Chapel Orahamm's Blog, page 24

Skull Dansuer: Ch 3

“That witch was sure as hell tripped out on something. Are you sure you want to go along with a twenty-plus-year-old prophecy that was probably just the delusional ravings of a mushroom-hopped senile old lady?” I settled back into our nest of crates in the dungeon-like room. “Then again. Don’t want to ruin a good thing going. Who knows, maybe the guy your mom married after your dad was just looking out for you and her and had all the best intentions.”

Rowan studied the splintered corners of the book. We had been sitting in the gloom for the better part of half an hour while he read and re-read that little manual of doom.

“And what does it mean: ‘will summon forth the revenge of the abyssal dragon?’ Y’all have dragons here bigger than that little labra-dragon-doodle? Are they like, world-shattering monsters?”

He laid the book down on the pile of clothing I had painstakingly folded. Rubbing his face, he leaned forward to amuse himself with a study of the chipped mortar between the flagstone. “The abyssal dragon is one of those may be a real thing, maybe a metaphor thing. Know what I mean?”

“Ah, either an actual fire-breathing creature, or you become this evil king that summons up massive armies of the undead to create mass chaos, thereby earning the title of ‘The Abyssal Dragon’, right?” I mused. “We’ve deviated from the point.”

“Point being?”

“Are you going to go along with this whole prophecy, just because it’s written in some book? Give me a pen and a sheet of paper and I can write out a prophecy and you just wait, some hair-brained idiot will go and do the thing just because I said it was a prophecy and they see themselves in it.” I twisted a spell lock in a chest next to me and pulled out a saddle blanket to spread over myself.

“You are the epitome of the Skulldancer’s Heart. This is no soothsayer-from-the-slum’s words. What you have done since the moment I got you down back in those woods has been nothing but wizardry no one in this land has ever encountered.” Rowan pulled a blanket out for himself.

“Skulldancer’s Heart? What kind of a name is that?” I pulled my blanket up to my chin. It smelled of sheep wool and horse sweat. Not exactly pleasant, but it was either the smell or the damp cold.

“To be fair, you are currently using a slang word for steer balls as a name.” Rowan pulled a lantern out from the chest, lit it, and set it in a hook in the ceiling before letting the smouldering torch die out completely.

“Alright, alright, I’ll give a real name a thought.” I held up a hand to ward off more needling dialogue. A name? A real name? One that I wanted to be called? I had considered transitioning on numerous occasions, always promising myself I would when my career was over. When there would be money available. When I’d have a job with the healthcare to cover those types of medical bills. I had planned to become a vet tech when all was said and done. I had taken a dual degree in dance studies and vet tech specifically so I’d have a career to fall back on in case something unfortunate did happen.

I hated my name, and couldn’t imagine being called any other feminine name, but I had never really settled on a masculine name before. Not one that I wanted the world to call me by. I had always felt awkward at the thought of asking my family and friends to switch for me. It felt selfish, and like too much of a hassle. I was also afraid of the possible reactions I would receive.

Algae along the corner of the cell held my interest as I flipped through an index of possible normal names in my head. None of them sounded like me, the me I wanted to be, the me who wanted to hear the name said. “You called me Skulldancer. You talk about summoning a dragon’s rage. I’ve caught a glimpse of what I look like now. I ran across a name a long time ago in a book once. Tanwyn. It comes from the Welsh, a people who always put in w’s and y’s in their names in the oddest spots. I rather liked the way it looked and the way the audiobook reader said it. I think I’ll go with that. What do you think? Don’t tell me it’s a word for chickens fucking or something.”

“I can’t say I know of any word like it. Does it have a meaning to it?” Rowan pulled straw from the blanket and flicked it to the muck on the floor.

“White Fire, if I remember right.”

“That’s a pretty epic name then, Tanwyn.” He looked up at me and smiled.

“Your’s, does it have a meaning? From where I come from, it references a tree, so forgive my hope that our meeting doesn’t burn you.” I chuckled.

“It’s the name of the first star that appears in the evening and also a god of fortune from the Rugoshui, my parents’ people.” Rowan rose and offered me a hand up off the crates.

Folding and stowing the blankets, I regarded his presence for another minute. “So, what now, oh God of Fortune? Do we sneak away? Do we try to find if there is something to the king and queen’s marriage circumstances? And, is Prissy-pants going to rain hellfire down on us for missing her big bash?”

“She’s going to probably screech and cry at you for not being there, but she’s of an age that suitors have been called to the castle. I would hope she’d be getting over that selfish phase of hers.” He slipped the book into his doublet. Having put the chamber back into an order resembling what we had initially found, Rowan motioned me out and closed the door behind us. Flicking the tip of my ear he said, “Where do we hide now, Matchstick?”

That hurt more than I thought. Reaching up, I went to rub the sore spot and sank to the ground in confusion. “Ears. My ears.”

“What’s wrong?” Rowan twisted over to get a better look at me.

I traced the long spars of cartilage protruding away from my head by at least a hand length. The lobe connected down where my regular ears should have sat. A moment of thought and I found they could range from perked up to a baleful droop; I could even muster a pissed-off flattened thing. “What the hell am I, an elf?”

“An-Elf? What is An-Elf? Come on, I’m done with the damp down here. We can come back for other stuff. If we’re fast, we can still have you make it to Priscilla’s party and keep you from getting an earful for the rest of your long-lived life.” Rowan disappeared up the stairs.

“Oye! Wait for me.” I launched myself on the slick flagstone to follow him back up to the main floor.

“What’s up with the ear problem, Wal-Tanwyn. This is going to take me a few days. Bear with me while I get it right. Might want to go with Wallace in public for a little while if you want to not be seen as having lost your mind. I mean, you kind of did. Well, not you. Your body’s prior mind. You just gained a body, I guess.” Rowan pulled off his slouched beret and ran a hand through his hair to pull it back into a manageable shape before replacing the hat.

“We don’t have ears like this back home. In a way, we do. Stories, like legends or myths if you might. We call them fairytales, but we don’t have fairies.” I had to flick my ears again to feel them bounce.

“What are fairies?” Rowan walked me back to the doors of the grand hall, where there were now several guests milling about. The glares they threw Rowan were, in my opinion, odd.

“Tiny, winged, flying people that are either helpful or mischievous in a magical sense. Some have tails, some don’t. Fairytales, though, are stories of mythical impossible things that aren’t constructed around science. Why am I labelling everyone looking at you dickbag right now?” I shoved my hands where I thought I’d have pockets, only to be rudely reminded that jeans were not a thing here. Changes were going to have to be made.

“His Highness married a Rugoshui; that doesn’t mean the people aren’t still racist.” Rowan grumbled, pulling at his hat again.

“Then they shall be collectively known as a giant bag of dicks. Now, a more pressing question and another detour from having to go in there. Where is the bathroom?”

“What is a bathroom?” Rowan shifted his weight, hunching in on himself with the people staring.

“Toilet, lavatory, john, loo, the porcelain throne, the porcelain god,” I tried the other terms I knew. He blinked at me. I blinked back. “Ya’ll really don’t have a designated place? Outhouse? Oh, what was that word? Latrine? A latrine. Please don’t tell me ya’ll are still stuck with holes in the ground.” I stomped down the hall, aiming for the door Rowan had brought me through before in hopes of finding somewhere useful to my pressing needs.

“Ah, the bin!” Rowan caught up to my steps and steered me through an alcove to a door leading outside.

“Bin, like a trash can? You and I are talking the same language and yet not. This is going to be a headache.” I tripped over a dashing dog and sprawled across the packed dirt of the courtyard to be regarded by an angry rooster.

Escaping with my life, I fled to the far side of the courtyard with Rowan hot on my heels where he turned me once more. 

“Old Ron just has it out for you.” He was failing to stifle a laugh.

“Old Ron is going to get turned into dinner.” I glared down the preening bird.

“Ron’s the dog. Sifgurd is the rooster. Sif hasn’t forgiven you since the time you pulled, well Wallace, pulled out a couple of his tail feathers to see if they would work for ink quills.” Rowan walked me to a back wall where the smell of fecal matter almost made me insta-retch.

“Found the bathroom.” I did not make it further than inside the building before my stomach contents entered the hole in the ground. Turning around, I walked back out and down to where the fresh air could pull the smell out of my nose and drew in a deep breath of barnyard and blacksmithy forges. “Alright. Right. Righty-o. So that’s the bathroom. Restroom. John. Bin. Oh, for the love of all that is holy, that was nasty. Ya’ll don’t lime your outhouses? Oh, gods.” My stomach decided to talk to me once again, this time into a prickly flower of some kind.

“You and I, we need a scroll of words, Tanwyn. What is lime?” Rowan leaned against the fortification wall while I collected myself after the second round.

“Still need to use the bathroom, but that was horrifying.” I brushed my doublet and sleeves back into a respectable position. “Lime, my good sir, is calcium oxide and is used for an incredible number of things such as steelwork and keeping drinking water clean. A white substance, the powder can be used to keep the smell down in manure piles. Also used in concrete mixes. Limewash is antibacterial in a way and is often used in barns and latrines for the sanitation aspect. At least that’s what’s coming to mind for what I remember it being used for. I might assume, if you have a blacksmith, you might have steel. If you have steel, you might have access to the stone that lime is derived from. I would highly suggest its use before I go anywhere near that hell hole again. Now, where is somewhere somewhat cleaner that I might be able to figure out how this body works in business mode?”

Rowan rubbed at his forehead and pointed me toward the gates out of the fortification wall that led back out to the forest. “Noting that I will be buying a scroll the next moment I get into the market. You say the most perplexing things.”

“And you do not?” I pressed us forward quicker. My lungs burned from the effort and a stitch formed in my side. “Wallace did not get exercise very often, did she?”

“No, not really. Was bedridden most of his childhood. It’s only been in the last year that he got out much at all.”

“I’m feeling that. So, the woods for me?” We entered into the cool shadow of the forest.

“If you don’t want the bin.” Rowan leaned up against a tree and waved me to go find a private place.

I traipsed further in for my own sense of modesty before finding a secluded stained glass-colored bush. Horror and I became best friends for the better part of a minute as I realized that my tights were quite literally sewn on. “What the hell is this?”

“What? What? Are you well? A snake?” Rowan called.

“I don’t exactly want to ask this, but how do these come off?” I had zipped myself, buttoned myself, and corset laced myself into enough costumes for shows to have an inkling of what was going on with these tights, but did it really require a full yard of cordage? I span myself around in search of the end of the tie.

“What are you doing, Tanywyn?” Rowan appeared at the edge of my spot.

“Having frustrations in understanding what it means to be in the correct gender for once in my life. Y’all ever heard of a zipper? Go away, I’ll figure out how to get out of these sooner or later.”

“The band is folded over on itself; the knot should be under that.” Rowan disappeared back into the glass forest.

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The Fire in My Blood: Ch 4

“Requies?” I called as I walked into the main office. Browns and creams overwhelmed my vision. The heavy smell of lemon oil and dust was a strange nostalgia that nagged at the back of my head. Papers were neatly ordered in piles on every flat surface available. A thud and something hitting the floor in the room off to the back behind the counter drew my attention.

“Lunam! Is that you?” The old man’s voice chirped. Lye soap and lemon oil. A wizened man emerges from the back room, holding what appeared to be a plastic jar of grey powder. “Ah, good. It is you, Lunam. I left note for you. Wasn’t sure if you’d come.” He waved me toward one of the two sparsely upholstered chairs behind the counter. I followed him back and sat down at his offer.

“Tell me, Requies. What can I do for you?” I flashed a charming smile. Requies had housed many a Rubrum and Aurantiaco deserter for me in the past. Finding housing for people was not always easy, and he had assisted numerous times in the last six years that we had known each other. He had housed me when I was first dumped in Imperium.

The landing from the ledge wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience for any Ustor from the Purgatoriums. If you survive the fall, you have to be wary of the scavengers that are liable to slit your throat at the bottom. I was only lucky in that I ended up landing on top of Tempestatis. Cortex was less lucky in that I grabbed him and held him hostage for a hot minute while I tried to put together what was happening to me. I was strung out on some sedative the court had forced upon me to keep me compliant. Coming out of it had made me edgy. I think that would happen to anyone, though.

They were the ones who took me to Requies and Maria Mater. I collapsed for two days and woke up fully convinced I had been left to Exteriores Spatium. That first true moment of lucid contact flitted at the edge of my thoughts as Requies filled me in on the Rubrum lackies on the fifth floor.

The room was fuzzy around my periphery. It smelled of alcohol and chlorine. My chest hurt, and my back and my hips. The longer I thought, the more things felt bruised. Sun filtered in through moth hole curtains, leaving the furnishings in a dusty gold halo. A woman slept in a patched armchair.

“One awoken?” Pine and yeast bread. A thick accent for Angelus. Not a first language. I swung my focus to the man sitting on the bed next to me. “Call I Cortex. One no name speak, please,” he hushed my flailings.

“Where am I?” I croaked. Cracked ribs. That was what hurt.

“Third biodome. Name Imperium.” The man answered as he dipped a rag in a bowl and rang it out, placing it on my forehead. Copper. I was salivating instantly.

“Eye black. Pain?” he continued with his broken Angelus as he pointed to his own eyes.

“No pain,” I tried out Imperian. We were taught it in the militia, but it was never a speciality of mine.

“Green past,” he continued pressing with the Angelus. He was referring to my eye colour.

“I am like this when hungry,” I explained as I shifted to sit against the headboard. I needed a better view of my surroundings. The blonde was watching warily from the doorframe to the bathroom.

“What eat?” Cortex asked.

“Speak Imperian, please,” I asked him as I quelled a raging headache. Lilac, petrol, and bread was overwhelming my senses.

“What do you eat? We do not have much here, but we can try to make you comfortable,” he responded graciously.

“Whatever you have is fine. I need…”I glanced to the door. The peephole cast a ring of light around the glass, as tempting as the glow at the end of a tunnel. The roar in the back of my head was making me nauseous. That flavour. I wanted it, and it was stripping my nerves raw.

“You broke your ribs. You shouldn’t move too much.” He saw my desire openly enough. I turned back to study the man trying to be so helpful. Straight hair hewed at the shoulder. A long rectangular face with high cheekbones. Brown eyes under brown brows. His skin was deeper than mine, leaning into an orange-yellow. A slight hook to the bridge of his nose and his other features told me his parentage had probably come from the Taraka or Najima ships.

“You will not want me here.” I moved to slip off the bed. He didn’t budge.

“We shall see to that,” the blonde hissed. He was younger than me by a few years at least. His accent said he was from Nympha.

“You know why I am here?” I asked Cortex.

“Angelus task force dropped you in here. You are an Ustor.” He shrugged.

“And you take in any stray?” I shifted as a pin of pain jabbed into my side. I tried to breathe through it, but every breath sent a pick through my chest. I held my breath and waited, studying cracked paint, until the muscle in my back relaxed.

“Not often. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Cortex shrugged. 

The woman in the chair shifted restlessly until she gave up on sleep. “Good morning,” she greeted pleasantly enough for resembling the walking dead. She pushed her mop of curly hair out of her eyes and regarded me with apathetic interest. She yawned and blinked until the fog cleared. Her appraisal sharpened as her eyebrow quarked. I held fast as she gave me a blatant once over.

“Good morning,” I replied back after a tense moment.

She nodded approvingly and rose. “You’ve got him, Cortex, Tempestatis? I need to get back.” She stretched and retrieved her keys from the table. She was leaving. That was a blessing. I could not stomach the idea of her seeing me do what my body was demanding I do.

“Sure thing, Maria Mater. We’ll figure out what to do with him. Probably have him lodge with Requies for a while longer yet. He seems pretty out of it.” Cortex waved as the woman opened the door to let in blinding light. My head threatened to split open. I was grateful when the door closed behind her.

“So, what is your Catalyst?” Tempestatis turned my attention back to the two men in the room.

“Not my Catalyst that should worry you.” I smiled, my fangs gleaming. Both of the men shift back with a choice curse.

The brunet regained his senses first, approaching me curiously. “What are you?” Cortex asked, openly studying my face.

“An Ustor,” I replied, though the smell of pine and copper was about to put me on cloud nine. Most Ustors had glands, random appendages, and anatomical anomalies that went with their fire. Mutants. Freaks. Often they were vestigial, pointless protrusions, but sometimes they were functional. 

One Ustor I had the bad fortune of running into was able to spit flammable acid up to ten feet due to a massive gland that developed under his thyroid. He had suffocated from the overgrowth when he had refused to expel the acid for fear of getting caught in the Purge. 

“The fangs?” Cortex pressed, reaching up to my face. Lord Hades, hot pine in summer. Childhood memories of my squadron going through simulations in camps out in the mountains of Angelus were not something I expected.

“My Repercussion.” I swallowed, a bitter flavour coating my mouth. Not good to scare the food.

“May I?” Cortex motioned to my mouth. I shifted, uncomfortable with the idea that someone would willingly want to see my Repercussion after the first warning.

“Cortex, that’s probably not a good idea,” Tempestatis warned. He was the wise one of the two, I determined. He was shorter than Cortex by a couple inches. His blonde hair and pale skin matched the Europa inheritance of the Nympha. If he had not been in Imperium, he could have competed as a marketing model back where he was originally from. Visually pleasing, the smell of petroleum and grease was a disconcerting deviation from his pressed exterior.

I opened my mouth a little wider, letting Cortex get a view of the malignancy. He touched the tip of one of my fangs, immediately drawing blood. Jackhammers tripped across my brain, and saliva swamped my mouth. That bitter taste came back in full force, leaving my tongue tingling. I swallowed back, fighting the onslaught as I found myself inexplicably drawn to the rise and fall of Cortex’s heartbeat in his throat.

“Your eyes. They’re more black, now,” Cortex informed me, pulling his finger back to suck that jewelled drop off his skin.

“They do that when I’m hungry,” I reiterated quietly. I kept my tone neutral, hoping to keep both men from panicking. I needed to eat. The rings throbbing in my eyes and the general gut-punch feeling that swamped my abdomen outside of my broken ribs told me such.

“Hungry?” The man glanced between Tempestatis and me. “You eat regular food?”

“When I haven’t activated my Catalyst.” I nodded.

