“There you are,” Fenimore whispered in his ear. “Such a beautiful virgin boy.”
“I—I’m not a boy. I’m twenty-four years old!” He’d just turned twenty-four a few weeks ago, a fact he didn’t point out.
Fenimore grinned. “I’m three hundred and thirty two, and you just serviced a god affiliate a few thousand years old, minus a century or two while she was dead. Brings this into perspective, doesn’t it?”
Chet stilled at the thought. All his life he’d longed for the past with an obsessive persistence that had baffled his family. Now the past was all around him. The past was about to penetrate him. Would Fenimore back off if Chet asked? It seemed unlikely. Chet didn’t doubt that Knife and Journey could stop Fenimore, but at what cost? They were all bound together by the Raptus. Even now Chet could feel the invisible cord binding them together to the relic. Though he could endure rainfall—unlike the Flame—he still couldn’t go anywhere without these people, and who knew how long this condition would last? If the Raptus had never done anything like this before, there was no precedent. They had to work together. It was like being a... a team. Chet knew all about taking one for the team; he’d been doing it all his life.
He bowed his head and, ever so slowly, sank to his hands and knees. Then he lowered his elbows to the mattress so that his ass was sticking out. Waiting for Fenimore’s ministrations, tender or otherwise.
Chet didn’t need to see Fenimore’s grin to know it existed. A second finger wiggled its way into Chet’s ass, then a third. Chet writhed, facing the pain with deep breaths. Sodomy was something he’d always sort of dreamed about in the back of his mind, but had never actually considered trying. He envied the Flame with their gift of being able to relax those muscles at will.
Knife said, “Fenimore, you will wrap your penis in the modern equivalent of a glans bladder. Pantheon knows what diseases you carry. Miss," he called to the front, “where do you keep your condoms?”
“In one of the little drawers under the bed. Third from the left. See it?”
Fenimore scowled as Knife knelt to riffle through her drawers. “Lucid mud should have killed off anything I—”
“Lucid mud is a preservative," Journey interrupted, eyes narrow.
“I don’t have the clap!”
“Didn’t say you did," Knife said steadily as he tossed a few rubber condoms onto the bed. “Yet you had intercourse ten times a week with six different people, back in Konstantine’s court. Chet doesn’t need to share anything you do have.”
Fenimore swore at him. Knife simply looked at him, and Journey had the same expression on her face. Chet wondered why Knife hadn’t brought this up earlier... neither had Journey, for that matter.
Chet looked at her; she seemed to take in his bewilderment. Journey leaned closer and murmured, “You couldn’t possibly catch anything from me, Chet. Flame are sterile in more ways than one. We do not contract or spread disease, including venereal disease. Nor could you get me pregnant," she added, as if an afterthought.
Pregnancy had been the last thing on his mind. Apparently, it had been the last thing on her mind as well, with reason. Chet glanced back at Fenimore, who was rolling on a rubber condom with the expression of a heckled husband nagged by his wife into taking out the trash.
Fenimore slopped more of the oil solution atop the rubber and slapped Chet on the ass. “Down, boy.”
Chet complied, lying upon his belly. He spread himself and waited. Now for it. Yet... nothing happened. He wondered whether Fenimore was standing behind him, stroking himself and enjoying the view of Chet’s unencumbered rear. Chet was about to look over his shoulder when Fenimore settled on top of him. Chet cried out as his ass was forced open. Oh, Pantheon, it hurt, it hurt. Fenimore began thrusting gently, belying his earlier violence. After a while, Chet remembered to breathe. It felt—oh. When the pain had faded a bit, it... actually felt fantastic. Chet had never even guessed his anus could be so sensitive. Chet’s pleasure grew as Fenimore caressed him.
“There you are—you have me now. Such a good boy, taking my sausage without a sound. I love that you aren’t even whimpering.”
