
“No. I was only visiting, watching the Lunar Festival below when it all happened. And I—Why aren’t you looking at me?”
Stop being so weak. Wick lifts his eyes. It’s like he sees the Sanctum boy for the first time all over again, his heart casting waves to even the tips of his fingers with every hungry beat. This sky-boy, this Privileged … Why do such beautiful things come from ugly places?
But another thought occurs to him: Athan has no love for this place. No Privileged in their right mind has a care in the world for those below … so why is Athan being so cooperative and kind? Don’t trust anything from the sky, no matter how pretty his face. Yeah, that’s the simple truth Wick’s been denying himself ever since he pulled this sorry boy from the festival wreckage and flame: Athan just wants to go home, and he’s not beneath doing anything to get there—including sweet talk, answering questions … and flirting. Yeah, play with me all you like, Sanctum boy, but I don’t play nice back.
“I’ve hated your sky-kind my whole life,” mutters Wick, his jaw snapping tight, “and you can play with me if you think it’ll get you anywhere, put on your flirts and flash your sexy smile. But we are not friends, and if you can’t give us what we need, you’ll starve in this room, a dead Sanctum boy.”
Athan’s eyes shrink, brows lifted with genuine surprise. Wick swallows hard, immediately second-guessing what he’s said. I went too far and fucked it up. Yellow and the others are counting on me and I—
“You think my smile’s sexy?” Wick stares, long and hard. Is the Sanctum boy still playing with him? Athan smiles tentatively. “You said it. I heard it.”
Don’t let him play with you. “There’s a man outside,” Wick goes on, “who can have you forget your own name, and a boy who can reach through your body and squeeze your heart until it stops. So I recommend that you—”
“You’re squeezing my heart plenty, as is,” replies Athan, lifting his brows further, his gaze like blue watery gems. “But even with that—that older guy and—and that younger guy … Anwick, you’re the only person who’s been nice to me. You’re the only one who’s … who’s treated me well.” His smile wavers. “And now you’re threatening me.”
Wick looks away, his resolve broken. I’m going about this all wrong. I need a different strategy. I need … I need …
“I need …” Wick stammers, then thrusts his hands into his pockets, glaring at the ground. It is a blind leap of trust, admitting or not admitting his truths to this person … the feeling comparable to dancing the rim of a cliff. Too far one way, you fall.
“Go ahead,” says Athan gently. “Tell me. You need …?”
“I feel sick with resentment.” Wick still glares at the floor, arms flexing with his hands jabbed into pockets, teeth grinding. “A slum boy, playing nice with the Sanctum boy, just to get what he—what he needs … when all I want to do is punch your teeth out of your pretty face.”
Athan doesn’t respond to that. I’ve fucked it up and I don’t care. He was never mine to begin with. Wick lets the air freeze over from his words. I’m such a fool. The room freezes for a while … for too long.
Then finally, Wick lifts his chin and speaks to the ceiling. “Athan, I’m … not gonna hurt you. If you cooperate, you’ll go home. Whatever a lowborn word means to you, you have mine that you won’t be harmed at all. We don’t believe in violence.”
“This … coming from the guy who wants to punch the teeth out of my face?”
When Wick meets his eyes, he finds Athan smiling again. A tiny smile, but a smile nonetheless. Good. “Punch the teeth out of your pretty face,” Wick corrects him, returning just as tiny a smile.
Athan looks him over. Wick loves and hates the way it makes him feel. Compared to Athan’s softly-built muscular body, Wick must look like a starved, hard little thing with no blood in its veins. What could he possibly see in me, other than a slum rat?
Then Athan makes a question. “So … what’s your Legacy?”
Wick bites the inside of his cheek, gnawing on it. How do I answer that? He has as much confidence in Athan’s honesty as Athan has in his, most likely. They could be exchanging sugared lies to one another, neither of them the smarter.
“I can smell things beyond the realm of … natural things.” So he chooses the lie. “I can smell fear. I can smell happiness.”
Athan smiles, showing teeth. He nearly looks about to laugh when he says, “Like a puppy?” Despite Wick’s glare, Athan leans into the wall, baring his blue eyes, and asks, “Will you reveal what it is you smell now?”
The room feels tighter and tighter, like the walls are pressing in. “A secret.”
“Come on … tell me. Don’t be shy.”
“No, you misunderstand.” Wick’s feeling smart, makes a small arc to the bed and sits, leaning back, casual and playing it cool—despite the many knots in his stomach. “What I meant is … I smell a secret.” His eyes draw a line down Athan’s full body. He can’t stop looking. Even biting his tongue and sucking his own teeth, he doesn’t know discipline around this boy. “Let’s hear it,” says Wick unsmilingly. “You had to know so badly what I’m smelling right now … and it’s secrets. What aren’t you telling me, Athan of Broadmore Manor?”
The boy slides his back down the wall, comes to a seat on the ground directly across from Wick. Their eyes linger on each other, the silence of this little room pressing in. Their shoes almost touch.