“You fell in a burning heap from the causeway. You burned a few of the Angelus guards to cinders. Been out for a while, no wonder your Repercussion is hitting in full force,” Tempestatis fiddled with a small bundle of jute rope.

“Then I am hungry.” I shrugged.

“Your Catalyst gives you fangs and hunger as your Repercussion?” Cortex asked, still sucking on his finger. I couldn’t help but watch it greedily. I licked parched lips. “How much news do you get in here from the Purgatoriums?” I asked.

“Some, not often. More so recently than in the past now that we have someone who knows how to work the crystals,” Tempestatis explained as he sat down.

“Do you know of Lamia?” My voice was raspy and harsh, strained in need and self-loathing.

Cortex shrugged, shaking his head. Tempestatis thought for a second before finding the word eluding him. “Vampire?” he asked. I wrinkled my nose at the name.

“The hot-headed blood-drinking Ustor that ended the Hades Purge? Only in clips. My Angelus is not very good, as you’ve noticed.” Cortex smiled sheepishly.

“I am Vampire,” I levelled my gaze. I watched colour drop out of his cheeks at that comment. He swallowed, and I couldn’t help but watch his throat work. The rise and fall of skin over his pulse as it quickened. Adrenaline permeated pine and petrol.

“You are hungry,” Cortex reiterated quietly under his breath as he started to stitch facts together. Tempestatis backed up a step. Cortex moved closer. I watched him, wary.

“What are you doing?” I asked, though his smell was taking me to the edge. My stomach growled unceremoniously in the tiny room.

“How much do you need?” he asked, his voice soft like watercress.

“Cortex, no,” protested Tempestatis.

“You do not wish to offer me this,” I cautioned, gripping the blanket beneath me, using it to tether and restrain my desires. “Let me out of here, and I will find my fill elsewhere.”

“On some unsuspecting innocent?” He shook his head again. “I am here and now.” He pulled back his shaggy brown hair and wrapped it in an elastic band.

“Infernus, what are you doing, man?” Tempestatis snatched his hand.

“Helping.” Cortex jerked his hand free.

“He’s enthralling you,” Tempestatis hissed.

“Enthralling?” Cortex asked.

“It’s what Lamia do,” Tempestatis explained.

“This a Nympha legend of some kind?” Cortex asked, still lost on the significant danger I posed to his life.

“Nympha and Angelus. I guess you don’t have the same legends in Imperium.” Tempestatis shrugged, turning back to pin me with an angry glare, daring me to deny it.

“I cannot enthral. That is not part of my Repercussion,” I supplied as I shifted further up the headboard, away from the two. I couldn’t possibly. My memory of my captain was only a single flash and a single taste of saltpetre and calcium chloride. I had not actually eaten from another being willingly.

“How can you be so sure? You are only recently discovered, Vampire,” Tempestatis pressed.

“I would think I would sense it, and you’d be a lot more docile by now,” I snapped back, my words slurring against my teeth.

“If you don’t kill me, I will give you some of mine,” Cortex ignored our interchange.

“No,” Tempestatis bit.

“Get out if you’re going to be a pain in the ass, Tempest,” Cortex pointed to the door.

“Fine. Whatever. Get yourself murderlated. Watch. He’s some kind of serial killer. See if I care. I’m not cleaning up after you!” Tempestatis made for the door, slamming it behind him.

“You are amazingly okay with this?” I raised an eyebrow at Cortex.

“It’s a Repercussion. What’s there to cringe over? I mop floors when I burn. I make walls of flames, impenetrable by low calibre bullets.” He shrugged as if I wasn’t some monster.

“My fire explodes from me with such force that I have been compared to a nuclear bomb.” I bowed my head as I mumbled my curse.

“You weren’t doing that when you got dropped in,” Cortex pointed out.

“I think I have varying levels. I’ve heard that’s a thing for Ustors. Like you can do small and big things, and your Repercussion is related to the amount of energy used.” I looked up at him. He was starting to go fuzzy around the edges.

He nodded. “Not around many Ustors?” he asked.

“Too many.” My lips thinned. He twisted his head in question. I finger the numbers on my cheek. “I was on the military side of the Hades Purge after all. I killed more of your kind than I think was killed in the Pandemic.” I sealed my fate. This man would pull a knife, something and help end my shame.

“My kind. Your kind. You’re an Ustor like the rest of us.” Cortex smiled sadly. The setting sun outside the window left the room in chill shadows as it dipped behind the buildings. A shaft of fear drove through my core. “Do you know what triggered your bloom?” he pressed gently.

“Kid asked, not for himself, but for those clinging to him, not to kill them. I couldn’t. I couldn’t. Captain said shoot, and I just…I had seen too many. Too many kids. Too many moms. Too many innocent people. Too many dead. I couldn’t do it again. That wasn’t why I had been conscripted to the militia. My parents had bargained me to be used for protecting people, not murder. They all looked at us. Every one of them, with eyes shining, their souls burning. Something…something went wrong.” I flicked away from Cortex’s understanding stare.

“It’s like that with all of us. We reach a breaking point. Something snaps and suddenly.” He raised his arms to mime a ball of fire. I drew in a wobbly breath. He let me drift through my self-loathing for a quiet minute. 

“I am fourth generation Imperium. My parents both suffered from the Pandemic but lived. When I was born, I had a caul over my face. They thought I would die. Instead, I lived. As a babe learning to toddle, I first generated my wall when I fell near a table. It grew and developed. My parents explained to me that great big trees used to be a thing in the forests of the Exteriores Spatium. They would develop thick skins of bark to keep the inside safe from fire. I took on the name Detractisque Corticibus or Cortex for short for my protective walls,” he explained. He made it sound so simple, so benevolent. “Come. You need to eat,” he offered once more.

“I don’t know how,” I admitted.

“And yet they call you this blood drinker?” he laughed, curious.

“I’m ravenous, and my body is demanding but…I have one single image as a memory, not how I got there or how it ended. I don’t want to accidentally kill you,” I admitted.

Cortex’s face twisted into a frown as he thought. “All right,” he stood and went to the door. “Tempest. Get your butt in here. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“You’re joking! He doesn’t know how to solve his Repercussion, and he’s asking to drink your blood?” Tempestatis came back in.

“Sorry,” I snapped. “It’s not like this whole thing came with a manual. Oh look, see here, on page three, it tells me how to go and drink out of someone’s artery without making them bleed to death,” I grouched.

“Wow, fledgeling Vampire!” he replied sarcastically.

“I hate that name,” I whispered under my breath.

“Don’t want it for your alias?” Cortex asked.

“Alias?” I had not heard this.

“Like I go by Cortex, and he goes by Tempestatis. I have a given name. A birth name if you must. It’s something precious. We don’t share our given name with just anyone. Only those we trust closely. You will have an Alias here in Imperium,” he explained.

“Definitely not Vampire if I can help it.” The space behind my eyes was lobbing daggers into my brain. I rubbed at my temples to ease the pain.

“Why is the black of your eyes getting bigger? It’s really disconcerting,” Cortex asked.

“Got me?” I shrugged. The edges of the room were losing focus.

“Let’s keep him from your neck. Is that acceptable, Cortex?” Tempestatis let out a dissatisfied sigh. Cortex gave him a questioning glance as the man pulled out his length of rope from his back pocket. Cortex furrowed his brows. “What’s the rope for?”

“Tourniquet. Keep you from bleeding out, or turn the faucet off,” he explained as he twisted a loop around the lower part of Cortex’s bicep.

“Ohhh.” We both got the picture.

“Shall we?” Tempestatis motioned to Cortex’s wrist. Cortex lifted it for me and produced a small pocket knife.

“You sure about this?” I asked, but my head was already floating at the smell. Saliva pooled.

“Just do it,” Cortex braced. I took his hand and his arm gingerly. His skin was warm beneath my lips. If I had done this once before, I could do it again without a knife. I swallowed once, taking his smell deep into my lungs. Every nerve went on edge as I opened up and sliced into skin, muscle, artery. Ambrosia. Euphoria. My primal Ustor brain and stomach finally stopped screaming at me and the pressure in my orbitals lifted. Minutes passed before I heard beyond the sound of blood coursing past my ears. Instinctively I swiped my tongue across the punctures, stopping the flow of blood instantly.

“Better?” Cortex asked, his skin pale.

“You alive?” I returned, sated. He nodded. Tempestatis didn’t need to tourniquet. A simple reminder. A simple command to stop had been all that I needed to pull away.

“Looks like I get a nice coagulant for the fangs.” I tapped my teeth.

“That’s useful,” Tempestatis admitted. “I…” he stuttered, looking away from us for a second, trying to figure out what he wanted to say. His cheeks were burning red when he turned back. “I didn’t think you’d be that… gentle. For the rumours of Lamia…I was expecting a salivating monster. Blood on the walls and all that.”

“That’s probably because that was me when I first bloomed. I saw some of the pictures used in my court trial when they tossed me off the causeway,” I ducked.

“You have a paralysis or anaesthetic. I didn’t feel anything after maybe two seconds,” Cortex admitted as he checked his skin, already healed. He couldn’t find a discernable mark of my presence there.

“How far up does it go?” I asked, curious.

“Eh, maybe up to the elbow? It’s still kinda numb. I’d be floating in a weird way, I bet if you’d gone for my neck.” He poked at the skin on his arm until he found a spot he could feel.

I leaned back against the headboard and enjoyed the sensation of my headache slipping out of my brain. The men shifted around me as I eased my breathing, just relaxed. Tears slipped out of the corners of my eyes. I reached up, rubbing them in curious frustration. I blinked, looking up at the men watching me.

“You alright?” Tempestatis asked. He had sat back down in the chair Maria Mater had vacated.

“Yeah. I…I don’t….” I could not quite explain why I was suddenly crying. It was leaving me sniffly thought, which was embarrassing.

“Don’t know what to make of yourself, do you?” Cortex gave me a soft smile.

“I. No. I don’t know what to make of this. Raised in Angelus military. The propaganda we’re fed says you all don’t have feelings, are consumed by your fire. They’re wrong. I’m wrong.” I unfolded my clashing emotions.

“Have you thought about your Alias? We can’t just keep calling you ‘you’, you know?” Cortex smiled, diverting my attention. I regarded him for a moment, letting my brain click over names as I contemplated the man’s generosity. These were good people.

“I’ve got nothing. Dagger, Knife?” I suggested. It didn’t feel like a necessary thing to worry myself over.

“What about playing off that Lamia name?” Tempestatis asked. “Dagger and knife are so overused. We’ve had to start resorting to numbers with them.”

“Absolutely not. I hate that name,” I protested.

“Not Vampire per say, but something related to it?” he tried a different way.

“Oh…uh,” I paused, thinking. Dagger and Knife were still sounding pretty decent.

“Blood?”

“No.”

“Fang.”

“No again.”

“Bear.” Cortex offered

“Why even?”

“Giant ass bear of a man with black hair and bronze features, maybe Grizzly.”

“Let’s move away from bears.”

“Black?” Cortex offered. I raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re hair’s already black. Your eyes go black when you’re hungry?”

“Why are we fixated on my features?” Though this did get me thinking of my father.

“Black doesn’t seem like much.” Tempestatis sat forward to study me. What was this? Had I turned into their new puppy?

“That’s quite a blank expression if I’ve ever seen one. Wait! No, I’ve got it. Moon!” Tempestatis smiled.

“More like New Moon,” Cortex laughed.

“Nigrae Lunam,” I threw it all together. They both blinked before all three of us broke into a shared laugh. Mine fell short due to the busted ribs, but it felt good.

“Nigrae Lunam it is then. Nice to finally meet you,” Cortex took my hand in his, shaking it.

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The Warden’s Cabin: Ch 4

“You say there is a valley in Margot Peak fitting enough for a village?” Mayor Schultz sat forward with interest at his desk.

“Not one as large as yours, I must fear saying, but one that could hold at least two dozen handfuls of families if not maybe a little more if the land is divided up properly. Apples and pears grow in it without assistance, and there is a free-running spring that has cut into it and waters the pasture. Properly fenced, it could house cows, possibly sheep, if they are discouraged from climbing. If not, fair weather crops may do well. That will need to be an experiment for this year, though.” I folded my hands in my lap to put them somewhere else other than on the Mayor’s desk, where I had laid out a map of the game trail and valley.

“What of a house, Warden Wilkinson? How long do you foresee it taking you to build a Cabin and establish a claim to the valley?” Clive Severance, Mayor Schultz’s secretary and gopher, leaned forward in his own chair, a mirror of his boss.

“I will not need to waste my days building and sawing more than just a courtyard this year. Instead, I can focus on food and mapping the edges of the valley. I found a Grand Cabin, one from the before times that was built by a rich man. Solar panels on the roof caused a chirping in a ground-floor closet. My conclusion is that the photovoltaic cells, at least some, are still operable. I have yet to find a key, but it gives me hope that I might be able to run the well-house and have indoor plumbing soon. I need to discuss a set of picks with Terry.” I watched this news cross both the men’s faces. Astonishment, then admiration.

“Well done, well done, Warden Wilkinson! We knew you were the man for the job. Will you try for the fire tower, then, in this season?” Mr. Severance asked before Mayor Schultz could formulate a new question.

“In mapping out the valley, I hope to flag a couple of spots and test which will be accessible come next winter. It will do no one any good if I erect a fire tower that cannot be ascended in the dead of winter, and it needs to be within line of sight to the next tower so that the bonfire can be seen. There is plenty of rock to build it with, at least.” I was not looking forward to picking it all out, but such was my task, and with two years, rather than one to accomplish it in, the prospect had become more palatable.  Mr Severance nodded thoughtfully.

“Within short order, you have located us a new land to expect a village in, a Warden’s Cabin where people will be able to find you. Provided us a map. I must say, your cartography is beautifully done, by the way. I see no reason that we cannot send a wife and your livestock with you to help establish this place. Does it have a name yet?” Mayor Schultz held the map up to his failing eyes in an effort to locate some mark that would reveal a name.

“No, I’m afraid not yet. Not one that would be considered for official usage. I refer to it as Eden. One might come to me unless you have a suggestion, Mayor?” I waved off the map.

“Let us think on it. Something that will be obvious might arise in the coming seasons.” He nodded, thumb rubbing at a hairy mole on his chin. “Mr Severance?”

“Yes, Mayor?” The slim man stood, an obvious gesture that the conversation was over.

“Show Darius to the Husband’s Quarters and see about a meeting with Mrs Fairchild.”

“Yes, Mayor. Right away.” Mr Severance beckoned me out the door of the little office at the back of the town hall building.

I followed him through the streets, where one after another of the village people stopped to ask after my health and if I had found a place to establish a Warden’s Cabin. Congratulations were in order, and more than a handful of replies from the men of the town boiled down to a hope that I would choose their daughter to take back up the mountain with me.

Standing in front of The Husband’s Quarters, I came to grips with a realization of what was happening to me. Men of Cairn Valley looked forward to the day that they were recognized by the town and given the privilege of taking a wife. There were rumours of favouritism played by the Mayor as a way to reward or punish those in the community. 

In the few instances where I had gone down from the valley into the desert fields below to trade produce with the villages there, a similar social structure had greeted us. Men were who we talked to, men were who we traded with. Never an eyelash or ankle had we seen of another woman save for our own mothers and those blessed with sisters. For me, only child to a widower that I was, this was a new and utterly terrifying experience.

The immense compound of adobe and cedar towered over the south side of the square that served as the mercantile and hardware stores. At the opposing end sat a long low roof where men would spread out their wares in hopes of a trade with someone else in the village on the weekends. A bell swung gently in the breeze above the entrance to The Husband’s Quarters, and eyes behind the store glass of the mercantile watched Mr Severance and I ascend the three steps to the massive double doors.

My guide lifted the immense brass knocker on the right-hand door. The booming thud echoed in the square, and I feared farther from it, announcing my presence there to the whole of the town. At that moment, I wished for nothing more than to be comfortably alone in my nice big house at the end of my quiet Eden valley. Alone was how I had been ever since my father passed, and it was comfortable in the village. A difference between alone and lonely played in my head as I counted a series of light footsteps echoing through the doors. I could be alone in my cabin, or if I chose poorly, quite lonely in my cabin.

The door creaked open just as loudly as the knocker’s plea for entry. “Mr Severance?” A higher-pitched voice than I was used to caught me off guard. The woman, Mrs Fairchild I presumed, was greyed about the temples beneath a white hair scarf, looking to be of a similar age to the mayor’s secretary. Curved and plump, she wore a broadly sweeping mauve affair that I had heard once described as a dress. Maybe out of nerves or a level of self-preservation, I took a step back, nearly slipping off the tile.

“Mrs Fairchild, allow me the honour of introducing Darius Wilkinson, our new Warden of Margot Peak. He has come to build a family.” Mr Severance introduced me.

“I had read in Mayor Schultz’s letter that a new Warden had been elected. Did he find a suitable house for a wife?” The woman’s steel grey eyes ran from Mr. Severance’s face to mine where they scrupulously studied me, a frown working the corner of her thin lips.

“One of the Old One’s mansions, to be exact. Potential for indoor plumbing has been assured along with the possibility of solar electric.” Mr Severance beamed, a sales pitch voice thick with enticement.

The woman’s face melted into an amiable smile. “Do come in and let us have a cup of tea.”

Tea? I had never had tea before. It was something that women were taught to grow and a secret from men. I followed along, surprised at the coolness of the large interior and intrigued with the prospect of tasting this elusive drink for once.

“I must say, it has been quite some time since Mayor Schultz has sent anyone to us. We had wondered if something dreadful had befallen the village. In here.” Mrs Fairchild waved us into one of several rooms that faced into an extensive courtyard. Patched upholstered chairs and a mine cart converted into a table sat at the edge of sunlight.

Standing before one of the chairs, I waited on Mr Severance to decide on a seat. Protocol had completely evaporated from my mind, and all I could think was to mimic the man who had obviously been here at least once before me.

“Please sit down, Wardon Wilkinson. Do you have a preference?” Mrs Fairchild’s smile left my heart at ease in a strange way reminiscent of the warmth my father’s voice brought to me during blizzard laden nights when he would reassure me.

“Preferences?” I swallowed. Surely there was only one type of tea. Having never had it, I would assume wet was the option I wanted.

“Yes, blonde, brunette, redhead, have a height like you like?”