Chet couldn’t help but be pleased. He was taking Fen’s cock. He was. Only minutes ago he’d thought it impossible, yet he was doing it. Chet began moving beneath him, writhing. In response, Fenimore quickened his pace, thrusting with more intensity. What had been bearable swiftly devolved into more sensation than Chet had been prepared to deal with. Chet shuddered and gasped. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t understand anything but the dick inside of him, splitting him thoroughly. It was messy and scary, yet terribly important, the most important thing on Uos. He was crying and laughing at the same time.
Then Fenimore reached around and grabbed Chet’s cock. Chet arched upwards, bucking. He came in a flurry of internal lightning and thunder, semen poured into Fenimore’s hand. Fenimore grabbed his hips and increased his pounding to a staccato tempo. Oh, Pantheon. Chet moaned, yelled, screamed. Fenimore’s frantic intensity was torturous, and Chet could only take it.
Fenimore thrust one final time and came deep inside him.
Chet’s body felt lighter than air, a balloon filled with helium. Only Fenimore’s weight pinned him to the mattress. Then Fenimore pulled away, grumbling as he took off the condom. Chet flopped onto his back—a sensual being set free upon the prostitute’s bed. He laughed, delighted at his body. Delighted at the whole world.
“Rain’s just about stopped," Knife said after a while.
Chet opened his eyes. The others had begun putting themselves back together. Journey winced as she shook out damp clothing, Knife was again grooming himself with the lighter, and Fenimore—half dressed—handled the Raptus with a studious frown.
“I don’t feel the invisible tether as strongly, now. I wonder how far apart we can stretch ourselves.”
“There’s one way to find out. Get your trousers and boots on, Fen.” Knife held out his hands for the Raptus and Fenimore tossed it to him—gently, Chet noticed.
Was the relic robust or fragile? Despite its delicate appearance and materials, it seemed to have survived almost four thousand years without so much as a scratch. By magic? Even the idea of magic—missing so long from the world—was exciting. Chet wished he could have lived during the millennia when Foex was alive if only to witness blood magic. Why on Uos did this thing still work? Even the Flame, who’d locked it centuries ago, didn’t know. The mystery was absorbing, fascinating, almost more vivid to Chet than his first sexual encounters.
Fenimore opened the van door, and a delicious scent of wet gravel and pavement wafted through the van. Chet breathed in greedily, but both Flame winced. The rain hadn’t quite stopped, the air alive with humidity. Topless and sweaty, Fenimore traipsed down the street, looking back every few seconds. He slowed near the corner.
“Is it stopping you?” Knife called.
“Indeed, yes. But... it also feels like there will be more give to come. Like whatever binds us is stretching even now, like gut string,” Fenimore said, walking back to the van.
“Mmm. About a hundred feet, give or take.” Knife turned to address the front seat. “Miss, we have an address for you to drive us to, so we can pick up our luggage.”
“Right-oh,” came the cheerful reply.
The curtain swished aside and the prostitute smiled at them. Her smile became a grin when she looked at Chet; he dropped his gaze, ashamed. His face was cherry red, he was sure. He’d just been deflowered—both ways!—and she’d witnessed the whole thing.
Chet gazed up at Clementina’s palatial residence with misgivings. He noticed the university van was parked outside; was Rory back from the shuttle errand?
Journey studied him with an anxious expression. “You will go in, won’t you? We do very much need our luggage. Knife and I can’t even get dressed as our clothes will be damp for some time, and I’m afraid this wig is done for until I get a chance to work on it.”
“Right.” It was time to take o
ne for the team, again. Chet sighed. At least most of the graduate students should still be at the dig site this time of the day. Was it only early afternoon? Chet’s sense of time had vanished in the van. With all the strange events and disruptions, who knew where people would be?
Chet’s key worked just fine. No one seemed to be around. The invisible cord binding him to the Raptus stretched like a rubber band as he poked through the living room door into the library. It was a bit like being attached to an umbilical cord; it physically hurt to stretch too far.