“I’m hungry,” Athan answers. “Does that count?”
“We’ll send for food. But surely there’s more secrets in you.”
“There’s plenty in you too.” Their eyes lock like two gripped hands, like links of a chain. “Secret for a secret. How’s that for fair?” Athan tilts his head, lets his shoe kick into Wick’s casually, as if by accident.
Wick doesn’t move his away. “Alright. I have four brothers.”
“Nice. I … always wanted to live here in the slums.”
“My younger brother’s a mean little shit, my next oldest brother is a know-it-all shit, and my oldest brothers are … are not living at home.” Wick shifts his eyes.
“Everyone in the Lifted City is a little shit,” returns Athan. Wick frowns. “It’s true, even I can admit it. My mother isn’t kind, though she loves me. My father, he’s a bit of a … Well, and my sister’s made of the stuff that turns Sanctum people cold. She’s forgotten how to laugh and that scares me the worst.” Athan shrugs, pulls on a loose thread in his pants. “I’m not happy there.”
“I took everyone in the sky to be happy,” murmurs Wick, wistfully studying the face of Athan Broadmore. Maybe he’s had this whole thing wrong. “Guess all the gold in the city can’t find you a smile, huh?”
“Oh, I smile plenty. I’m required to.” He looks pained for a moment, his blue eyes melting onto Wick. Eyes shouldn’t mel
t like that and still look beautiful. “When I’m dining, or when I attend my parent’s parties and social gatherings … When I attend the Crystal Court and hear the Marshals and the King … Always smiling, smiling, smiling.” Even with his smile now sagging about the corners, he looks as striking.
Their shoes still touch. Wick’s been hyper-aware of that ever since the little maybe-accidental tap. He’s never been this close to—something—with another guy before. The opportunity has never been so … reachable and there. Am I doing this right? He’s been considering giving his foot another thrust, just a tease … but isn’t sure what that would accomplish really, except for better acquainting their shoes.
“We’ll get you something to eat,” decides Wick. “And maybe let’s save the rest of the questions for another time. Think we’ve had enough for a night, haven’t we, Athan Broadmore?”
“Not sure, Anwick Lesser,” he admits, giving Wick’s foot another playful tap and smiling. “Think I rather can’t get enough.”
Wick can glare at the floor all night and force himself not to grin, but his face betrays him by burning a happy, happy red.
“Call me Wick.”
0024 Forgemon
He’s leaning against the bedroom wall when Anwick crawls back in through the window—careful as a cat. When his son turns to find his father standing there, his eyes flash with fear.
Caught you, little one.
This moment is crucial. Every figure in Forge’s head knows it true. He cannot burn his son just yet; he must know what Wick was doing, where he was at for so long, what troubles he’s wafting into their lives like a poisonous fume. So ever calmly, he asks: “Where were you?”
His son looks to the floor, several emotions twisting his face here and there before finally he responds, “I had to get out of the house, dad. I needed the air. I—”
“I don’t recall giving you permission.” No, no … already, he’s letting his anger rule him. “Anwick, you won’t stir my temper if you’re simply straight with me. Tell me where you went, son.”
“I went to the—the—market, the market down—”
“You were at no market.” Forge already feels his breath quickening, stubbornly refusing to behave. “You are not getting any more sleep scoping a dangerous city at this hour, son.”
“This, coming from a dad who won’t let me sleep.” The insolence in his son’s eyes … It’s maddening.
“Unless you can learn to stay awake like the rest of us,” Forge barks back, unable to manage his temper any longer, “I suggest you act a dutiful son and do as I say!”
“That’s not a dutiful son.” Anwick’s drawn up to Forge’s face, inches from him, his nose wrinkled up in just as red a rage. “That’s a weak, submissive son. Do this, do that. I’m not weak and submissive. I’m—”
“Stupid. You’re only stupid.” Forge grinds his teeth between sentences. “Patience, son … Caution, defense, shield … These are weapons just as sharp and just as useful as that dagger you think I can’t see.”
For a moment, Anwick seems as if he’s considering whether to throw a fist or throw a tantrum, the fight nearly setting his eyes on fire. Then he sighs, the dagger shining in his hand, unhidden any longer, and he says, “I was only—I was only protecting myself. It’s mine.”
“From now on, Lionis takes you to school and back.” Anwick gapes at his father, his face an entirely new and undiscovered shade of red. “Your window will be sealed, I promise you that. You will be watched, your departure from this house forbade. I am serious about this, son, something bad is going to happen. Of all people whose word you trust in this world—damn it, son!—why can’t you trust your own father’s?”
Then his son lunges at him, but of course even this act was seen coming many figures and maths ago, and so Forge gets his son in a chokehold, Anwick’s back held against him, his arm hugged tight about the throat.
“Tomorrow’s my—my—” His son can barely get the words out, tears welling in his eyes. “It’s my—”
“Legacy Exam,” finishes the father, knowing. “In front of the Marshal of Legacy Impis, before the men of his men and so on. You are exactly seventeen-and-one-half today. Anwick …” He loosens his grip, though the boy helplessly remains in headlock, Forge says, “Son, that is precisely why I came to wake you tonight. We have to prepare a way …”
“A way to cheat the Marshal and his men,” finishes the son, all the fight drained from him.