I furrowed my brows, trying to understand what a blonde tea was, trying just to imagine it. Maybe it was a golden colour, in a tall cup, perhaps?

“A wife, Warden Wilkinson. What is your preference in a wife?” Mr Severance translated for me.

“Oh! Oh. Um. I’ve well, I’ve never truly given it much thought. My father was a widower, so I have not had much exposure to – to – to-” I caught myself in a stutter, heat blossoming across my face.

Mrs Fairchild nodded, a sympathetic look creasing into the wrinkles along her jowls. “Very well then. I will put forth my best for a nice tea time chat.” She twitched the edge of her skirt and left.

I sank into a chair and turned to look silently at Mr Severance, begging him with my eyes to explain what was happening, though I already was forming some ideas.

“Are you excited? Most men coming looking for a wife are. You look worried?” Mr Severance leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow at me.

“This is all a little new to me, Mr Severance. I mean, farming is usual, exploring the mountains is usual, trading is usual. I can’t say that I have given much thought to a wife save for the few times it occurred to me after receiving my Warden collar.” I fingered the large gold and garnet pendant lying across my button-up shirt.

“Not to worry, Mr Wilkinson, a wife makes for a happy home. You’ll see. Surely you must have talked about it with other men your age?” He buffed his nails against the knee of his wool slacks.

“It did happen, but being motherless gave me no impression as to what a woman was, let alone how to treat one or talk to one,” I confided.

“Mrs Fairchild is responsible for the women of The Husband’s Quarters and does a masterful job in training them to be excellent companions. I wouldn’t worry about it.” He dug out a bit of dirt from beneath a fingernail.  “If you find one especially attached to another, you may just find yourself with more than one wife to keep you company in that cabin during winter.” His smile shifted butterflies into flight in my stomach, and a touch of nausea built up along with them.

“Mr Wilkinson?” An airy voice, soft and subtle at the doorframe, drew me from my conversation. Three young women stood next to Mrs Fairchild, each distinctly different and yet similar to one another. A tall one, a curvy one, and a lithe one all clothed in the same manner of white dress and white hair scarf, greeted me with serving trays of cookies, small sandwiches, and a squat, jade-coloured little pot reminiscent of a percolator.

“Isabella, Colette, and Fleur, Mr Wilkonson,” Mrs Fairchild introduced in order as the three women walked into the room and set their trays on the mine cart turned table. 

I stood, hoping that the little bit of reading I had done in my school days would serve me a bit of etiquette here. Placing a hand to my chest, I bowed carefully, “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

They twittered and cooed, a small flock of turtle doves who all curtsied, at least, I think that was what they did by flicking a hand at the edge of their long skirts and ducking down a touch to cause them to balloon up, making a crinkling sound. They settled in the seats across from me and poured an amber-shaded liquid into one of the small cups that matched the kettle.

“Tea, Mr Wilkinson?” The brunette offered me the cup, dainty fingers distracting my attention.

“Um, than-thank you, Miss Colette?” I wasn’t sure if she was Colette or one of the other women and hoped I had gotten it right.

Ruby lips pulled up in a cupid bow smile, and brown eyes dazzled, pulling me into her world of floral perfume and soft skin. “We heard from Mrs Fairchild that you are the new Warden?”

A topic I could grasp. I could run with this. “Yes, Mayor Schultz has me stationed on the eastern face of Margot Peak. I found a valley up there with a grand cabin from the Old Times with an apple orchard and pasture for cattle.” Their faces continued to beam, and they nodded as I spoke. The first one, slim of build, sat taller than the other two women. Her eyes, a hazel green, held a serious glint to them, one that promised a hard-working intelligence. Isabella. Her name was Isabella. I tried to drill this into my head while exchanging a set of soothing pleasantries and small talk with Colette, telling her of my findings in the valley. Fleur kept me supplied with a steady plate of sweet jam-filled cookies the likes of which I had never experienced. If nothing came of this, I would think my life complete with those confections. She sat lithe and petite, but her flashing blue eyes promised a willpower that could rival a pair of plow horses.

Nearing the end of our conversation, and with the afternoon sun shifting shadows across the parlour floor, Mrs Fairchild brought us back from our conversation about the valley to the more pressing one at hand. “Have you made a decision?”

“I-um-” I looked to the women for direction in this, and the three exchanged fretted glances. Fleur slipped her hand into Colette’s, and Isabella patted the middle one’s thigh in reassurance. “You all are friends, right? Not something I would break up if I could help it. I am also not so selfish as to insist on having any right to take all three of you into the wilds of Margot P-“

“You have every right, Warden Wilkinson.” Mr Severance interrupted.

“Sir?” I stalled at that pronouncement.

“You are aware that a Warden is responsible for the establishment of a new village, yes?” He continued.

“Build the cabin, build the watch tower, establish the land for the village?” I rattled off my three duties.

“Part of building the cabin is building the family. Establishing a dynasty, so to speak, Warden Wilkinson. As such, with a dynasty to create, you have privileges similar in scope as the Mayo,” he explained.

“Surely, you don’t mean?” I drifted.

“Quite so, Warden Wilkinson. You aren’t limited in your wives. It is an honour granted to those who would live lonely lives toiling to set up a new village for the people. If you want to take all three with you, that is not outside of the question.” Mr Severance’s voice was reassuring, but his words twisted in my stomach. I had no clue what to do with a woman, let alone three. No one had ever taken two minutes out of their day to explain that one. Honour? What honour? This meant I had three mouths to feed and look after if they came along. They didn’t know me. I didn’t know them. For all I knew, they’d spike my coffee and bury me beneath the apple tree when we got back to my cabin.

“We are friends, Warden Wilkinson. Truth be told,” Fleur spoke up, her voice sending feathers dancing across my skin and a tension in my spine I did not need to be aware of. “We have several friends, and when we marry, none of us sees each other again, and it gets, well, it gets awful lonely not hearing from them, and we sort of made a promise-“

“Hush, Fleur, Warden Wilkinson is an important man. He does not need to be weighed down with your troubles.” Mrs Fairchild admonished the woman, who shrank back in her chair.

“Mrs Fairchild, a moment, please. I did ask if they were friends. I have watched enough of my livestock turn morose when a companion has left the herd to know better than to step into something like this without being aware of the situation. Not to call you livestock, Miss Fleur.” I ducked an apology.

“None taken, Warden Wilkinson. I myself have a small flock of chickens, and one poor hen lost her friend just yesterday to a hawk. She has been rather droopy. As I would feel leaving my friends. Sir, yes, there are, in fact, a shall we say flock? of us, all within the same age, who group up together. We are family, sisters even if you may, and to know that we would be parted one day has devastated us for years.” Fleur pulled a handkerchief from within her sleeve and dabbed at damp eyes.

I pondered, waiting for her to regain her composure, at just how many women she was proposing I try to sustain on my little plot of land. “Pray tell, Miss Fleur, how many of you would not be parted from each other?”

She brightened, a smile replacing her pout. “Why, Mr Wilkinson! There’s Odette, Aurelia, Desiree, Giselle, Solene, Chloe, Noele, Sabina, and Thea would never forgive me if I forgot her.” Fleur carefully folded her handkerchief and replaced it from whence it came.

“Tell me if my math is incorrect, Miss Fluer, but if I am to assume all three of you are also in league with this group, that is a total of thirteen?” I swallowed.

“Why, yes, Sir!” Her smile was enough to pull the very air from my lungs.

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Polaris Skies: Ch 4

In the morning, the friends found themselves not in warm beds but in a freezing tent. Their body heat seeped out through the thin shell of second-hand polyester. Benj, first to wake, tiptoed out of the tent, letting in a draft.

Nat, comfortably warm between a dun-coloured wolf and a golden yellow wolf, indifferently watched Benj’s coal grey wolf leave. Hazy consciousness flitted at the edges of his sight. White paws. Monstrously huge, fluffy paws with sharp claws.

The wolf nuzzled in, tucking his front paws around his back legs. A massive tail flopped on his nose, warming up the frozen tip.

Hold up.

Nat sat up, gasping for air, clothes under him. “What the absolute fracking hell?”

Yeller’s golden wolf twisted, a half-opened eye regarding him dismissively.

“Sorry, sorry.” Nat pulled his pants out from under him to cover himself and shot out of the tent. He tripped on the tent zipper and found out the concrete was covered in an inch of snow and ice by way of his face hitting pavement. “Crap.” He tugged on his clothes and shook the snow from his hair. Bare feet shot pins and needles up his legs. Staring through the roofless building, he watched the clouds shift colours with the sunrise while he contemplated if he wanted his shoes badly enough to go back into a tent full of wolves.

The golden wolf emerged from the tent and dropped a pair of combat boots at Nat’s feet. It went back and fetched Yeller’s clothes. The man took over his physical body from the wolf and shifted into the emo Viking. His black and green hair dye had disappeared with the first transformation. Ash-blonde curls fell loosely about a pair of built shoulders. Nat cleared his throat and walked out of the concrete shelter to go look for kindling.

Benj joined up with Nat at the edge of the woods to strip dead trees of dry limbs. “You doing alright? Look like you saw a ghost.”

“Nope. I’m good. Just woke up as a wolf. Nothing weird about that.” Nat twisted a tree limb until it snapped off. Snow dumped on him from the disturbed evergreen.

“I have to wonder how long it’ll take to get used to that.” Benj kicked at the snow in search of any fallen branches.

“Anything you find under that is going to be too wet to light or rotten, then it’ll just smoke.” Nat broke apart his branch into smaller pieces.

“Oh. Really? It’s so much easier to find, though.” Benj followed Nat deeper into the forest.

“Great way to find edible lichens and dormant mushrooms.” A deeper voice greeted them.

“Maidin mhaith.” Nat pulled another limb from a dead tree, this time watching for the snow.

“Dia dhaoibh ar maidin. I piled up a batch outside the shelter last night. We won’t be here too long this morning, so come on back.” Yeller took the bundle of twigs and branches from Nat.

“Well, that’s helpful. Alright.” Benj headed back for the concrete building, Nat and Yeller close behind.

Deck had a fire smoking in the burn barrel by the time they escaped the snow and leaf litter.

“Glad you brought matches.” Yeller held his hands to the tiny ember.

“Meh, they were in there. Actually, now that I think of it, this isn’t even my coat. It’s your old one from high school, Yeller.” Deck held out his arms in the welding jacket. He was roughly six foot and burly like a bouncer, whereas Yeller, though taller by three inches, was leaner in the shoulder, but the coat still swamped the ex-footballer. Deck had always been into competitive sports. His varsity coat came to mind as one more thing that he had given up on in leaving Jenton. He snickered to himself. The Huskies, that was their mascot back at school.

“What are you laughing at?” Sun Hee pressed up next to him. He ran a hand along the fringe of her hair. A flush to her cheeks caught his attention, but he stored the thought in the back of his mind.

“I was laughing at the irony of our old team mascot.” His teeth gleamed. Sun Hee quirked an eyebrow and turned to her brother in confusion. A smile crossed her lips, and a giggle took hold. The thought dawned on the rest of the team. Nat snickered, and Yeller rolled with the idea. Zola looked at them, exasperated. Benj shrugged his shoulders; a broad flash of a toothy smile made her giggle too.

The fire burned weakly, barely strong enough to get the chill out of their hands and faces. The sticks smouldered rapidly, and soon the fire was a bunch of coals, and the group was on their way down the road.

Two days after they left the picnic stop, they passed into city lines. Their rations were almost gone, forcing them to skip out on meals.

The sign outside the city was warped and twisted with splits in the metal. Rust pitted the edges. The white lettering on the green background peeled away, leaving dark. The reflector buttons had cracked and fallen away. Portland.

The city looked nothing like it once did. The buildings were either burnt or decaying. It had been one of the early bombings, back at the beginning of the drought. Skyscrapers were falling in upon themselves. Some of the buildings were smouldering and belching smoke into the indifferent grey expanse. The sky behind the cityscape was ashen mottled flesh, and the sun setting in the distance shot blood through the clouds. The War had been to the city and left it to an open grave. It was a corpse, bleeding its heart out to the cold sun. A sacrifice among many.

Slowly, the group made their way beyond the mounds of rubble and into an operating section of town.

“How long have we walked?” Sun Hee asked as she rubbed her arms briskly, trying to bring circulation back into them. Her feet ached, and her legs were numb to the touch.

They hadn’t eaten much since they had left Jenton, and her stomach no longer rumbled; instead, it burned continuously in a plea to be filled. Snow had quenched it only for so long, but now a meal would be good. She patted at her pocket, the one over her heart where, in the inside pocket, she kept her small wallet that held the group’s entire cash hoard, $416.23. She looked at Benj and then at Deck and Yeller. Nat and Zola had dropped behind the group and were discussing what it had been like when the art museum that they had passed was open. Now the building was in complete ruins. Art had been ripped from the walls. What was worthwhile had been sold; everything else had been destroyed.

“How many miles, or how many days, Sun Hee?” Yeller defined sarcastically. He, too, was grouchy and in pain; he wanted to sit in a warm house with a fire and a tall cup of coffee. The calves of his pants were soaked through with the freeze, and he was thankful for his waterproof hiking boots. Clothes would become a necessity eventually, but for now, food.

Sun Hee glanced at him sharply, not in the mood for his quip. “How many miles,” Sun Hee retorted as she stopped and sat down on a rubble pile and emptied one of her boots of rocks and water. The wind bit into her heavy wool socks, and she quickly slid on her boot again. She wiped the mud from her hands onto her jeans, no longer caring that they were designer jeans that her mom had saved up for three months to buy for her. Her mom was gone; her dad was gone. She had cried her eyes out until she was empty and hollow inside. The only thing that took up that open space was the wolf now. The store where the jeans were bought had burned to cinders. The jeans were warm and kept under the onslaught of freezing sleet and snow. They were no longer fashionable, just functional.

“Maybe fifteen miles,” Benj estimated, helping his sister up after she got her boot back on.

“Is that all?” she muttered, her shoulders slumping. They wandered into Portland, wary of their step. Skeletal remains poked from under crushed metal and concrete. There hadn’t been enough people or enough sympathy to save and bury the damned and the dead. The buildings had been entirely stripped of paint and left in grey bent metal abstract sculptures. Shattered glass glittered in the streets. Windowpanes yawned wide with razor-sharp teeth.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Zola confided as she moved closer to her cousin. He wrapped one arm around her and pulled her under the warmth of his long welding coat. Nat closed rank on her other side, boxing her in to reassure her.

“Come on, we need to find somewhere to rest and dry out,” Benj encouraged. He shuffled down a side street, glancing at door frames and alleys he passed.

“Hey genius, all these places are going to be as cold as it is out here. Where do you think we should stop?” his sister barked sarcastically. Dark alleys raised her hackles. The city reeked of piss, mould, and gas. She lept away from a loud bang of a massive icicle falling from a building, hitting a metal dumpster. She was exhausted and done with the place.

Deck reached for her, pulling her under his arm as he put himself between her and the dumpster. “Sunny, play nice. We’re all in the same spot as you,” Deck bit out between chapped lips.

She recoiled and lowered her head to her brother. “Sorry.”

“We’re all tired; it’s okay.” Benj blew hot air into his gloves for the momentary heat while he eyed Deck’s manhandling of his little sister. She had calmed under the man’s touch.

Benj left off to his own with everyone else buddying up for warmth, flinched at a touch to his hand. Nat pulled him back to their group and moved Zola over to him. She chewed on her lip at the sudden change and tried to hide a smile when Benj wrapped his arm around her.

“Hey! My hand warmer!” Yeller protested the cold.

“I’m warm,” Nat offered.

Yeller side-eyed him. “I’m good.”

Building after building, they tried to find a deserted space out of the wind, but every turn they made, they found another group of people who told them to scram. Hours passed, and thunder boomed low in the sky above their heads. Icy wind howled through the streets, gnawing at the group. Sleet drizzled down the walls of the buildings, creating murky puddles on the roads. The pavement turned treacherous in the muck.

Yeller spotted an empty east-west alleyway close to seven in the evening. The burned-out buildings on either side of the scrawny throughway were tall enough to hide them from the wind. The group scuttled to a concreted alcove that had once been a backdoor. Nat sighed as he leaned against the wall. The group looked up in horror when he sloughed to the ground.

“Nat, Nat! Are you okay?” Deck skittered over to his best friend. Nat had gone ghostly white. All the blood had drained from his face to leave behind trails of green and blue. His lips had turned a light shade of purple.

Benj reached for his hand and pulled the scarf away from the cut. It was wet and crusting a honey puss. The bright red mangled skin around it was hot to the touch. His breathing was clipped and shallow. Yeller squatted down next to them and laid a hand on Nat’s forehead. Unfocused green eyes rolled under half lids. “I knew it,” Benj whispered to himself.

“This is bad,” Yeller confirmed what Benj was thinking.

“It’s gotten infected.” Benj prodded carefully. Nat recoiled, wincing in pain as he tried to take back possession of his hand. Benj kept hold of it, testing Nat’s waning strength. The waif gave up too quickly for his liking.

“Where can we find a doc?” Yeller asked as Deck helped him heft Nat onto his back. “You’re gonna have to hold on, Nat,” Yeller directed. Nat curled an arm around his shoulder in a feeble effort to do what he was told. He slumped lethargically. Deck kept his hand on his back to steady him from slipping off. “Damn it, not again.” Yeller pressed at his cheeks as tears threatened.

“And Sun Hee needs to be seen.” Benj caught her attention. She looked up at him apprehensively. “If we can find a doctor. You look like you caught something. Colds and flu were manageable before everything fell to pot. If you or Nat need, we’ll stop moving about and let you rest, ‘kay?” He offered his shoulder to the swaying form, and they moved on.

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Firefly Fish: Ch 8

Late into the night, or maybe early into the morning, I put away my guitar and set my mandolin back in its cradle. The winds continued to slam the boarding house, but I could not keep my eyes open any longer. My shoulders were feeling better, for one having been bit a few hours before by a merman. He had slowly drifted off after a time of me playing through a multitude of songs stored in my head. Not since we had moved to Grabble had I actually sung anything. Fiddled a bit with chords, but this was the first time I had really felt the weight of my heart. It had been interesting to watch his colours shift in response to the tunes. Some seemed to distress him; others turned him brilliant shades of crimson or sometimes thoroughly green.