Journey’s bulky suitcases were mostly still packed. He stuffed loose items recklessly, though his fear of being caught decreased as time passed. There were no footsteps in the house. Knife’s small suitcase was easier, already packed. Chet humped everything downstairs to the porch for Fenimore to take to the van. Emboldened, he decided he wanted his own things. Who knew how long he’d be gone in this cascading stream of events? He hopped upstairs again and slipped into the room he shared with several of the other guys...
Rory was waiting for him, sitting motionless on his cot. Chet froze. Her brown eyes were murderous. “You’re a doedicu, Chet Baikson.”
He frowned at her, his shock giving way to an awkward uncertainty, off balance. Had she been in the house all this time? He knew Shadow Dancers could reputedly turn invisible, but she’d never done it around him. “Um, I don’t think name calling is necessary, Rory.”
She waved this aside. “You’re in serious trouble. Among other things, Clementina is threatening to have you expelled from the program.”
“I—you’re kidding.” Chet was conscious that he was feeling—of all things—his aching anus. He’d never realized that sex with a man meant a sore ass afterwards. He’d never needed to know, and now was the worst possible time to realize the fact. “Surely Tibbets won’t let them expel me. He’s my senior advisor.”
“Just watch her.” Rory turned away, her arms crossed. She gazed through the window at the prostitute’s van, visible from the street. “That’s... rather clever of the Flame. I’ll give them that much. Considering they just won the arms race, they’re certainly ready to run with their prize.”
“Arms race?”
She shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand. I think. I hope you don’t understand. Oh, Pantheon, Chet. I pegged you as a normal guy. When you refused to trade places with me on the university run, I thought you were just being obstinate. Have I misjudged you so badly? Are you really one of us?”
One of who? Or maybe he should ask, one of what? For a woman who hated deception, she’d certainly deceived him. “I am a normal guy," Chet said, clinging to the only truth he knew in this floating conversation.
“If that’s true, you’re caught in the riptide. Tell the Flame the others will be here at dark, and we expect them to fully justify their actions.”
“Yeah, I gather there’s something going on between them and your people, but I don’t think it’s about you personally.”
She glared at him. “Of course it involves me. I’m leaving the university. My doctorate isn’t nearly as important as what the Flame—and you—are holding right now. This matter impacts my Cluster on both personal and political levels. My family, Chet. Not to mention the world at large. So, if you’ll excuse me...”
She didn’t move, despite her words. Chet realized he could see the window frame right through her. Right through her body. His ex-girlfriend was fading before his eyes, fading into thin air, except she was still a wavering shape. Ghost like. He took another step toward her just as the faint outline of Rory raced at him, toward the door.
He was knocked to the ground. She—whatever she had become—was like touching an electrical current. Chet gasped, the breath knocked out of him. When he was finally able to struggle upright, Rory was gone.
Chapter 7
Shift of Plans
There was no sign of Rory. Chet looked at his strewn clothing and books. He packed mechanically, leaving dirty clothes under the cot. He did make sure to take his books. He’d need them, he thought, for comfort if nothing else. His compact array of classics with tiny print would keep him going as he traversed unknown territory.
The rain had stopped, sun peeking through clouds. Knife and the prostitute were chatting amicably in the front seat of the van, sharing a cigarette like comrades in arms. Journey was swiftly unpacking a suitcase, half dressed in sensible, casual clothing. Fenimore seemed to be napping on the bed. All was apparently under control. Only Chet was undone.
“Look, I have to tell you guys something," Chet said. He recounted Rory’s words and actions as they were driven to—where? Chet didn’t know what came next.
Journey and Knife shared a significant glance. “I’ll talk to them," Knife promised. Journey nodded and kept riffling through her suitcase.
Chet hugged his knees. They didn’t see surprised or even mildly curious. Of course, they were god affiliates, too. God affiliates' in-born or granted powers had been a point of contention his whole life. Chet’s family still expected him to choose a god or goddess, like all eight of his siblings had. He had carefully chosen not to do so. His unaffiliated status and field of study had been the only times he’d ever disappointed his family. Chet had never been able to fully answer their persistent questions of why he didn’t want to become a god affiliate; none of the Pantheon appealed to him. He didn’t want them. He didn’t want to be bound, entrapped, to surrender his humanity to a god’s political goals and agenda.
