Broken Contracts, page 16
“Pardon me,” he started to say, but the woman had turned toward him, one arm wrapping around his waist. Her other hand was on his chest, then his throat, his jaw. Lips pressed against his, soft, but with a hint of teeth. Resting his hands on her hips, Slate realized she was naked—or at the very least, quite unclothed. He returned her kiss, raising a hand to card through her hair.
“Stay a while,” she murmured, standing on her toes to press the length of her body to his.
“Wish I could,” he answered, following the statement with another quick peck. “But I’ve got somewhere to be.”
She made a noise that was accompanied by a dramatic pout—he could hear it in her voice, even if he couldn’t see her face.
“Maybe next time,” he said, pulling away—and immediately running into someone else. This new someone was already engaged, if the noises were to be believed, and Slate slipped past, holding his hands cautiously out in front of him. The light that had been ahead of him was now slightly to his left, and he corrected course. His hand met someone else’s, and the someone quickly laced their fingers together.
Something small and hard was left in his palm when they retreated, and Slate dropped it to the ground.
He hoped Micah wasn’t in this room, though he’d never know if he was. Process of elimination was all he had to go on.
Someone came at him from the side, laughing, hands sliding over him as they passed. They didn’t try to engage.
The path across the room was a series of similar encounters. It wasn’t at all unpleasant, and more than once, he considered staying, as least for a while. There were worse evenings than a slow, anonymous fuck in the dark.
It occurred to him to wonder what the ratio of slaves in this room might be. There was no way to tell, he thought wryly. That was probably part of it, for some of them—being mistaken for a slave, being taken, being used . . .
It did nothing for him, and he carried on toward the door, and into the light.
Stepping out of the blackness, he raised a hand to cover his eyes. At first, he thought the room was bright enough to blind him—but it wasn’t just bright. It was white. The whole room was white, from the matte paint on the walls to the thick carpet underfoot. And it wasn’t just white, it was . . . soft.
The couches and chaises and sofas scattered throughout the room were all overstuffed, upholstered in velvets and brocades that begged to be touched, stroked, felt.
The people reclining in them certainly appeared to be having a good time. The dark room hadn’t been an anomaly. As Slate looked around, a good number of the people here were actively engaged in some form of sex, either with slaves or with each other.
He considered switching focus but didn’t bother. It didn’t matter, really. It was a new development either way.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” a man at his elbow asked, and Slate turned.
The slave was dressed as an angel, though his tunic was scandalously short, and the gold-feathered wings on his back were small enough not to be ungainly.
Slate considered telling him he was looking for someone, but there were hundreds of people here. It was the largest gathering of the year. And Slate had no idea where his slaves might be, what they might be doing . . .
“No,” he said, and the slave left him with a little bow.
Slate meandered through the room, taking in the various scenarios. It was clear Stewart was trying to do something with the sequence of rooms—the mundanity of the game room followed by the black room and then this gleaming palace in the clouds—it was probably some kind of statement about death, though Slate would have to see the other rooms to be sure.
The door on the far side of this room was red, and he had a suspicion that the activities there might be somewhat more extreme than the soft and fluffy fondlings that mostly greeted him here.
To his left, a trio of women reclined into an oversized couch, their fingers laced together, skirts draped over the golden wings of the slaves between their legs. Slate wished them a happy Saturnalia as he passed, but if they heard him, they didn’t respond.
Slate carried on, toward a head of red hair he thought he recognized. Sure enough, Arabelle turned toward him at his approach, with a cheery “Speak of the devil!”
She was seated at the edge of a large sectional, half draped over the arm, her long legs extended over the loveseat in front of her. Two men sat at a professional distance, giving Slate nods as he approached. Slate returned them, then noticed what the three of them must have been watching.
In front of the couch, Anthony was spread out across a thick, plush fur rug. His eyes were closed, his arms stretched languidly over his head. His body seemed to almost ripple, undulating under the slow thrusts of the man between his legs. The man’s back was to Slate, but Slate didn’t need to see his face to recognize him.
Micah’s breath was husky—it was clear he was close and holding back. How long he’d been there, holding that edge, Slate shuddered to think.
Arabelle was saying something, but Slate only had eyes for the men on the ground. Micah’s hand was between their bodies, stroking Anthony’s cock in time with his slow thrusts. Behind his hand, Anthony’s signature flickered in and out of view like sunlight through blowing leaves.
“Just like that,” Micah breathed, leaning forward. His hair was half up in braids, but a few loose strands still brushed against Anthony’s cheek as he leaned down. “You gonna come for me, baby?”
Anthony let out a noise that was half gasp, half moan, and reached for him. Slate took a step closer, but neither slave had eyes for their audience—only for each other, as Micah leaned down into a soft, tender kiss. Anthony stared up into his eyes, smiling, and Slate could see the edge of Micah’s returning grin.