    Jarl gave me a pair of spare blankets, and I made myself a bed near the fireplace. What was I to do in the morning? Would the ship be there? What about Captain? Stephan? Had he made it out of the mudslide? Questions busied themselves around my head as I tried to settle down. What about the merman? How would I get him back out of town without someone noticing? Could I convince him to play dead, make it look like I was just cleaning up the refuse left over from the storm?

What about my injury, now that I knew I was not quite human? I had to ensure I would be careful not to get myself cut on the boat now. It would do me no favour to have my crewmates decide to make me a source of profit in these difficult times. I had gotten myself down on the floor, one of the blankets rolled to make a passable pillow, when my brother tamped the lamplight. The room danced with a thousand blue lights.

    “What on the Lord’s green earth is that?” Jarl demanded, shooting upright in bed to study the high ceilings and the rest of the room before turning to me. “Devil’s talk. You’re glowing like a flock of fireflies!”

    I blinked, trying to bring the sparkles into focus. Pushing the blanket from me, my chest patterned in a myriad of tiny little glowing spots in circles and spirals. I swatted at them. No good. I was a dead man. The next sideshow freak. The next register in an asylum. They were in my skin. “Jarl?” I asked, my voice rising in terror.

    “You’ve never done that before. Not that I’ve ever been privy to.” He backed up in his bed.

    “I’ve never seen me do this either,” I returned the mutual panic and got up. Sliding to the caudal fin on the creature, I dove into the bathroom and grabbed him about the shoulders, shaking him awake. “What did you do to me?” I demanded.

    Massive orbs of black, the barest line of grey, stared back at me in fascination. The songs again. The melodies echoed in my head, swamping me, sinking me to my knees. Exhaustion I couldn’t fathom begged for me to sleep, but terror commanded my attention. The merman traced the patterns on my face and down my arms. His melody was soft, steady, a refrain like a lullaby. Slowly, slowly the glowing eased, but the spots continued flashing with every fear that speared me as I thought of what was wrong. I was not human. I was not this thing in the tub. I was nothing but adrift in a sea of questions and impossibilities.

    “Peace.”

    I looked up at the creature tracing lines along the flashing spots. It was no impression this time. I had heard it. No. That wasn’t it. He had not spoken as Jarl or Captain or mom would speak to me. The word was a swirl of colour and intent. The open sea on a calm morning. My stomach hurt at the suddenness.

    “What do I do? Make it stop. Please. Whatever you did to me, make it stop,” I begged. I would not last long with the life of someone always watched.

    More songs. More sensations. No resolutions. My brain tripped out, and I found myself slipping the edge of the tub to curl on the cold tile in the creature’s nest of a tail.

*******

    The silence was deafening. I pushed into cold scale and ceramic, trying to keep the back of my eyes from imploding. Fish. I couldn’t escape the smell, even in my sleep. The texture of fins under my hands. I had only been here for five months, and I was already dreading work.

A melody. “Hey, wake up.”

    I blinked, fighting the building nausea. Why was I surrounded by fish and my brother’s bathroom? I pushed myself up to survey the mess. Large grey eyes blinked down at me from over the tub edge. “Oh, holy mother!” I gasped, scooting back until I pushed up against the plasterboard.

    “I am no mother, but I do have a hole in my tail. If you’d be so kind as to remove your hand from it, that would feel a lot better.” The merman watched me, its colours shimmering. Last night’s adventures came back with all too much clarity.

    “Alright. Why do I understand you?” I asked.

    “Oh, you do talk? I thought you only said emotion words and used those human furnishings for communication.” The merman wasn’t opening its mouth, and my brain was fracturing at this thought.

    “Jarl, you aren’t goofing me are you?” I called to the next room. A grunt greeted me. The one that told me he was asleep and would not appreciate me waking him up.

    “Jarl? Is that the name of the human?” The voice was a mid-tenor with a lilting laugh in the back.

    “Yes. Wait. You’re in my head?” I demanded.

    “No. I speak normally; you’re just listening finally.” The merman shrugged.

    “You don’t speak normally at all. Your lips aren’t moving, shark bait.” I pointed out.

    “I am one of the Gweryn Llŷr, a Dynllyr to be exact, thank you, not leftovers for shark. What a horrid description to escape a Kraken child’s lips,” the creature hissed.

    “I hope you don’t expect me to try pronouncing that. Your name is what, Durshur?” I estimated, though that didn’t sound right at all.

    “No, no, my name is Taigre. I am, in human terms, a man of Llyr, god of the sea. We are a clan of those of the Antumnos. You have been separated from us for quite a long time, Kraken child, if you have forgotten us.” The merman flicked the edge of its tail in a similar manner to what I had seen of housecats when comfortably interested in something outside the window.

    “Taigre. That’s a bit easier. I don’t know anything of this Antumnos you’re talking about, and why are you calling me Kraken child? My name’s Marin Goranich. I’m from Vale up in the Rockies. There is no way I’m whatever you are,” I adamantly clarified.

    “You honour me with your name, Marin Goranich Kraken child.” He bowed a little for what he could in a bathtub.

    “Again with the Kraken child. That’s not my name.” I bristled.

    “It is a title of honour for those who are born to a Kraken parentage. You are a son of a sea king,” he defended his position.

    “My parents were from Austro-Hungary. They lived in the mountains when they got here. There is no way I am this Kraken thing.” I waved the notion away.

    “You speak our tongue. You taste like squid and bleed his colours. You luminesce at night and in distress. You are Kraken child. Specifically, his highness Púca Kraken. This would also explain why you are so small for a Kraken child -”

    “I did no such thing as luminesce until you bit me!” I interrupted, agitated at this one-sided information dump that made no sense to me.

    “I am sorry for biting you. I did not realize that you were trying to help me. I thought you were a human trying to torture me. Your servant seems to be of good use, though. I should thank you for having him see to my tail. If I could reach the spot, I could set a couple charms on it to make the pain stop. Would it be too much to ask?” The merman sloshed water in the tub as he pushed to raise himself from his slump.

    “Won’t that be bad for your breathing, your gills and all?” I asked, scuttling up to steady him, pulling him so he could rest more upright.

    “I can breathe air as much as I can breathe water. My lungs process in the same manner. This, however, is fresh water and hurts to breathe for too long. If you had put me back in the ocean, I could have returned home and had someone else mend my tail. Why did you bring me here?” Tiagre asked.

    “You were hurt. There was a big storm. And I didn’t exactly want you coming back up in the tide dead. My brother’s place seemed to be the safest place,” I explained.

    “Brother? Surely not. He is completely and wholly human,” The merman tried to flip his tail toward himself with irritating frustration. He grasped for it, but the length of his body after his trunk to the tip of his caudal fin had to be two-thirds the rest of his body length.

    “He said I came out of mom and have been around since then.” I shrugged. “Do you want help?” I offered after watching him reach for his fin a couple more times in futility.

    “If you would be so kind, Kraken child, that would be of some benefit in getting me healthy enough to return to my nest and announce that a sea king’s spawn has been located.”

    “I am not spawn,” I hissed at the word.

    “That is insulting to you?” he asked in surprise as I helped pull the brilliant greenish yellow-hued fin up carefully and worked the kink in the body so it would curl to the merman’s hands without causing more pain.

    “It is not said nicely. Usually associated with devils and demons. I am not demon,” I growled.

    “Oh, no, the Devil Kraken keeps close track of her own spawn. You do not possess the deep red colour or spines that would give that away -”

    “Back up there, merman. There’s a Satan in your Antumnos?” I rubbed at the throb at the base of my skull.

    “No, by all means, no. Devil Kraken is not Satan, not by man’s tradition. She is just bright red and has hooks. She took a liking to the description from your books and commandeered the title. I no longer remember what her original name was,” he mused. “As it is, what is this word you call me, merman?”

    “It’s what you are, just not a mermaid. Right? You’re male, yes?” I shifted, suddenly wondering if last night’s understandings were, in fact, misunderstandings.

    “As much as you are male, so am I.” He traced patterns around his tail, colours swirling across his body in mimic. “Why would you think me different?”

    “You don’t have breasts,” I whispered in hushed tones, my face going warm.

    “Breasts? Whatever would be the use in having the human addition to us? No. Definitely not. The amount of water drag alone. Not to mention the need to keep milk at a proper body temperature in water. Some of the clans are more like the sea lines, the ones that live more towards the ice caps. Within my clan, we have mammarian slits. Think whales.” He explained.

    “Whales? Whales drink with slits?” I tried to picture this and came up empty. I had always considered whales to be cows of the sea, and realizing that they did not have an udder by which to feed their calves when that time came made no rational sense in my head.

    “Of course. This is common information within the Antumnos. I do not possess such features, being male. Neither do you, by the look of your trunk. Not that females of the Kraken children possess such structures either, commonly. Your coverings protect you from sight, but I was able to determine you to be in possession of male genitalia. I may have assumed wrongly, though. Do you identify with being called male or something else? Not all who have particular genitalia identify as such, and I am sorry if I have misjudged. Some of those within the Antumnos Veil are capable of changing themselves completely if they determine the desire or need to do so.” He checked the bandaging of his tail, unwrapping it to inspect the hole. The wound looked ragged, but it refused to bleed, which was relieving to see.

    “Male. Definitely male. Has anyone ever told you that you are long-winded?” I asked.

    “Seran, my father’s right hand and my overseer, often tells me I do go on,” he freely admitted. “It is a common trait within the children of Llyr. In the old days, we were often compared to your humpback whales for the length of our songs. A beautiful comparison, if I must say so. As there are Kraken, Kraken children, and squid, as there are to Cirein-croin, Gweryn Llyr, and whales, dolphins and porpoise.”

    “You’re a whale?” I was fighting to process this information and make understandable connections.

    “I am not full-sized yet. Gweryn Llyr grow slowly. I have another one hundred and fifty years to reach my complete length.” He carefully eased his tail so it would not flop. I caught it and set it on the tile.

    “A hundred and fifty years? That’s all? How old are you now?”

    “Twenty-one.” He rolled his shoulders.

    “Huh. Not what I expected. I’m twenty-three.” I couldn’t take the cold floor anymore. I got up and carefully navigated around the tail. Nabbing the kitchen chair, I noted Jarl still peacefully trying to sound like the storm last night. I settled my seat in the bathroom and sat back down.

    “Twenty-three? That is quite old for a Kraken child. Often, they last only three or four years.” Tiagre brushed back his hair and plaited it out of the way.

    “You mean I’m going to die soon?” I swallowed.

    “You are half-human. I do not know? It would be something to ask the sea king.”

    “Are Kraken long-lived?” I was grasping at straws.

    “Ancient. They have lived longer than any of the Antumnos I am aware of. Your father must be a thousand if not more quite easily, though you would not know it by looking at him.” Tiagre drew in an exasperated breath.

    “Are Kraken children often half-human? Are you half-human?” I asked.

    “Half-human is uncommon for Kraken children. Often, they are what human’s call sea-monsters. The offspring of a match between another creature of the ocean. Kraken spread their seed far and wide every few hundred years. It is in the same manner as most octopus and squid do. Quite different from Cirein-croin, though none have fathered young since the Gweryn Llyr were established millenia ago. It is said with the end of the ice-age, that there was no longer reason to continue creating more offspring of their own and would leave it to their children to continue the legends. I have never met any of my great ancestors. You, on the other hand, can meet your father, who is one of the great sea kings. I must say I am rather jealous of that birthright.”

    “You do not know your father?” I asked carefully.

    “Oh, I know my father, all right. He is not a Cirein-croin. He’s like any other child of Llyr. He’s just obsessed with all things human world, which is not benefitting our region or our nesting grounds.” Tiagre flicked his small black nails in the water in agitation.

    “Summarise for me. You aren’t a whale. You are half-human, though, right?”

    “I am dynllyr , a male of the children of Llyr, who descended from the Cirein-croin, what could best be thought of as the great monster whales of prehistory. You are a Kraken child, a direct descendent of a Kraken. I am not half human. I was born to my mother, as were my other siblings.

“She has left my father to his devices and taken up residence within another territory. I do not blame her for that decision, though it must have been difficult. Often Gweryn Llyr mate for life and she had been with my father for three hundred years before leaving three-four years ago now has it been? He hoards human trinkets, and it has taken over the cave. Trifles and knickknacks would not be so bad, but one does not require fourteen tin bathing troughs as a dynllyr. We live in water!” Taigre’s colours were turning an agitated swirl of yellows and oranges.

    “If you are part whale, why do you go all colour spotted?” Sounded like his father was having a mental breakdown.

    Taigre sighed.

I was being a little slow, I know, but the throbbing in the back of my skull was fracturing his information, and he tended to get distracted off of short answers.

“Not whale. Descendent of an ancient line that can be thought of as whale. We have spots because we have spots. It’s part of how we communicate.”

    “Yeah, I got the communicate part. You turn all sorts of colours, though you turn a kind of pallid grey when you pass out or are asleep,” I pointed out.

    “Camouflage. We live in and around rocks and great crevices that are a dark grey. It helps us hide if larger things come out to try and eat us.” 

    “Larger things? Like what larger things?”

    “Like Kraken, Leviathan, Charybdis, and Jormungandr .”

    “Kraken eat you people?” My voice cracked.

    “It is not uncommon. The Great Kraken and her children along with Bigfin are some that have decimated parts of our nesting grounds.”

    “And the Púca Kraken?” My hands prickled.

    “You’ve turned spotty again, Kraken child. I did not mean for this to alarm you,” Tiagre apologized.

    “How am I sitting here not alarming you if Kraken eat your people?” I squeaked. My brother rolled in his bed, the springs squealing a protest.

    “The Púca Kraken is the smallest Kraken, not much larger than my father. His offspring are known as death bringers. I am, quite honestly, screaming on the inside. You are more terrifying by your lineage than anyone I know in the entire sea. Púca Kraken children are rare. They tend to pack hunt and eat other Kraken children more often than not, thankfully. Do you care for the taste of squid?” Tiagre asked.

    “I’ve only had it once since coming to the seaside. It’s better than fish?” I shrugged.

    “Have you had whale or dolphin?” He continued.

    “No? Not that I’m aware of. Usually, the catch coming in on Captain’s boat was red snapper. Sometimes we’d get swordfish.” I shook my head.

    “You are a sea hunter?” Taigre hissed at the announcement, his colours sparking. The bathroom glowed in response as all of my spots flashed at the predatory sound.

    “It was a job that paid and fed me. Mom and dad kinda abandoned Jarl and me here and pretty much said good luck and left. What was I supposed to do, starve?” My teeth clicked in reply.

    “The boats and nets have killed many of those in the Antumnos and have taken away many of our hunting grounds. They are destroying us!” Taigre pushed at the tub.

    “Don’t break the tub! I don’t have enough money to replace the thing. What do you want from me, an apology? I’ve been here for five months. I’ve barely learned more than how to keep myself from getting tangled in the dang nets when they get pulled in. I don’t even pack fish yet! I didn’t even know y’all existed before I met you.” I rose, towering over the dynllyr. He swallowed, sinking back at the reprimand. He dropped his gaze, stilling until he had reached a smooth shade of grey almost to the tip of his tail. 

“You do realize I can still see you, right?” I snipped.

    “Yeah. It’s just…it’s a reflex. Can’t help it.” He crossed his arms.

    “Not like much will be left of the harbour after that storm last night. You shouldn’t have to worry about trollers for a few weeks. I should get myself down to the docks and see if Captain’s ship made it. You’re tail good enough for me to dump you back in the water, or are you going to need a few days in here?” My voice had gone flat and cold.

    “I’ve set charms. I can get home, probably. They won’t heal it, but they’ll numb the pain for a while,” he answered quietly.

    “Sun’s just about out. Let’s get you out of here then before someone sees us.” I grabbed down my rain slicker from a hook on the wall.

    “That would probably be for the best.” Taigre let me heft his weight onto my back after I had wrapped the slicker around him.

    “My employer might be contributing to your hunting grounds; doesn’t mean I don’t sympathise with your problems.” I muttered at him as I gingerly wormed my way around the length of his tail and got most of it precariously balanced between his arms and mine. The caudal fin, though was ridiculous in its proportions.

    “Getting the creature down to the beach, cud cutter?” Jarl rubbed at his eyes and yawned.

    “Good a time as any.” I nodded, my chest compressing under Taigre’s weight.

    “I don’t know what the deal is with you and him, but I think… Yeah. I think mom brought you here for a reason, and I think they’re it. That boat was never good for you, but the water always has been.” My brother rose and walked over to open the door.

    I thought quietly for a moment at that. “My key’s in the right coat pocket. Grab it for me, would you?” I asked him.

    He raised an eyebrow at Taigre and reached for my jacket pocket warily.

    “What is he doing? Why is he getting close? What did you tell him?” Taigre whispered in my ear, clutching closer to me until I swore I wouldn’t breathe again.

    Jarl pulled the small silver key out of the rain slicker pocket and held it out for me. “It’s yours. Take whatever’s left of my earnings and fix the damages. Send mom a note saying I found an adventure. Thanks. Thanks for everything, Jarl.”

    “You’re leaving?” He asked, dropping the key on the floor.

    “I can’t very well stay here and become a sideshow freak.”

    “I mean, you could. Probably make good money doing it too.”

    “It’s not me, and you know it. I don’t have the stomach for people staring.”

    “Be safe, kid. I’ll keep your mandolin and guitar for you. I promise I won’t sell them off. So, if and when you do come back, you’ll have that much.”

    “I’ll still have you. Distance might be had, but you’ve always been a good brother. So, a brother you always will be.”

    “Don’t drown.” He opened the door.

 [1]Cirein-croin

 [2]Dynllyr (man of llyr)

 [3]Gweryn Llyr (people of llyr)

 [4]Kraken, Leviathan, Charybdis, Jormungandr sea monsters

Chapel Orahamm (C) 2022-2023. All Rights Reserved.

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Subject 15: Ch 7

Fane sat in a darkened, freezing corridor at the end of the armoury. The metal bench designated the waiting area for the testing room. The heavy door was the only separation between him and heaven. On the other side lay his set-up, his paradise. It was the one place that he truly felt like the world didn’t matter.