Well, Foex had always appealed to him, bloodthirsty as he’d been. But Foex was dead.
The Raptus was on the bed next to Fenimore, who lay snoozing. Chet picked it up and turned it over his hands. The etched writing caught his attention, and he studied the markings intently. The ancient language was one he’d studied about two years ago when he’d transferred programs from law to archaeology: it was a variation of a Door dialect used by Magicians. Zang and Tene had been clever to create something like this—perhaps a little too clever. Chet recognized the symbols for “control,” “force," and “stifle," but couldn’t make out anything else. He licked his lips, feeling nauseous. What a... one-track device. And he was constrained by it now, along with the others.
The van slowed to a stop. “You’re here,” the prostitute said from the front seat.
“Where?” Chet asked, bewildered as Journey and Knife opened the door and began decamping.
By the painted bricks and blocky architecture outside, they had to be in a historic district, one that harkened all the way back to Wetshul’s days as a camp for the First Conversion Army. Fittingly enough, it was called the Training Grounds for United Victorious Equality District. Chet really had to wonder at the church fanatics and poor squatters who would choose such a mouthful to describe their patch of swamp.
“We’re at a hotel that will hopefully take us," Journey replied shortly. Knife was heartily thanking the prostitute as he shook her hand; by Knife’s words, Chet realized she’d recommended the place.
It turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall, not in a bad way. It smelled intensely of the past: lead paint, musty curtains and a certain fragrant mold beneath it all. Chet breathed deeply. The proprietor seemed about eighty years old and was going blind, though he addressed Journey and Knife readily as, “My good Flame.” He personally rode up with them in the rickety, old-fashioned elevator to a room. Unlike the lobby, the room was bright and airy. There were two double beds and mullioned glass doors leading out to a wrought-iron balcony. The view was spectacular. Chet even caught a glimpse of the university, an hour’s drive up the Monastery Mountains.
“... I’ll have your meal sent directly up," the proprietor noted congenially.
Chet’s head snapped around, alert at the possibility. “What meal?”
“They have a kitchen downstairs, run by that gentleman’s wife. Traditional Wetshul cuisine," Journey promised.
Fenimore sat on a bed to remove his boots. “Mmph. Prepare yourself for sand and false teeth in the dirty rice.
” He curled on a bed in the same position he’d taken in the van.
“Pessimist," Journey laughed at him. She seemed far more at ease now that they were settled.
Despite Fenimore’s low opinion, Chet’s own spirits were decidedly repaired by fish stuffed with sweet potatoes and crawdads, doedicu in white garlic sauce, and spongy flatbread that was the local custom. A shower after the meal was also welcome. Chet had never before appreciated clean underwear in quite the same way.
When Chet emerged, he found Journey, Knife, and Fenimore had gathered on one of the beds, gazing at the Raptus. It lay nestled atop the white comforter, innocent and inert as Abyss. He joined them self consciously; as always, Chet felt the odd man out. Nevertheless, there was a place for him on the bed. As if echoing the ancient magic that had brought them together, they’d automatically formed a cross-like shape around the Raptus... even Chet had done so, he realized with a start.
Knife looked like a man—a Flame—laboring under a heavier load than he’d anticipated. “We must decide how to proceed.”
Proceed? “I thought you were going to give the Raptus to the Shadow Dancers," Chet said.
“We were," Journey said. “But it has us, now. We’re trapped. We don’t know what it wants with us, and I’m afraid we’re going to find out.”
“Is our course not obvious? It wants to be used. It should be used,” Fenimore said. Though he seemed to be trying to look relaxed, he was failing miserably. His pinched nostrils and the tension in his shoulders gave him away.
Both Journey and Knife shook their heads. “I want to consult with Aureate and Doyen," Journey muttered. “We shouldn’t be the only ones making this decision.”
The Artifact of Foex Page 7