He’s scared … He’s scared and I’m a terrible father. “Son, you’re going to be alright. You’re going to be alright and … and I need that dagger.”
“Please,” his son begs. Oh, how he hates hearing that heartbreaking tone, a pleading child. That dagger is not a toy, Anwick. It is a tool of death that will only end up in its owner’s flesh. I have felt the math … the paths, the choices …
“Dagger,” says Forge.
“I hope you know,” Anwick chokes, deflated, tired, “that I’m handing my life to you … in this small and deceptively trivial act of releasing this dagger … I’m giving up. That’s what you’re making your son do.”
“Dagger,” he repeats.
Anwick opens his fingers—the blade drops—and then he starts to soundlessly sob, only the muffled gasps of his throat filling the little room. Forge is certain that nothing more he says will touch his son tonight, but traces will linger in his heart, vulnerable as he is in this state. Maybe one of these traces will someday save his life. “In this world, in this City … under a Banshee Lord and his three devil hands working their devilry, you must learn that the spirit, the threat and drive to win is eternal. No Legacy or lack of Legacy or Outlier or name or amount of riches or coin of the sky will take that from you. Hear this, Anwick Lesser, if you hear nothing else tonight: you will always win, if you learn to give up, without giving in.”
For several minutes more, he keeps his soundlessly weeping son in the headlock, which suddenly feels a lot more like an embrace. The silent sorrow and the darkness are their only company. Not even the wind whistles through the crack in the window.
Hours later, Forge is in the front lawn just beyond his son’s window, the dagger playing about in his hand. The sun is still hours from rising, and he considers the blade, thinking how he might better it, how he’d make better construct of it … No, not even hammering metal can save me tonight. Somewhere in the hour, Ellena comes out to join him. As if by some automatic physical response, he’s instantly hard as a rock, tackling his woman like a dog, their lips crushing together. He pushes her down into the crunchy grass and grunts as he wrestles his pants down enough to free his cock. He grabs each of her legs with his giant hands. She gasps once, then claws him down to the elbow when he slides in. She loves it this way, and I need it this way. Only once does her moan sound pained, and he slows long enough for her to say, “No, no, don’t stop.” And so, continuing to work her like a hammer to metal, who is he to disobey?
0025 Link
Today, I am doing to find Dran. I am going to find Dran and I am going to pull a knife across his throat.
When Wick comes down the narrow stair and spills his backpack at the foot of it, cussing loudly, Link recalls what today is. Wick had waited until the very last minute to take his Legacy Exam. It’s actually not that unusual for people to postpone it so long … Some believe it gives their Legacies a chance to mature, best presentable for the Marshal. Link presented his Legacy when he was only ten. Only five years ago, and it feels like a lifetime.
But what’s the big deal about? Wick can smell things. Great. Enter the exam room and smell something and be done with it. No big deal at all, yet his mom’s been fretting for days and Lionis has been poring over books about Legacies. It always feels to Link like the family’s keeping secrets from his baby eyes, and nothing annoys him worse than that. If only they knew about his outs with The Wrath and the emotional and physical tumult he’s endured … No, Link Lesser is no child, not anymore. Just that simple notion makes the arm of t
he backpack he grips turn a searing reddish-orange.
There has to be a reason why Wick locks himself in his room for nearly six or seven hours a night, coming out only at sunrise. What’s he do with all that spare time? Surely it’s not all for meditation, or relaxation, or homework, or whatever lie they told him this week.
As they head to school, Link trails behind, watching his brothers pensively. Wick is obviously annoyed to every end imaginable that his older brother Lionis has to act as an escort. Oh, the blood that must be boiling—the two of them, siblings forced into roles of papa and child. Well, at least someone else in the family is coddled as much as Link; can’t keep all the babying for himself.
Just before the final turn in the road, Lionis tells Link to go on ahead, that he has a private thing to discuss with Wick before the big exam. “Whatever,” he mumbles, pressing on … but of course his curiosity has the better, so Link doubles back and catches himself behind a tree to eavesdrop. Shye, the one who hears all …
“It’s already done,” says Lionis to a very worn and agitated Wick. “I found where in the school the Legacy Exams are being held. There’s about twenty of you scheduled, only twenty … So I planted a cherry blossom root just underneath the Headmaster’s chair where the Marshal himself will be seated. It’s a common growth in the Greens nearest our ward, Wick, something mom was able to steal away with no one taking notice.”
“A cherry blossom root,” Wick echoes wryly.
“Yes. All you have to do is pretend to smell it, make a show, they will find the root and it’s done. Easy.” Lionis speaks with the air of a studied professor. Link still thinks he’d make a good one: Professor Lionis Lesser. “Demonstrated, they’ll pass you through as a normal, boring Sensor-class. Nothing more to vex us.”