He dressed out in black. As usual with this test, he had been given the option to pack whatever he could carry. His goal: to hit as many targets as he possibly could as accurately as possible in the half-hour block of time he’d have to get through the village simulation. A pair of Glocks sat at his back. A rifle hugged his shoulder. His pockets hid a myriad of ammo. Braces on his arms held darts. At his shoulders, under the rifle, a set of long throwing knives. In his boots were small knives. Lastly and first to go, he held a burner Glock that he’d drop after he blazed through its cartridge.

The cold plastic was a welcome relief under the hot sweat of his palms. He loved it. His heart craved this dark minute. Electricity snapped under his skin. Tightness wrapped around his spine and inched into his clavicles. His heart jumped as a horse grabs its bit to run. A sadistic smile crawled across his face. This was going to be fun.

He didn’t fault Zephyr for bringing him in for the shot test. After all, he had covered for him with the General at the party. It was better for everyone if he kept his commanding officer looking good.

It was Orlov that he was pissed off at. The presumptive bastard could rot for all he cared. So what if he didn’t look like some kind of superhero or a woman, apparently? He didn’t know what the hell was up with the ‘split-shot’ name. He wanted to spit but thought better of it. The pain in his side had all but disappeared. With any luck, he’d be able to go take his physical next week. He sure as hell wasn’t going to revisit a red room.

He shook his head. It wouldn’t do him any good to focus on such things right now. He breathed out, trying to clear his head. He counted to twenty slowly, trying to drain his feelings down his spine and into his seat. He concentrated on the flow of air through his lungs. The expansion, the contraction. The subtle movements within him. Tension eased out of his skin.

In a separate room overlooking the village simulation, Orlov, the General, Zephyr, and a board of scientists and personnel congregated around a series of terminals and the massive window. One of the screens showed a green and black night-cam image of Fane sitting in the tiny black box of an extension to the armoury.

Orlov, sipping at a tepid cup of burnt coffee, observed Fane’s every mannerism. A chill ran down his spine when the soldier smiled. The redhead looked like a malicious dog. He was dangerous. Was this the man he hoped to have train his men?

By the time the Prince forced himself to down the slog claiming to be a caffeinated beverage, the redhead came off of his nervous energy high. A strange poise took over the soldier’s body. Orlov’s skin crawled. Fane looked up, dead centre to the camera; though everyone knew the CCTV was small enough, no one would have found it easily with the lights off in that blacked-out hall. Orlov watched the man mouth the word ‘bang’, and not more than a split second later, the buzzer rang. The door opened, and Fane slipped out.

Zephyr joined Orlov at the window as they tried to watch Fane’s progression through the village simulation. As soon as he slipped the threshold, they found themselves in a spine-chilling situation. They could not find him. The cameras weren’t keeping up with him. An alarm on a board on the wall pinged. A shot had been fired. Perfect hit. It showed it was supposed to have come from an area farther to the back of the massive complex. How had he covered that distance? Everyone started looking for a sniper vantage.

A pair of targets pinged. Dead centre. Again, they looked, but the man had disappeared. This back and forth of search and tease continued for about ten minutes before a louder buzzer announced Fane had beaten the primary targets. Propane tanks and special effects explosives erupted in the space. Smoke billowed up, blocking off cameras right and left. Sprinklers activated as alarms blared. A cacophony of noises went up throughout the village. Again, the targets rang out in order through the din.

“Where is he?” Orlov demanded, lost on where to look in the chaos on the screens.

“For all we know, he could be in this room, and we wouldn’t know it,” Zephyr whispered. Orlov shot him a glare before surreptitiously glancing around the room.

“You’re joking,” Orlov breathed a sigh.

“Actually, no. Usually, with these shot tests, when he’s found all the targets, he rigs his guns to take out the last set of targets while he somehow manages to break in here. We find him scarfing doughnuts when the bell rings, announcing the test is finished. Scares the hell out of all of us.” Zephyr smiled amicably.

A pit dropped in Orlov’s gut. “Isn’t that dangerous?” 

“We’re hoping to have made it more of a challenge for him this time around,” Zephyr continued talking over Orlov’s protest.

“How?” Orlov went back to the monitor images to piece together the direction Fane was taking through the simulation.

“We got sneaky with some of our targets.” Zephyr pointed to a set of shadowed targets on a monitor. A series of pops went off close to the wall of the viewing room. The monitor refreshed. Knives, buried to the hilt, splintered the centre of the targets. Pings from the alarm board echoed in the room. Zephyr’s smile dissolved in a look of amused disappointment. “Well, I thought we were being sneaky. We even got a more complex code pad installed.”

“Sneaky about what?” A timid voice asked from beside Zephyr. Orlov jumped away from the agent and turned. A man in a black compression top, black flak vest, black cargoes and beanie stood next to Zephyr.

“About those stupid targets you annihilated, you batshit crazy black hole! How the hell did you get in here this time, you damn weasel?” Zephyr demanded, exasperated.

Fane had a powdered cake doughnut shoved in his mouth already. He swallowed, almost choking. “You guys forgot to reset the password from last time, even with the new pad.” He shrugged. Running the back of his hand across his mouth, he left sugar dust on his glove. He glared at it, swatting the powder out.

“So, what was his time?” Orlov asked, looking around for the scorekeeper.

“Twelve minutes, twenty-seven seconds for a thirty-minute run. Score of 590 out of 600 on accuracy, with each target worth a total of 10 points. Markdown of 8 points per each target not hit dead centre,” an individual in military uniform at a terminal supplied Orlov.

“You’re joking!” Orlov exclaimed, leaning over the soldier to look at the screen. A rectangular graph of data points ran under a series of images of destroyed targets. The voracity sent a shiver down Orlov’s spine.

“We did say he was our best.” Zephyr smiled before turning back to his charge. “Your favourite from that uppity little rabbit food place you’re always talking about. You better thank me for that run.” Zephyr wagged his finger at Fane.

“I like to think large rhino food.” Fane shovelled another doughnut into his mouth.

“He only missed one target out of sixty?” Orlov searched the terminals for the one target not destroyed.

The soldier in front of the screens pointed to a line of images. A series of targets had knives buried in them. “Nope, he hit all sixty clean; the boards don’t register knives as legit ammo. They marked him down automatically.” One of the other staff shot a disdainful glance at the man in black.

“You guys said I can pack out what I want.” Fane shrugged. He was more relaxed than he had been at the party. Orlov studied the lithe man in black. Easy confidence slid off his shoulders and dripped from his fingertips. No, Orlov checked himself. Fane wasn’t confident. This was something he could do blindfolded. Proficient would be an understatement. This was his speciality. He needed no faith in himself, blind luck, good luck, or a higher power. This was unquestionable second nature.

Orlov took a step toward the redhead. The man’s piercing ice-blue eyes checked him in place. Malicious dog was an inaccurate description. Viper. Assassin. Orlov swallowed. He extended a hand. “Fane Anson, would you be willing to discuss working with New Punjab in training our men?”

Fane looked at the hand, hunching into himself. His adrenaline high never lasted long enough. His bravado dissolved. The chill in the room evaporated. “I’m not really…I’ve never been field-tested, Mr Orlov.” He tried to back away from the invitation.

“Well, he technically still has the week off. Anson, go get changed. We don’t mind you having the privilege of talking with Prince Orlov about working in a partnership,” the General supplied.

Fane came to full attention, saluting the man. “Yes, sir!” He dashed to the locker room in the building. The door closed behind him with a deafening click.

Zephyr cleared his throat, disturbing the eerie silence Fane left in his wake. “Prince Orlov, as we stated earlier in our deal, we’d be more than happy to extend our trust to you. If you would like to use Fane Anson to train your men, as the commander of this unit, I will not deter you. It looks like he may require some convincing to be stationed. He has one last medical test in two days before we can release him to your care. If you would like to discuss or reassure him of anything, that should be sufficient time.” Zephyr directed the Prince out of the room.

“Get his papers ready,” the General said over his shoulder as he noted images of the targets to the soldier at the terminal.

Zephyr turned to the General. “What about…?” Zephyr subtly nodded at the many of the soldiers in the room did not have clearance for this conversation.

“It’ll work over long distances. We’ll have someone on the ground as backup in case we have to have an emergency pick up,” the General reassured.

“Yes, sir.” Zephyr saluted. He left the room and headed for his office. Who the hell was the General thinking of sending with Fane to keep his condition in check? The General would be wise enough to send him. As it stood, the fact that they were sending Fane out to New Punjab, away from the facility, was out of the plan already. The General must be desperate, Zephyr mused. The motive was to find something that would trigger the response, and maybe exiting this dank town would help get him over the edge.

Fane stood in the changing room, facing his closed locker. Having dumped his weapons at the armoury closet on the way in, he rolled his shoulders, relieved of the thirty pounds of gear he had been carrying.

The expression of startled awe on Orlov’s face had helped ease some of Fane’s tension. The fact that he could elicit some form of respect from the man was reassuring. Fane might not be cultured and refined. He might not have excellent table manners or etiquette befitting royalty. At least he had stealth and fortitude to make it through a simulated disaster zone.

What the hell are they thinking? How am I supposed to teach a bunch of people how to defend royalty? He rubbed the palm of his right hand with his thumb, massaging the pressure points. He wanted to feel like an average person. What’s the deal with this Prince?

The hair on the back of his neck rose, and a chill ran down his spine. Someone was in the room with him. He crawled his hand toward a pocket on his thigh. Inside, he had stashed a set of his personal throwing knives. The other knives he had packed out earlier for the test were property of the armoury, and he had to give them back at the end of testing, but these were his own. Small, precise, they varied in size, the largest barely two inches longer than his palm when closed around the shaft. The short ones fit between his fingers, an easy replacement for a pair of brass knuckles -, though it was an excellent way to completely ruin his tendons.

His heart raced, and the tension he loved coiled itself around his lungs as the temperature in the locker room plummeted. A sadistic smile touched his lips. His hearing sharpened. He readied himself. The other person hadn’t identified their presence. He practically shook with excitement. He waited. Then he saw what he was looking for. A flash of silver crossed his vision. A knife. An arm pressed against the back of his shoulder, a death grip bruising his traps.

He brought his hand up to the knife hand and pulled down firmly, rotating it smoothly, rolling his back into his attacker’s chest. He rolled under the arm, extracting himself from the lock. It took an override of his training to check himself from slamming the blade between the assailant’s ribs when a shock of platinum hair pooled across his vision. He pulled the forearm, plucking the knife out of the hand as he did so, up behind Orlov’s back, slamming him into the row of lockers with a clatter. He pushed his body up against the Prince, the knife now at the man’s throat.

“Wanna tell me why ye’re tryin’na kill me t’is early in t’e mornin’?” Fane’s eyes flashed.

“Wanted to see what you could do with a real person.” Orlov trembled against his chest, fingers flexing for release.

A tinge of cold anger ran across Fane’s subconscious. The clock in the locker room ticked twice. He allowed the chill to seep out of him, aware that those kinds of emotions would blind him to reality. “You know something, Prince? You have a terrible concept of testing me.”

“Was I supposed to believe some tiny ass recruit is the split-shot rumoured to be tucked away in this hell-hole of a broke-back military complex?” Orlov retaliated.

Fane bristled under the deluge of insults. “Ye look down on me ‘n me team from yer ivory tower, ye entitled bastard. Ye don’t even try to get to know who the feck I am.” Fane lifted the Prince’s arm up farther until the man sucked in his breath in pain.

“Why should I?” bit back Orlov, half his words swallowed.

“’Cause, it’d save ye from bein’ put in this kinda position, Yer Highness.” Fane allowed the sharp little knife in his hand to ever so gently caress the skin on the Prince’s neck, not enough to draw blood, but a slight pucker of skin raised in response. “Dermatographic urticaria. Well, if I was a horribly sadistic bastard….” Fane trailed off.

The Prince stiffened, his skin prickling in response to that threat. “What are you going to do to me?” A tinge of terror laced his posh accent. His possessive amber eyes had melted into a washed-out yellow, colour draining from his face.

Fane involuntarily quirked an eyebrow as a thought raced across his mind so fast it caught his breath. Pain shot down his left side in a white-hot flash. He released the man, pushing him into the lockers as he lept over the bench to the row of lockers at his back. Retaining possession of the knife, he palmed it, finding its balance.

“I should be asking you the same.” Fane kept his eyes focused on the Prince.

Orlov slowly turned around, keeping his hands up where Fane could see them. When Fane made no move toward him, he straightened his jacket and brushed back his hair.

“You haven’t had a lot of self-defence training, have you?” Fane tilted his head in observation. He had noted the tense muscles of the man, pressed against him as he was, but there had been no muscle memory for being put in a dangerous situation.

“Fourteen years of tennis and polo are not going to count,” grumbled the Prince, unable to meet Fane’s slashing eyes. He hoped the comment would break the tension, but the man’s expression remained stolid. Fane was different when he had a weapon in his hand. A freezing aura of absolute death hung over the man like an icy shroud.

“My command wants me to come with you. I cannot easily turn it down. You might not realise this, but those types of ‘privileges’ are orders, not offers. I’ve already been written off to follow you,” Fane grimaced.

“You’re joking. Everyone can say no. You might be discharged for it, but you can always say no.” Orlov eased back against the locker.

“Bro. I’d like to be able to land a job at more than minimum wage if I ever left the military. If I didn’t care about job prospects, sure, I could say that I’d take being discharged all I want. It doesn’t matter. If I willingly went the route of discharge on my own, I’d end up in a detention centre for quite literally the rest of my life.” Fane spun the knife nervously about his fingers.

“What do you mean by that? That’s holding a person against their will.” Orlov came off the locker.

“You don’t know anything about me, do you? They didn’t give you my file when you got it in your head you needed the Crazy Split Shot of the North? I was some hood rat they found on the streets; dead man walking. I had so many infections and broken bones and amnesia when they found me; the medical care they put into me, in this day and age, is enough to put me in debt to them for the rest of my life.” Fane stilled the spinning blade momentarily.

“You are not a slave, Anson. Even indentured servitude is illegal.” Orlov crossed his arms over his chest.

“You really don’t know how things work here, do you?” Fane sneered.

“You could get an attorney? The military couldn’t hold you against your will.” Orlov waved a dismissive hand.

“Do you understand what solitary confinement is? Do you know how they can make people disappear? How do you call an attorney when you’re stuck in some windowless nine by nine at the bottom of a massive complex no one has heard of?” Fane fought to still the tremble running up his legs.

“So, you’ll follow me, even though I tried to kill you, so you don’t end up in a cell to rot?” Orlov summed up.

“At least, as long as I’m not in that cell, I can protect my own life, even if that means sleeping with one eye open for the rest of my life.” Fane leaned against the locker.

“You think they’re selling your contract to me,” Orlov’s eyes went wide.

A creak at the door alerted Fane. The knife in his hand went flying, landing with a thunk in the door jam. Zephyr’s eyes rolled to look at the instrument at eye level buried halfway up its length. Blood drained out of his face. Fane and Orlov stood in the locker room. He knew Fane had been the one to throw the knife. He also knew Fane had missed on purpose.

“I’ll do what I’m commanded to do within reason,” Fane eased up on the other side of the bench between himself and Orlov. The Prince shrank away, his back against the locker. Fane raised himself onto the bench and leaned over, placing a hand on one of the lockers behind Orlov, boxing him in. He whispered in Orlov’s ear, low enough for Zephyr to not hear him, “but if you ever dare pull a knife on me again, I’ll show you what this broke-back recruit will do to you, Prince.”

Orlov’s amber eyes sought out Fane’s icy blue ones. The soldier watched the colour shallow out of Orlov’s cheeks with cold indifference. Fane turned away from the man, stepped off the bench and walked over to Zephyr, plucking the knife out of the door jam. He pressed it into Zephyr’s hand and leaned in to whisper to his commander in passing, “I’m continuing with my day off. Don’t look for me. The next person who I talk to had better be on death row.”

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Firefly Fish: Ch 7

Saeesar was going to be pissed. That’s if Taigre ever saw him again. Or his father. Or the nesting ground. Mostly though, he was concerned with the part that his father’s top gladiator was going to be pissed.

    The young dynllyr came to screaming. The sky was too close, and the sand beneath him stung. The pressure of the land and air was wrong. Blinking against the rain, he thrashed in an effort to escape the beach back to the ocean. He couldn’t remember how he had ended up stranded. He had thought to check the rollers, the big waves getting stirred up by the raging storm above. It had been an easy excuse to escape the nesting grounds and Saeesar’s concern. Often the disturbance would send down creatures of both sides of the Antumnos who would need help getting out of the storm. That’s what he had been told.

    His tail burned with spikes and numb patches. He had no control over it, and twisting to free himself of the mud only made it worse. A garbled yelp pulled the dynllyr from his terror. A large upright creature, a human stood over him. A roar behind it sent shards of clear terror through the child of Llyr’s heart. The human dashed for the mercreature as the land behind it crumbled, threatening to bury them both.

    The creature drifted between the waking and the darkness. Taigre tensed nervously. The human had picked him up. Rescued one of the Gweryn Llŷr. It had been too many years since Taigre had heard word from the older dynion of a human caring for one of Antumnos, or even seeing them. Some of the menywod would mention being seen once in a while, but Taigre thought it wishful thinking.

    The human dragged the creature out of the mud pit and through the beach. Up into the town and deep into tall buildings they went, battered by the wind and the rain. Why did it not put him back in the water, the creature wondered. The human had wrapped him in one of its coverings. The slick material kept the rain off of Taigre, giving him a space to draw in hasty breaths as the wind fought to dash the air away.

    It banged on a massive plank of wood, and another human greeted his captor. Into a cavernous space, what looked like the shaped caves in the human ships, his captor dragged Taigre. The two humans exchanged words. He found himself deposited into a massive white trough. His captor pulled another of its cloth coverings off and had the new human tackle Taigre’s tail where shooting pain was radiating.

    The dynllyr swim in water. He bemoaned his physical inability to support himself on dry land. He couldn’t see what they were doing, but it made the spiking hot pain in Taigre’s tail worse. The trough the human had tossed him in made a sharp sound when he grabbed onto it to try and see what was going on and make them stop. This startled the humans.

He tried to signal to them with his colours that what they were doing hurt, but they did not return any comprehensive signal that they understood. Greeting them in the ancient way yielded no results either. Had they quit being able to hear the call? Was this why humans no longer sought out the children of the Antumnos?

The human who had brought the dynllyr left the small cave for the larger cave before returning to shove a piece of wood into his hand. Taigre didn’t need a piece of wood. He needed them to quit making his tail hurt. If he could get back to the nesting ground, he could have Saeesar heal him. Taigre hissed at the pain. The other human was tugging at something in his tail, and he cried out at the foul treatment, throwing the stick. His captor shoved a different stick in the dynllyr’s mouth and set another stick in his hand. They were torturing him! Taigre thrashed, trying to get a hold of the human assaulting him.

The human fell back to holding down his tail before scurrying out of the room and bringing back a small box and a fire glass to the other human. To add insult to injury, the second human pushed Taigre’s captor into the trough with him.

“No, stop!” Taigre yelled, pushing at the human crowding him. It was a yellowish pink shade now that it occupied all of the dynllyr’s visual space. Large algae-coloured eyes stared back at him, concern and fear tangible in them. Short-haired, the colour was similar to that of sunsets. That was the momentary impression Taigre had while it fought to pin his hands to his chest. The other human was messing with his tail, and it was sending shell shards through his backbone and behind his eyes. Taigre got free of his captor for a moment before it returned with more ferocity, pinning him to the cold trough. “Let go!” The dynllyr bit into it as a warning.

Squid. The human tasted like squid. “Still.” The word echoed in the human’s chest, not from its lips. Why had it not used Antumnos words before? Taigre wiggled one arm free and got hold of the opposing shoulder, squeezing down on it while the other human left the dynllyr feeling like he had swam over an open tube vent. A clang of metal startled Taigre. “Pain.” The human holding onto the creature said, tapping on his back. Taigre snorted at the comment. His tail hurt worse than the time he had escaped from Saeesar’s watchful eye, left the nesting ground, and ended up getting rammed by a great white who broke a set of his ribs. “Help.” Images of blood and sutures filled the dynllyr’s head momentarily, the tang of squid pungent on his tongue. He let go of the human.

The prickly pain in his tail reduced significantly. He took up the piece of wood the human had shoved in his mouth, now that he understood the humans were trying to fix the pain in his tail. Taigre shifted, needing to know what the humans were seeing. His captor lifted him such that he could watch what was going on. He had a hole in his tail. Sweeping his glance across the floor, there was a metal pipe coated in his blood. That’s what had been hurting.

His captor kept hold of him while the other took a large pitcher of water and waited for a signal. Bearing down on the wood, Taigre took his captor’s arm and the other stick and watched in anticipated horror as it flushed out his wound. His captor, satisfied with him for some reason, left and took up needles to pass through the fire glass while the other human quickly started sewing. Sharp, stinging pain jittered across all of his nerve endings.

******

Squid. Kraken child. The smell brought the dynllyr into a partial water world. Blinking, Taigre woke to the trough, now filled with unsalted water. It stung his gills. The Kraken child was looking at him with fascination.

“Where am I? What are you doing here with a human? Thank you for fixing my tail, though you could have told me what was happening. I am sorry for taking a bite out of you,” Taigre apologized.

The Kraken child baulked, turning to the human to continue conversing with it and slipped. The dynllyr reached for it, catching it before it could go into the wall. “Watch out!”

“Scared.”

Taigre recoiled at the reply from the Kraken child. It could communicate, but it was giving him emotion words. Kraken child had to be one of the lost babes of the Antumnos Saeesar had been lecturing about. Taigre had never seen one that was so convincingly human in physical proportions. Rare as Kraken children were, this one was strange in its differences.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Let’s see what I did to your shoulder. I am sorry about that. You do bruise easily. Saeesar taught me a charm that will help. If I could get out of this trough, I can put one on my tail,” Taigre told the Kraken child, pulling it close to see the wound. Deep blue and black scabs and flecked blood accumulated on one shoulder. A sickly green in the shape of the dynllyr’s hand was almost as large on the other.

“Come on, get closer. I won’t eat you, Kraken child. You taste nasty. Fool me once.” A bit of coaxing encouraged the creature into the trough. Investigating the mark, Taigre was able to twist a set of charms onto its skin, reducing the swelling. Subtle in the land light, the half-Kraken had a marbled pattern of whites and oranges beneath its skin. Underwater, he could picture what the camouflage probably looked like.

“Monster. Human like.” The lost creature’s fingers were light on his skin, distracting for a moment from his current predicament.

“Monster? I am dynllyr, Kraken child. I’ll take the compliment, though. You have not met those of the Antumnos before, have you? You’re a little too human for me. I won’t complain for the moment, seeing as you’ve got me stuck in a trough, and my tail hurts. I’d rather you take me home before Saeesar worries. Maybe I should try to get you to teach me a couple of words in the human language. That will keep him off my back when I do get home.”

The human who had done the bulk of the mending on Taigre’s tail popped into the small cave he occupied. “Danger!” the Kraken child’s hands grasped down on his ribs momentarily, startling the dynllyr.

“Leave the Kraken child alone!” Taigre hissed at the offending human before slinking back to duck below the surface of the water. The human and the Kraken child conversed, however. Taigre was getting mixed signals from the Kraken child. It was uncomfortable at what was being discussed. A different smell caught his attention within the jumble of emotions, and a hardened pressure pushed against his chest. Prodding at the short waist of the Kraken child, he reassessed it as male. Yelling something in human, the Kraken child scurried away from him, tumbled out of the trough, and landed haphazardly in his coiled tail length.

“Watch it! That hurt!” Taigre flashed all of his colours at the Kraken child to warn him from repeating the experience. The half-human took a container from the human and drank it as he left the room, not before turning to look at Taigre in confusion. “Male?” 

Well, that was a question Taigre wasn’t prepared to be asked by a son of a sea king. The Kraken child threw a cloth at the dynllyr. “Cover.” His rhythm demanded. Taigre caught tones within the sensation. Those of mutual embarrassment.

The two terrestrial creatures moved around their furnishings while a conversation between them took place, leaving the marbled patterns under the Kraken child’s skin radiating subtle hues. “Help. Escape. Leave. Bad talk.” All the signs flashed while he continued talking to the human.

A distraction! If a sea king’s child was asking a dynllyr for help, Taigre was obligated to help as the son of one of the great territory holders. He sought out one of the sticks still in the bottom of the tub.

Holding it up, “what is this called?” He gave the Kraken child the Gweryn Llŷr word for it.

The feel of a question came back to the dynllyr. Dark, and flat. Had he been wrong in the type of help he needed? Taigre attempted the human word he provided. The middle bit was tricky. He couldn’t enunciate that throat sound in the middle unless he was underwater. How could a Kraken child do so on land?

“Was that not the type of distraction you needed? I am sorry. I can’t save you from here. I am useless. Run. Get away!” Taigre demanded of the Kraken child while he continued to converse with the human that was making him uncomfortable.

“Cold.”

“What do you mean by cold?” Taigre asked, while the human left the edge of the cave and returned with a strange contraption and handed it to the Kraken child.

“Good.”

“It is good? You were scared and uncomfortable. How can a present from a human-” Taigre pressed.

“Love.” 

The note silenced the dynllyr. He ducked back at the pure tune. It seeped into his skin, lodging into his bones. The humans had not forgotten. They still knew the ancient language.

“Love is sweet and calm and warm and-” The Kraken child cut off when the human pointed the dynllyr out. Taigre was staring. That is true. It would be stupid of him not to focus on the weird furnishing in the Kraken child’s hand.

“You speak our language with that? No one ever taught you how to talk like those of the Antumnos?” Taigre asked.

“Speak, with that? Taught you, those, Antumnos?” the Kraken child repeated back, watching with fascination.

“You don’t speak it, do you? You’re mimicking. Are you trying to learn? Here, here, stick. Tell me stick.” Taigre tried to pronounce it the way the human word was said.

Kraken child’s brows furrowed at the demand before turning back to the human. The person left and returned with a larger contraption and traded it for the smaller.

“Waters deep, clear sky, precious, the eddies.” He played, turning nobs at the end of the instrument and re-pitching the accents. He pointed to the stick again. He was trying to learn!

Taigre gave him the word. If he could make so many words already, this would have to be simple.

“Whale dick.”

The dynllyr laughed. Taigre laughed at a Kraken child. “Keris, Father, please don’t murder me when you find this out. That was not what I had expected.”

The Kraken child muttered at the human before trying a different finger position. “Driftwood.” That wasn’t as bad. A bit more repetition, and Taigre figured he might get the Kraken child to pronounce stick correctly.

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Subject 15: Ch 6

The taxi pulled up to Crystal. A shaft of fear drove straight through Fane’s core. I’m intruding. This isn’t my place and way out of my league. Those thoughts ran around him as he held the taxi door for Orlov with a slight bow, putting himself between the Prince and curious onlookers. Orlov’s gleaming amber eyes slid over him approvingly. “Maybe I should hire you as a bodyguard,” the Prince whispered in Fane’s ear as he clapped him on the shoulder.

Fane shivered. “You jest,” he muttered, straightening.

Orlov evaluated the soldier’s clothing, prodding the texture of the coat, testing its legitimacy. “Not your normal clothes, are they?” Fane pursed his lips, dashing his eyes down from Orlov’s mesmerising gaze. “You keep messing with your cuff.”

“I don’t wear these kinds of things.” Fane dropped his hands into a relaxed stance at his sides.

“They fit you well enough to pass scrutiny by the people in there,” Orlov reassured quietly.

A flush of colour swept Anson’s face. “You’re too kind.”

“Confidence goes a long way with people in power.” Orlov motioned for Fane to follow him. The soldier instead put himself in a protective spot to the front and side of Orlov. The New Punjabi scout watched the enlisted man’s actions. Fane’s position was subconscious, but it was not lost on the Prince.

“Why did you bring me with you?” Fane whispered as they walked through the door to the lobby of Crystal.

“Because I feel as out of place as you do.” Orlov studied the ornate furnishings in the lobby as they walked to the lift.

“You’ve at least been to a high-end function like this before.” Fane probbed the entrance, taking note of people milling around and the shadowed alcoves that held possible threats.

“Meh, my mother and father forced me into this, so yeah, I’ve done this rodeo before. I’d rather be back home running a campaign with my friends,” Orlov told him. Fane surreptitiously glanced at the elegant man.

“Campaign? War games?” Fane shifted to divert Orlov’s path off potential collision with a drunk man in a tuxedo.

“Table top games. Had a few college friends who are still willing to play through a few sessions, though we all tend to be busy more often than not.” Orlov took Fane’s direction.

“Who DMs?” The soldier spotted a corner near the lifts that was quiet and empty as a milling crowd waited to enter the set of small compartments.

“I have no capacity to direct a story. My old theatre buddy runs most of the games. He’s had a third kid now, though, so there’s been no time this last year.” Orlov leaned against the burgundy wallpaper.

“I guess these kinds of functions are more for those who like to primp and preen.” Fane eyed the delicate embroidery on Orlov’s outfit.

“And an inconvenience to those of us who don’t,” mumbled Orlov.

“You look…” Fane trailed off, suddenly nervous. He was at first going to complement Orlov, thinking to reassure him of his outfit. Orlov’s glance settled on his face. Fane ducked, embarrassed. What am I trying to prove, coming here with this man? The pain in his side had subsided, at least.

“What?” Orlov smirked.

“Nothing,” Fane clammed up. The group in front of them had thinned. “The lifts are open.” He drew in a steadying breath. The man was not overly fond of the tiny boxes. He also was not about to say that to Orlov.

They rang the lift and crowded in when the door slid open. It was small; not more than four people could fit into the cramped compartment comfortably. It was older. The type that Fane hated the most.

His palms dampened with sweat. “I’m sorry, I’m not much of a conversationalist,” Fane apologised as the door slowly slid closed. Orlov glanced over at him, his brow furrowing. Fane licked his dry lips. Whatever happened, he was going to try to act normal. Orlov waited. “I’m not sure what I can and cannot talk to you about,” Fane supplied, trying to defend his earlier statement, trying to distract himself from the shoebox he found himself stuffed in.

“I don’t need to be made privy to any military secrets,” Orlov’s familiarity evaporated with the stagnant air.

“I didn’t…I didn’t mean that,” Fane mumbled around the white noise in his ears.

“What exactly did you mean?” Orlov held his ground on the other side of the lift.

“I don’t want to offend you. You seem like a decent guy, and I’d rather keep things civil, so…I don’t really know what I can talk to you about,” He straightened. All he wanted to do was cower into himself. Fighting ever instinct he had to break free of the box, he needed to find a safe distraction from the groaning in the winch system above his head.

“First impressions aren’t everything, are they?” Orlov finally leaned over to press the button to the top floor. Fane’s barely audible gasp of incredulity startled Orlov. He flicked a glance to Fane. The soldier’s hands were balled up.

The lift rang at the top floor. Fane and the Prince made their way out of its repressive confinement. Tension released as fresh, cold air hit Fane in the face. He glanced around, noticing a window in a wall on the other side of the lift hall. Behind a young man at the window was a line of coats. The coat check!

“Mr Orlov, if you don’t mind, I need to step over to the coat check real quick.” Fane pointed toward the man and the window.

“After you.” Orlov followed him.

Fane walked over to the clerk. “Has a Zephyr Abeddelli checked in with you yet?”

“Yes?” The man raised an eyebrow.

Tension released in Fane’s shoulders. “Wonderful. Did he leave a wallet and cell phone for a Fane Anson?”

“Are you Fane Anson?” Te man at the coat check reached under the counter.

“Yes.”

 The coat check man pulled out a white plastic bag with Crystal’s logo printed on it. The man pulled out a few items and handed Fane a worn black leather wallet and a battered flip cover cell phone. The redhead went to pocket them, only to discover his pants were too tight. He looked down at himself, perplexed and annoyed by his clothing yet again.

“Try the inside pocket of your jacket,” Orlov supplied.

Fane pulled his blazer open to discover a series of pockets hidden in it. He shoved his wallet in one side and dropped his phone in the other. It felt weird, the weight. They weren’t the usual things he’d keep in a jacket pocket. This better not be all lumpy. He turned to Orlov.

“What?” Orlov rocked half a step back, on edge at having the soldier meeting his eyes for once that evening.

“Is this okay?” Fane brushed a hand over his jacket to indicate the spot where his wallet and phone were hidden and broader to the rest of his ensamble. 

Orlov shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Why?”

Fane reached for his wallet but thought better of it. He tried to swallow against a nervous, dry throat. “I can pay for a cab to get back to base now. If you would rather not have me tagging along making you look bad, I can leave.” Fane glanced at the lift.

Orlov considered the man in front of him. He did not exude the rock star confidence his physique and clothing tried to lend him. Fane shifted uncomfortably under the Prince’s gaze. “Stay. Join me. It’ll be fun.” Orlov motioned for them to start walking.

“If you’re sure.” Fane hopped to match Orlov’s longer stride. They walked the length of the hall to the far end, where a double door opened to the dining hall. Inside, at least two hundred people mingled in formal wear. Fane’s nerves went on edge.

“Shall we?” Orlov whispered.

Fane followed the Prince’s lead, plastered on an egotistic ease, and strode confidently into the room. All eyes settled on Orlov’s gleaming costume. That was a quick way to draw attention. Fane wanted to hide. He shook the feeling, though, realizing it would deter from Orlov’s image if he did that. Straightening his shoulders, Fane tried to emanate a sense of entitled complacency. The people streaming around the room could very well fire him that night, but for this moment, he was at the hand of a Prince.

Orlov made for the General, the boss of this particular travesty called a dinner party. Several individuals wished the Prince a good evening on the way. At each instance, Fane watched the man shift to a fake smile, one that touched the lips but never traveled further.

“Prince Orlov, nice to see you made it.” The General shook hands with the Prince, a stern smile plastered to his face.

Fane figured that smile was probably a foreign movement for the man’s face. At least this Prince can make a fake smile look pleasant. The General looks like a shark.

“I am glad that you could join us. I hope there was no trouble in finding the place,” he continued with superficial small talk. His eyes went round as they slid to Fane standing back and to the side of the Prince.

Fane wanted to squirm, to apologise. Catching Orlov’s glance, the soldier took a breath, trying for confidence. He smiled.

A subtle shift of red blossomed across Orlov’s cheekbones before he could clear his throat. “My dinner partner for the evening, Mr Anson.”

“General, it is an honour.” Fane extended his hand. The man’s face paled as he hesitated to shake the soldier’s hand. Fane’s smile tightened at the minuscule reaction.

“Have we met before?” the General’s shake was limp, not what one would expect of a man who looked to spend more time behind a barbell then a desk..

“No, sir. I’ve seen you motivate the troops.” Fane kept his smile plastered to his face. The General’s eyes narrowed. The commanding officer was trying not to recognise his subordinate. He knew exactly who was standing in front of him and was being too obvious about it.

“General, this is who I was telling you about earlier. Prince Orlov was bringing Fane Anson with him. I already had the waiter get a placard put together for him,” a familiar voice supplied the General. Zephyr clapped a hand on Fane’s shoulder. He came around to stand next to him in a cut tux, a woman in a bombshell red dress hanging off his arm. He leaned in and whispered, “Left a note with the waitstaff for your plant-based food plan.”

“Thank you,” Fane whispered back.

“Oh yes, Anson.” The General turned back to Fane, grasping his hand more firmly. “I hope to see your next shot test. Abbadelli, remember to arrange that for me, would you?” The General nodded a dismissive goodbye and continued walking the room. Fane slid a glance across the Prince’s features to estimate how much of that interaction the royal had caught.

“Shot test?” Orlov shifted from his study of the quickly escaping general to the Chief Warrant Officer.

“Good lord, I can’t believe you actually showed up!” Zephyr tapped Fane on the arm when the General was out of earshot.

“I told you I was coming. Thank you for dropping off my wallet and phone, by the way.” Fane slid a step to the side to displace the clingy man who had no concept of personal space.

“Well, I knew you said Prince Orlov was bringing you, but I figured you’d scat before actually getting in here. You hate parties!” Zephyr laughed.

“I-” Fane shot a glance at the displeased look creasing Orlov’s face with a frown. “I thought I’d take a chance.” Fane hoped he sounded convincing.

“What shot test was the General talking about?” Orlov asked again, now that Zephyr had taken a breath.

“Wait, you came all the way here and didn’t realise Anson was…?” Zephyr’s whistled low. Orlov stared at the man, contemplating. The soldier’s name floated out of his subconscious. Fane scooted out of their circle, trying to make himself small. Orlov’s amber eyes pinned him to the floor. He was a butterfly in a bell jar. Pain radiated up his side again. That look, possessive.

“You’re who I came here for? I thought Fane was supposed to be a woman!” Orlov hissed.

Fane ducked under the indignant accusation before snapping, “Came here for? Sorry, my name sounds like a woman. Not like I picked it out.”

Zephyr smiled mischievously.

Orlov grabbed the redhead firmly by the chin, lifting his face to meet his gaze, turning him this way and that. “You’re split-shot Anson?”

Fane jerked out of Orlov’s grasp. He rubbed his chin. Forcing eye contact like that left a cold pick of rage burrowing down his spine.“ Quit grabbing my chin, you can see my face just fine. I don’t know anything about split-shot. I’m just fast.”

“Mr Abbadelli, are you certain this is the split-shot?” Orlov turned to Zephyr.

“Is this why you had me apologise to this peacock jackass?” Fane demanded of Zephyr at the same time.

“Yes,” Zephyr responded to both the questions.

“Peacock-?” Orlov’s face mottled red.

“This? I’m a this now apparently. Why hello, yes, my pronouns are this that. Why would he come all the way from New Punjab for me? I’m not that great of a shot, but he’s about to make it worth my while to get better,” Fane hissed.

“Not the split-shot then!” Orlov bolstered his initial opinion.

“It’s a feckin’ nickname, ye dense cockswobble!” Fane bit back.

“Dude, humility and humbleness have their place, and right now, it’s not here. No one has bested your record. You’ve broken enough of them to make that almost impossible,” Zephyr quipped. A small crowd of people were taking notice of the interchange.

“Is the split-shot?” Orlov returned in confusion.

“Of course, I am! Are your ears full of wool just when words leave my mouth? It’s a bloody nickname.” Fane folded his arms across his chest. A gong at the end of the room rang, interrupting them.

“Looks like dinner is served.” Zephyr swept past them, leaving the conversation hanging between the Prince and the soldier. Fane glanced uneasily at the room. Orlov’s disdainful eyes slid down him. He prickled under the viscous sensation.

“Shall we find our seats?” Orlov asked tightly. Fane nodded, following behind the man as they made their way towards the head of the room. They found their seats arranged to the left of the podium where the General was putting together his speech notes. The Prince and the soldier slid into their seats quietly.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were split-shot? Could have been helpful knowing who I was having bloody coffee with,” Orlov hissed at Fane under the dun of the waitstaff placing plates on the table.

“I hate that nickname. It wasn’t my place to act so arrogantly in front of a Prince,” Fane shot back.

“Have some confidence. Not like my position is all I am.” Orlov glared.

What is this guy’s problem? Fane couldn’t understand why Orlov was so put off with him. “As you say. Take me or leave me; we’ve got some other good shots in here,” Fane lost his bluster. Orlov stared at his plate mutely. Fane couldn’t tell if he had lost his steam too or was angry enough to not warrant a reply.

They suffered quietly under the deluge of the General’s monologue. The food, though beautiful, was bland. The evening wore on gratingly. They couldn’t even muster small talk together. By the time the last plate had been collected by the wait staff, and the guests started mingling once again, Fane made up his mind to leave. When Orlov was caught in a conversation that had him thoroughly distracted, Fane slipped away. He snuck out of the hall and made his way for the fire exit. Sometimes there wasn’t an alarm set. Sadly, this one was set with an alarm, which meant he had to use the lift. He sighed. All he wanted was for this evening to be over already.

It was only after a lull in the conversation Orlov was trapped in that he noticed a lack of a short redhead near his personage. He glanced around but didn’t spot the red blazer. The Prince paled at having lost his partner. Excusing himself from the people that only wanted his attention for his heritage, he hunted down Zephyr.

Orlov cornered him near the open bar. “Where is he?” The Prince hissed, a thin rage leaking out of his quaffed persona.

“Who?” Zephyr blinked, then glanced around. “Where’s Fane?”

“That’s who I came to ask you for,” Orlov bit out.

“He probably dashed. I’d bet you by now he’s buried in the barracks.” Zephyr smiled sadly.

“Is he as good as everyone says?” Strain left Orlov’s shoulders. There was nothing to be gained this evening by being hostile.

Zephyr appraised the ornate man. “It’s probably a good thing for us that he’s a shy, accommodating fellow.”

Orlov narrowed his gaze. “Why?”

“Because it’s easier to control him that way.” The black-haired man downed the glass of bourbon in his hands. Orlov tilted his head. With a deep sigh of admiration for the burn, Zephyr raised his now empty glass to Orlov. “His shot test was supposed to be tomorrow. I told him he didn’t have to come back in until his doc checked him out at the end of the week. I’ll have him come in anyways for the test. Join us.” Zephyr dropped the glass back down on the counter with a clunk. He turned to walk away, waving offhandedly back to the Prince. “It’ll be an enlightening experience, I promise you.”

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Firefly Fish: Ch 6

“Marin?” Jarl popped in, scaring the hell out of me and making the creature in the tub hiss. “Oh, it can make noise, neat. Are you having coffee or am I drinking your share?”

    “I’m sort of stuck in your bathtub with a mermaid, Jarl. And it has hold of my shoulder. It could put the smith’s fist to shame, which is scaring the hell out of me. What do you think?” I demanded.

    “I’m drinking your coffee then. Get out sometime tonight. Don’t need to repeat bath night like back home, kid. We could never get you out of the thing.” Jarl turned back to his room.

    “What do you mean ‘all night’? I didn’t stay in it all night. I got out when the fire ran low,” I justified.

    “You realize that the rest of us had a separate bath night because you wouldn’t get out of the tub, right, mouse turd?” Jarl dumped coffee from one container into another. Probably my coffee into his mug.

    “It was nice. I’m not sure about sharing it with a slither-man thing. This isn’t like those fairy-tales, Jarl. I thought they were supposed to be, you know, like pretty ethereal women or something?”

    “Pretty women, dog breath? Really? You’re horrible at this act.” Jarl blew on his coffee. The creature holding onto me was still carrying on its melody and tracing patterns around the bite mark and the bruise on my other shoulder. This was not a conversation I needed to be having with my brother. Wait.

    “What do you mean by act?” I demanded. Probably a bit too loudly.

    “You. Guys. You and that kid back during school. It was as obvious as when we’d bring a bull in for Omah.” Jarl’s cup made that grating sound on the wood again.

    “Nope. Not having this conversation right -” The creatures prodding digits found my rising memories of Gideon. “What the? No, don’t touch that!” I demanded, pushed its fingers away from me, and tried to get out of the tub.

    “Touch what?” Jarl returned to the bathroom doorframe as I slid out of the tub and ended up upside down with my butt in the air.

    “Nothing. Not the conversation, and not whatever curiosity that seamonkey has going for it. I’d rather go sleep in the storm!” I dragged myself out of the nest of its coiled tail and tripped out of the bathroom.

    “Deny it all you want, idiot. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.” He handed me the half-filled cup of coffee in his hands. “Cooled it down for you, twinkle toes.”

    I snatched the cup and downed the slog of brown burnt bean water. “I’d like my dignity back, thanks.”

    “You were the one just sitting in a tub with a merman.” He raised an amused eyebrow.

    “Mer -” I swivelled from the rain running down the windows in rivers back to the tiled bathroom where the distance was enough for my conscious to not be swamped by the sheer size of the creature, but instead to see its anatomical lines and the bulge against a segmentation of the tail not fitting within the tub. That, and the fact the thing had started flashing a myriad of reds and oranges as it tried to fold itself over to reach that section and cover it. “Man?” I quipped indignantly.

    “Not like having it all hang out would make for good evolution. Would not be ideal to have it chomped by a curious fish looking for a worm.”

    I lunged into the apartment, found a hand towel in the kitchen, and tossed it through the door at the creature. It – he stared at the material for a moment, the whirling colours flashing in blues and greens before it shook the material out and settled it on the area all three of us were now immodestly fixated on. “Fish. It is a fish, Jarl.”

    “Now. About you and Gabriel.” Jarl returned to the topic I did not want to play party too.

    “Let’s not talk Gideon,” I requested.

    “Wanna talk why the thing in the tub has the same problem you have?” he cornered me.

    “Mom said it was a disfigurement from birth and there’s nothing wrong with me!” I hissed.

    “Yeah, and Anna and Victor and I never bled blue.” Jarl handed me back the rag I had dropped when I had gone into the bathroom.

    “Mom said that was because people are just different.” Heat rose in my face. I hated being different. “She said it was a Gentile thing and why I should avoid dating within the village. Better to avoid the matchmaker.”

    “However deep in the Nile do you swim, boy? You’re in your twenties, think! That’s not a Gentile or a Jew thing. That’s a you’re part whatever that thing is thing” Jarl laughed, startling the creature into a series of clicked notes.

    “Clearly not deep enough.” I did not like being stuffed into a bell jar. “I am not a mer-mer-merman. Not that thing! I don’t have webbed hands or feet, see.” I wiggled my fingers in my brother’s face.

    “You never needed lessons at the watering hole. Anna and Victor had to be reminded almost every summer for years how to not drown themselves.”

    “Anyone can get better at swimming if they just remember to float!”

    “It’s not natural to everyone, fish fry.”

    “You’re not going to turn me into a sideshow attraction, are you?” I growled.

    “You’re far less interesting than mudkip here,” he deflected.

    I regarded his ponderment of the merperson in his bathroom. The creature was still making the murmured song notes, flicking attention between my brother and me. “Do you not hear him doing that?” I asked.

    Jarl frowned, staring off into the middle of nowhere before rolling his shoulder. “No? You hit your head?”

    “I swear, the thing is singing.”

    “He’s not a thing. He’s a merman, toadstool.”

    “It’s a singing fish, and I am in no way related to that thing just because my junk doesn’t look like yours or Victors.”

    “Trust me. It doesn’t look like anyone else’s either, kid.” Jarl sipped at his coffee.

    “Like you’ve seen more than me to know.” I pulled over one of the kitchen table chairs to the doorframe and scootched the merman’s tail out of the way. Checking the bandaging, I adjusted the tightness around the swelling, relieving pressure. Jarl slid a glance my way before sliding it back to the merman watching us. “No. You’re not! You’ve had a woman up here before. I’ve seen her!”

    “And you keep claiming you also like women.” Jarl returned.

    “I’m not sure how I feel knowing you aren’t a virgin,” I lamented.

    “I’m not sure how I feel knowing that you are.” He went and grabbed his own chair and pulled it up to the table.

    “I never said I was,” I bluffed.

    “Please, duck weed, by all means, explain, with that structure of yours, how that works?” Jarl leaned back, crossed his ankles, and tucked his arms behind his head to regard me in a superior way.

    Heat blossomed up my face and across my ears as I struggled to not stutter. It was different from my brothers. Dad never talked about it. Not like we covered how any of this was supposed to work in school and my folks were fairly mum on the topic. All I know is Jarl and Victor’s hung outside of their bodies, penis and testies both. Mine was more like the other livestock on the farm. Withdrawn within my body, running up the lower abdominal muscles. Livestock, well the bulls and rams we kept for breeding at least kept their balls and those hung low enough to be obvious. I looked more like I got stuck on the wrong end of a castrating knife. Prodding, I could pinpoint long ovals running on either side of my personal shame. Outhouses and chamber pots were a source of eternal frustration that I had, over many years, figured out how to navigate.

    Painful tears rimmed my eyes as I fought past the muteness wrangling my communication. I ducked at the luck, wrapping my hands over my stomach protectively. Turning back to our bathroom guest, I watched the myriad colours swirling across its skin as it continued musical notes. It held out one of the kindling sticks to me and made a sound. Several times he pointed at it and repeated the sound.

    “Stick. It’s a stick.” I enunciated flatly.

    “Sk,” he mimicked back.

    “Stick,” I tried again numbly.

    “Sk. Sk. Ssskkk.” He was growing frustrated at his inability to enunciate the ti sound. He ducked below the surface of the tub, sending water sloshing out and tried again. “Steek.” It attempted again, searching my face and then Jarl’s. I shrugged and nodded.

    “I’m sorry, Marin. That – that wasn’t nice of me,” Jarl apologized.

    “You had to bring it up. Do you know how hard it’s been growing up with this not being right? You got to be normal, apparently. You just had the one weird disfigured brother and the normal brother. I had two brothers that didn’t look like me and I didn’t know what to do with this thing. I can’t fix it. What more do you want from me?” My voice cracked. The merman in the tub elicited a series of curious notes. “You’re not helping, shark bait.”

    Jarl pushed back his chair from the merman’s caudal fin and went to pace his apartment. Silence, awkward and damp, crept into the space, the only sound that of the merman’s gills flipping back and forth at the water tension and the constant melody that Jarl couldn’t hear. Time stretched on as the storm slammed the boarding house.

    “Do other guys really not have this problem? Was what Mom said, about it being a Gentile thing, a lie?” I looked up in time for him to slip a mandolin and buffalo horn pick into my hands. The smooth texture of the lacquer pulled my heated anxiety from my fingers. I caressed the neck, running the frets below the double strings while I waited for him to answer me.

    “Mom lied, Marin. She didn’t want you feeling hurt, because at the end of the day, you were still brilliant, talented, and going to go farther than the rest of us ever would. Between pissing in a bucket and being able to draw like Michelangelo and play like Bach, she thought to encourage you in what actually mattered. Your brain. What you’ve got, it’s not a Chinese thing, or an African thing, or a Jewish thing, or an Austro-Hungarian thing. Been around a bit since we got here.” He sipped at his coffee as he finally turned a shade of red. “I guess mom and dad aren’t from Austro-Hungary anymore huh? It changed recently to some new providence thing. I wish dad had taught us the language.” Jarl sighed in frustration.

    “We were all born here. He wanted us to be American. To live the American dream. Whatever that is now.” I plucked a pair of strings and tightened the lugs to tune. The merman perked up, his colours going vibrant rainbows up and down his sides. “So, he never spoke it around us. He didn’t want us to be discriminated against after The Great War.”

    “Could he have given me a common name?” Jarl bemoaned.

    “I guess we all got saddled with something we didn’t want?” I goaded.

    “The number of jobs I’ve been refused without even getting a chance to say more past my name,” he groaned, exasperated.

    “I’m not dad’s son then, am I?” The realization was a cruel brick to the skull and I plucked a clear C. Jarl went silent at the question, his eyes going round. He stared fixedly at one of the tiles below the merman’s tail before looking up at its shifting. The creature’s fingers clung to the side of the tub, his wide grey eyes watching over knuckles while the rest of him was tucked below the water surface. “He seems keen on the music at least,” I pointed out the obvious.

    “Try another note,” Jarl encouraged. I plucked a couple of notes up the scale and down and the colours on his skin changed with the vibration. It returned a couple of the notes, what I could only think of as a question.

    “I know your mom’s son. I was there when you were born. Grant it, I was 5 and my memory of you fresh is pretty fuzzy. But you’ve been with the family since you were born. Dad always loved you, the way dad knew how to show. If you weren’t his son, and he knew, I don’t think he ever cared,” my brother offered.

    I shifted at that knowledge. It was neither reassuring nor devastating. “Do you think they brought us here because mom knew? They knew I wouldn’t be able to find my own way and left you to babysit me?”

    “Mom did say she always enjoyed visiting this beach. They never went back after you were born, but before that, I remember going to our neighbour Nana’s once when they took time for themselves to travel by train out to here.” He poured himself another cup of coffee and returned to lean against the doorframe while I mimicked the melody the merman was giving me. “What are you playing? It’s pretty, but it’s not consistent.”

    “He’s making the noises. I’m just playing what I’m hearing,” I continued to pluck away at the strings, watching the creature’s colours continue to radiate across him.

    “I’m still not hearing what you’re hearing. Wonder if you’ve got an organ in your head that can pick it up.”

    The merman picked up the stick. “Skk.” It pronounced outside of the water and then hummed a series of low notes. I thought for a minute before turning to Jarl.

He raised an eyebrow at the question on my face. “What’d it say?” he asked.

    “My guitar still here?” I asked.

    “It’s under the bed. Probably way out of tune. You play your mandolin more often when you come over.” He went and rooted out the battered instrument and returned. I took it and switched him the mandolin. He set it on a side table outside the door to keep it from getting wet while I tuned the strings. The merman stared at my fingers. The rotating rose pink and lime green I pinpointed as his curious mood. Once my guitar was back to tune, I pointed at the stick in the merman’s hand and asked, “stick?” and waved my hand for the tune again.

    “Skk,” followed by a set of low G and E flats. I corresponded, and the creature’s eyes went wider, the greens in its skin going large before it snuffed at the water, blowing bubbles and made the set of notes again.

    “I think he just laughed at you,” Jarl pointed out.

    “It doesn’t help that he’s harmonizing with himself, and I can’t span that full tone with one hand.” I quipped, trying to add a slide on a chord instead of individual plucked notes this time.

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Subject 15: Ch 5

Click. The door to the waiting room unlocked. Fane looked up from his fifth round of counting the white speckle dots on the faded, black tile next to his left foot. To his relief, Zephyr popped his head in. “How you holdin’ up, kid?” The man slithered through the door crack and eased into a seat next to Fane.

Tension eased out of his system. If Zephyr was there, everything was fine. Fane gave his boss a half smile. “Dude, I’m six months older than you. I’ve been better. What did the doc find? They put me in a solitary and a brain scan.”

“You’ll be all right. Probably hit your head last night. The staff wanted to make sure everyone was safe while they checked you.” Zephyr handed him a dismissal grey form with a scheduled follow-up visit and instructions for using an anti-inflammatory for three days. Fane nodded at the precaution. Zephyr leaned back, kicking his legs out to admire the shine on his boots under the flickering light. “For now, even if it wasn’t your fault, we need for you to apologise to Prince Orlov. He didn’t start out with the best of impressions. Maybe we can salvage this relationship,” he confided quietly. A pointed glance to the door indicated a level of discretion required in the statement.

Fane’s eyes went round. He blanched. The New Punjab scout was supposed to be picking personnel for training. They were going to be a significant financial contributor that year. “Prince? Damn, I’m so sorry about this, Zephyr. Thanks for looking out for me. Am I gonna be in trouble with the higher-ups?”

“They’re gonna overlook it for now – after all, the party was sort of my idea, and the command had given me permission to fund it from the budget. If you really did hit your head, it couldn’t have been helped. You’ve never had a problem before today. We need to keep the support of Orlov here and now, though. If we can salvage that, then this can be swept under the rug. If symptoms happen again, though, we’ll probably need to have you back in Phys-therapy, m’kay?” Zephyr studied the edge of his fingernails and dug out a spot of grit.

Fane nodded. He was getting off easy. Zeph probably put in a good word for me to not be in major trouble with the brass. If all I have to do is put in some bit of an apology to this Prince character, then we should be golden. His stomach cramped. Contemplating facing the man left him nauseated.

He swallowed. When he got his apology over with, he’d never have to deal with the man again. Then he’d stop feeling weird and uncomfortable. Prince Orlov made him too nervous for his own good.

The soldier fumbled with the short hem of his tattered hospital gown. “Zephyr, do you know where’d they put my clothes?”

“Ah, yeah, they told me you’d need new.” His commanding officer squirmed in his seat. “Apparently, you had a problem when you passed out. Sorry, I left you. You seemed fine, and I figured I could return to the field. They said your blood pressure just plummeted or something after their draw. Something about a nerve thing triggering it. They said it sometimes happens if you come in dehydrated.” He pushed a check out bag across the floor to Fane.

“I’m so sorry about this.” Fane turned beet red. These’ll probably be coming out of my pay. He rifled through the material. “These aren’t uniforms.” He looked up at Zephyr quizzically.

“Your gym clothes were sent to the cleaners. You should be able to pick it up tomorrow after 1300. For now, I brought you clothes to meet up with Orlov. It’s after 1400, so we’ll have to have you in that quickly. We’ve got a guy waiting downstairs to take you to meet him. The Prince has a formal dinner this evening with the general, so we need to not waste his time.” Zephyr got up to leave the room.

“Yes, sir.” Fane pulled out a deep red blazer. The door closed behind his commanding officer with a thud. “W.T.F?” He held the garment up to himself.

Less than half an hour later, Fane sat in a black hover cab, watching signs flash by too quickly for his unsettled stomach. Swallowing, he hoped to ease the nervous roll in his gut.

He picked at his fingers, not entirely comfortable in the travesty Zephyr called clothing. It all fit, he had to give his commanding officer that, but it was not something he would have ever chosen for himself. The t-shirt sat below his collar bone. It was soft enough to be pleasant, but the edge of the hem was purposefully sewn backwards. The texture grated at him whenever he touched it by accident. His jeans, a dark wash, were freshly bought, and starched, which left his legs itchy. The leather shoes clamped around his toes like a cruel vice. The blazer sat tight around his arms. It was too much to ask him not to think about the fact there was no undershirt and the rest of his undergarments were completely wrong to the brands he usually kept.

About the time Fane lost all semblance of knowing where he was in the city, the cab took an offramp, did a roundabout and pulled up to an understated building. Mansardic in design, the old mansion had been converted into a two-story luxury shopping centre, with the first-floor west rooms turned into a high-end coffee shop. The hover cab dropped its ballooned black skirts to settle three feet lower to the pavement for ease of exit.

“You sure this is it?” Fane opened the door to the cab.

“Yer off’cer a’ready paid for the address.” The cabby showed him the address token and waved him out the door.

Fane nodded his thanks and extracted himself from the worn backseat. His stomach dropped into his toes as he studied the coffee shop. He sure as hell was not qualified for this kind of place. One would have to go to finishing school to know how to hold a cup properly.

For a second, standing outside the taxi’s door, he contemplated turning tale and going AWOL. He could last on the land. He knew where to find food. I don’t actually need to do this, right?

Just before he had wholly formulated his escape plan, the hover cab filled it’s skirts and glided off. A cold wind caught at his collar, sending a chill down his spine. He had no real idea where he was in the city, and he had to go see this Prince and apologise for a problem he had caused. Today is not my day.

He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest. He breathed out to his fullest to release the tension in his shoulders. This was why Zephyr had made him wear such clothing. He pulled at the hem of his blazer, settling the shoulders squarely over his vintage band shirt. At least it contributed to his physique nicely. Even if every single element of it made him want to strip in the middle of the street to be free of it.

He tentatively placed one squeaking leather-clad foot in front of the other and ascended the building steps. He paused to contemplate escape once more before opening the door to the building and letting himself in. The hallway was short with a lift and circular stair at the back. To his left, the coffee shop entrance, to his right, a bakery.

He glanced through the glass door of the coffee shop, checking to make sure the platinum-haired man was waiting. The New Punjabi scout sat analysing a newspaper, his coffee steaming, in a corner overlooking the window to the street and the door to the shop.

Fane opened the door. A small bell rang above his head. Sharp amber eyes met Fane’s storm blue. The Prince nodded his head to a chair across from him.

Entering; Fane’s shoes clicked loudly on the vintage wood floor. He walked to the Prince’s table and stopped at the proffered chair. The soldier bowed gently at the waist to acknowledge Orlov’s station, finding it easier not to look at the royal directly. “Prince Orlov?”

“Do sit, Anson,” Orlov greeted. Avoiding the man’s honey-coloured eyes, Fane swallowed against the sizzle of pain running up his left side as he watched the Prince’s lips instead. He slipped into the glossy wooden chair. Where do I look? I can’t meet him on the same level. Eyes make me uncomfortable, and if he realizes I’m reading his lips while he’s talking, he’s probably going to get mad. Guys tend to. Damn. I’m nervous and all I’m getting is white noise in my ears. This keeps up, the tenituous will kick in. Breath. I need to calm down. Easy to say if my scars would lay off for a bit.

“I must apologise, Mr Orlov, for my behaviour earlier,” Fane pulled himself out of his spiral long enough to get his tongue to preform some form of social etiquette rule.

“Coffee, Anson?” Orlov waved over a waiter.

The man clipped over in a tightly fitted grey suit, his raven black hair swept back with a pound of pomade. “Your order, sir?”

Fane sat, blinking at the waiter, at a loss for words. The conversation he had constructed to have with the Prince shattered with the question of what he was supposed to drink. He hated coffee, the caffeine upped his anxiety. Tea was bitter without sugar. His dietician had pulled him off that to test an idea. “Cafe breve, vegan? Please,” Fane requested, not entirely sure what he had ordered but hoped it sounded sophisticated enough for Orlov.

“Almond or cashew?”

“Cashew?”

“Right away, sir.” The waiter smiled and left.

With that formality over, Fane settled in his environment. He’d have to bite the cost of whatever it was that he probably wasn’t going to drink. He had shoved enough into a savings account to afford his own house outright at this point, but that was beside the point. He turned his attention once again to Prince Orlov. Fane paused for a minute, trying to recall the script he had formulated during the drive in the cab.“How would you like for me to address you?” he finally stuttered. That was not in the plans!

Prince Orlov gave him a condescending glance. “Mr Orlov is fine. In your western society, it is too strange to walk around being addressed as Prince, I assume.” He sipped his coffee.

“Yes, Mr Orlov, sir.” Fane carefully constructed his hand placement on the table to offer a level of familiarity without being closed off.

“Sir is for my father, please,” Prince Orlov smiled reassuringly.

Fane shifted subtly. He mimicked the ease on Prince Orlov’s face, hoping for a matched relaxed presentation. “Mr Orlov, I must apologise for earlier. It seems I was not well, which did not make a good impression for either of us. My commanding officer informed me of such an error after I was released from hospital. I would rather not make the relationship between New Punjab and my command strained. Is there a way for me to reconcile this?”

The waiter showed up before Prince Orlov, placed a delicate china cup in front of Fane, and asked, “is there anything else you gentlemen will be needing?” Fane shook his head, and Orlov waved a dismissive hand. The waiter tipped his head in response and left.

“I think it is I who must apologise, Mr Anson.” Prince Orlov set aside his paper.

Fane, having reached for his cup, hesitated. “Mr Orlov?”

“I made a snap decision when I first saw you at the assembly. You appear to be a much more respectable person than my initial impression. I would rather not let such an error on my part affect our working relationship during this scouting mission.” Prince Orlov’s teeth gleamed.

Fane’s heart beat harder. He picked up his cup to divert his attention. “My commanding officer and I would agree with you.” He sipped the tangy liquid and grimaced. Coffee had never been his thing.

“Not up to your standards?” Prince Orlov smirked.

Fane glared at his cup. He had hoped maybe luxury coffee would have a better taste. “I guess I’ve never been one for coffee.”

“Do you like tea?” Prince Orlov took a sip of his coffee.

“I’m more of a hot chocolate person.” Fane looked up from his cup, horrified. He had never told anyone that. A scarlet blush swept up his cheeks. Prince Orlov snickered. Fane was mollified. “Don’t tell anyone, Mr Orlov.”

“A person’s drink is a person’s drink,” placated Prince Orlov. Fane squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, taking another sip of the bitter brew. Prince Orlov moved to signal over the waiter. “Would you rather a different order?”

Fane shook his head and blew on his coffee again. “No, it’ll be all right. I may have a penchant for sweet drinks, but I’m also not one for wasting money. I’ll drink what I ordered; it’s all right.”

“That’s a good attribute to have, Mr Anson. Liking sweet drinks.” Prince Orlov paused, looking out the window. He seemed to have forgotten the world around him. A brightly painted red room limosine hover passed by the window, it’s bass system vibrating the windows of the cafe. Prince Orlove returned his focus once more on Fane. “My grandmother used to make sweet lassi for my sister and myself. I have yet to find a decent shop here selling the speciality.” A nostalgic smile slipped across his lips uncensored.

“You must have been very close.” Fane rubbed his right foot against his left Achilles to distract from the radiating pain singing from his shoulder to his thigh. He was going to make it through this meeting looking like an average person if it killed him.

“She kept us occupied while mother and father were busy with work. She’d sneak us Gulab jamun after dinner if we helped her with her gardens that day.” Prince Orlov’s was a genuine smile, not a politically calculated grin, and it was making the white noise in Fane’s ears worse by the second.

“That sounds like fun,” mused Fane, still trying to consume his brew.

They both sat in awkward silence as rush hour traffic filled up the lane outside the window. Three black hover trucks and a blinking neon ad-van brought the soldier back into his skin. Fane, white noise dailed back to a manageable level, set his coffee cup down. “I’m sorry for all this trouble. I was told that your time must not be wasted, that you are going to the general’s formal dinner. Is there anything you require of me to make amends for earlier?”

Prince Orlov levelled a gaze, pulling Fane’s storm blue to his amber. Fane’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t sure what the man across from him was thinking. Prince Orlov tented his fingers over his coffee cup. “Come with me to dinner.”

“Sir?” Fane’s voice broke.

“I don’t have anyone going with me, and I had an invitation for two. Join me, and at the end of the evening, we’ll call it good,” Prince Orlov offered.

Pain ran up Fane’s side as his face warmed. He worked at maintaining his composure this time. “There must be someone more befitting of your position, sir. I’m only a lowly enlisted man.”

“Maybe, but it’s short notice, and I don’t see anyone else around to kidnap and take with me.” Prince Orlov smiled a toothy grin.

“If it would not inconvenience you terribly? I-I’ll join you,” Fane agreed, sure that he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this one. Glancing at his outfit, he paled, realizing he lacked proper attire for a formal dinner. He looked up, terrified. A mischievous glint crept into Prince Orlov’s eyes.

Tension rose in the back of Fane’s neck. Is he messing with me? Prince Orlov beckoned the waiter over for the tab. Fane automatically reached for his wallet, only to realise Zephyr had forgotten to return it to him with the bag of clothing. He didn’t even have his phone.

“Don’t worry about it.” Prince Orlov motioned off Fane, not noticing that Fane was without his wallet.

“Really, I-” Fane started to protest. At the very least, he needed to call Zephyr to drop off his personal effects.

“It’s outrageous to ask you to pay for this when I chose the location. Leave your money.” Prince Orlov handed over a gold card to the waiter.

“Thank you very much, Mr Orlov.” Fane drank down the last of his coffee. Count down to a bout of anxiety.

Prince Orlov folded his paper carefully and slipped it into an inner pocket of his suit jacket. “You’re well-spoken for an enlisted man.”

“I understand the station to which I’m addressing and am making my best effort to speak of a quality I assume you expect.” Fane set his cup down and laid his hands in his lap to hide his need to rub at the soft spot between his thumb and forefinger. New environment, bad clothes, possible jerk to entertain for an evening. And that coffee was disgusting. Two, three days in a row of crap. Karma better be giving me something nice for all this.

“I appreciate that.” Prince Orlov signed the receipt and slipped his card back into his wallet. “Shall we?” Prince Orlov motioned Fane to the door.

“Sir?” Fane asked.

“Please, Mr Orlov, if you would, Mr Anson,” Prince Orlov reiterated.

“Yes, Mr Orlov.” Fane followed Prince Orlov out the cafe door, and down the mansion’s stairs to an idling hover cab. He encouraged the Prince to slip into the car before following him in.

Prince Orlov gave the cabby an address to a glamorous hotel that Fane had only heard of on travel shows. “I must change for the party. I figured it would be imprudent to have to go all the way back to base to have you leave when you got there,” mentioned Prince Orlov as he settled in.

“Is the dinner at the general’s house?” Fane asked. He knew there were quarters on base for the General, but the man also had a residence in the city.

“No, we’ll be meeting at the Crystal Dining Hall.” Prince Orlov crossed one leg over his knee, a toe tapping.

His profile flickered in Fane’s periphery. The man wore cologne. It was a subtle scent. Citrus and spice. A darker perfume emanated from his glossy locks. That radiating pain was liable to burn Fane from the inside out. He sat back, forcing his attention away from his senses to contemplate where Crystal was in the city. He drew a blank. Long fingers with a meticulous manicure kept slipping past his guard. Needles seared across his scars. He mused at what his tombstone would say. Respected comrade. Complete basket case.

They rode on in silence until they reached the Prince’s hotel. The red headed soldier followed him into the lobby to the lift bank. “I’ll wait down here.” Fane pointed to a set of lounge chairs. 

“If you don’t mind.” Prince Orlov strode away when a lift rang the floor.

Relieved, Fane headed toward the chairs. However, he thought better of it and walked over to the reception desk to ask if he could use their phone to call Zephyr. It was late enough that he knew his commanding officer would most likely answer. If anything, he’d at least leave a message letting Zephyr know that he’d need cash for the cab fee to get back to base.

At the third ring, Zephyr picked up. “Abbadelli speaking.”

“Zephyr, it’s Anson,” Fane told his chief.

“Ah, Fane, how’s it going? Did Orlov take it okay?” Zephyr asked.

“Um…I think he took it okay. He invited me to join him at the general’s formal dinner,” Fane whispered hurriedly under the scrutiny of the concierge.

It took a moment for Zephyr to reply. “Well, all right then. I guess this will be good news then for our working relationship with New Punjab.”

“I have a problem,” Fane pushed on.

“What’s up?” A crash and a curse skipped through the phone. “Sorry. Dropped my phone. What’s up?”

“I don’t have my wallet or phone. I don’t have any way of paying my cab fee back to base when this is done. I’m at the Ryme Hotel. I don’t even know where the base is in relation to this place. I can walk back when I get hold of a map…but-” Fane mentioned hurriedly.

“Crap! Sorry about that, Anson. Completely forgot to put them in your bag. I’ll get your wallet and phone dropped off with the coat check at Crystal,” Zephyr reassured.

“You know where the dinner is?” Fane’s sighed with relief.

“I’m going with Gabriella. I can drop them off when I get there,” Zephyr answered.

“Gabriella?” Fane glanced at the receptionists staring at him and returned his focus back to a smudge of ink stain on the marble counter spelling out Daphne. He rubbed a thumb over it, testing if it would come off. It did not.

“A woman I’ve been seeing the last couple of weeks. You met her at the party. Oh, you may not remember because you drank almost an entire liquor store, I forgot. How are you feeling, by the way?” Zephyr diverted.

“I keep getting pain in my side randomly. Not sure if a bump to the head is supposed to do that. My scar hurts way too much to be a good thing.” Fane wiped his fingers on his jeans, cringing at the sensation of high startch against sweaty palms.

“It’ll take a while to wear off, probably. You might have some side effects for a couple of days,” Zephyr soothed. “For now, we can’t have you randomly dropping on us in the middle of drills, so you’re excused for a couple of days. The dinner shouldn’t aggravate you too much, but take it easy, all right?”

“Sure, I’ll take a bit of a rest. Let me know when you need me back,” Fane requested.

“We’ll have you go back to the hospital for another scan at the end of the week if those pains are still surfacing. When Doc clears you, you can come back,” Zephyr reassured.

“Yes, sir.” Fane shoved his fidgeting fingers into the deep pocket of his tight jeans.

“Right, we’ll see you in a few; gotta go get that monkey coat on.” Zephyr clicked off the line. Fane placed the handset back in its cradle. He lucked out that Zephyr was going to be coming. Now he wasn’t going to have too much of an embarrassing situation trying to catch a ride back to base that evening. He thanked the receptionist and returned to the lobby’s sofas.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Prince Orlov appeared dressed to impress. Fane sat, stunned at the royal’s beauty. He was resplendent in a white and red sherwani. Magnificent embroidery work in gold scrolled across his chest and shoulders. Red churidars wrapped around his lean legs, setting off the red in his sherwani. A pair of red and gold emblazoned jutti caressed his feet. “Wow,” escaped Fane before he was able to catch himself. “I’m sorry,” he quickly apologised, scuttling to his feet.

“I stopped at the reception. They called a cab over for us already. Shall we?” Prince Orlov motioned to the door.

“After you.” Fane held the door for the man. He hoped Prince Orlov would not notice the pain he was trying to hide. Fane didn’t know what it was, but he’d have to push through it. Following the Prince to the idling cab, the soldier waited for him to slide into the far side before seating himself. Hopefully, dinner with this man is not going to kill me.

Chapel Orahamm (C) 2022-2023. All Rights Reserved.

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