With one last departing kiss, Micah straightened, the muscles in his back flexing as he resumed his earlier ministrations. There was some kind of gold dust on him—subtle, but unmistakable, and it caught the light in bright streaks as he moved.
Slate sat on the couch beside one of the strangers, taking a drink off a passing tray. Luster dust swirled in the amber liquid, giving it the appearance of molten gold. Slate downed it in one swallow.
And then he switched focus.
There was so little space between them, it was difficult to be sure at first. Micah was moving faster now, his breath coming hard through a wide grin. Anthony reached for him again, and rather than leaning down to meet him, Micah pulled him up, shifting his weight until Anthony was atop him. Anthony rode him the last half a dozen strokes, eyes never leaving Micah’s face, and then he was coming with a groan. Micah was only a few seconds behind, letting out a breathy moan as he clutched at Anthony’s arms.
“Very well done,” Arabelle said, with a polite clap.
Micah gave her a wide smile, his breath coming hard, his cheeks flushed, his hands still resting softly on Anthony’s thighs . . . and then he saw Slate.
For the first time, hesitation crossed his features. His eyes flicked from Slate, to Anthony, and back. Slate leaned forward, his elbow on his knee, knuckles against his chin, regarding his slave.
This angle made it obvious; there was no connection. The two of them were playing like love-struck puppies, but it was just an act.
But a good act.
So good it might have fooled him if he weren’t able to switch focus and see for sure.
Arabelle patted her knee and Anthony moved immediately, settling beside her with his cheek on her thigh. Micah snapped out of his confusion and sat up as well. He didn’t look at Slate, just melted into a waiting pose, his knees spread and his hands at the small of his back. His softening cock was still wet.
He didn’t glance to where Arabelle was petting Anthony’s hair.
“He’s much better,” Slate said, gesturing to Anthony. He turned to Arabelle and ignored Micah for the moment. “You’ve gotten some of the attitude out of him.”
Anthony reddened but didn’t say anything.
“I know my business,” Arabelle said cheerfully. “Four months is a long time, when it’s spent mindfully.”
“And they’re both yours?” one of the strangers asked Arabelle.
“No, they’re Slate’s,” Arabelle said, stroking the side of Anthony’s throat. “I just trained them.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without her,” Slate said. “That one was a hell of a brat when I first got him. But this one . . .” Micah risked a glance at him, and Slate beckoned. Not rising from his knees, Micah shuffled the short distance, until he was kneeling before the couch. Slate hooked one finger under Micah’s chin, lifting it until the slave was forced to meet his eyes. There was gold dust on Micah’s lids, bringing out the green in his hazel eyes, making his lashes darker in comparison. He was as beautiful as magic could make him, and in those eyes, Slate saw nothing. Not fear, not determination, not lust. Micah was a vessel, waiting to be filled with whatever he was asked to be.
If he was told to fuck Anthony, he would. If Slate needed him to dislike it, he would. If Arabelle needed him to adore it, then he’d do that too. And he’d do it so convincingly that Slate hadn’t even realized it was an act.
Slate stroked the side of Micah’s face, and Micah nuzzled against his knee.
“He’s perfect,” Slate said quietly.
January 2014
The one with the light eyes is back again.
When the door opens, I think maybe he is here to help me. I think this too often. It is never true.
He does not look at me as he approaches, his eyes set on the table. It is covered in the sharp man’s sharp things. The gray-eyed man does not fear the sharp things. He sets his papers down on top of them, unconcerned even for the safety of his books.
“I have some more questions,” he says, and I do not answer. I am bound to answer questions; I have no duty to exchange pleasantries.
The gray-eyed man does not expect this of me. He is not like the stupid one, the one with the scar. The stupid one thinks I will do what he means. The gray-eyed one knows I will only do what he says.
“What am I missing here?” the gray-eyed man says, holding a sheet of paper out to me. I don’t answer because I cannot take the paper. There are manacles around my wrists, holding my arms out to the sides. I could break them, but I was long ago ordered not to.
Today, I am not temped to try. I am holding very still.
Noticing, the gray-eyed man takes his paper back. He reads me a line of nonsense. The words reverberate softly. I watch the ripples as they dissipate. Quietly, I hum the reverberation back.
The gray-eyed man does not hear me. He reads me another line.
Another reverberation, a different form.
I hum this one back, and wince as my side erupts in a cacophony of noise.
It is not noise. It is a similar experience to very loud noise, but the air does not move. The flesh cringes from it, and the motion makes the noise worse. The sharp man is doing one of his tests. He brought ropes today, wrapping them ever-tighter around the base of my wings. He wants to see what will happen.
He thinks the wings are magic. I do not correct him.
They are flesh, the way the rest of this avatar is flesh. I built it from ruined scraps, doing the best I could with the information I had. I did not realize that the instructions for the wings were different from the rest. I barely understood what it was I was building, with only a sickening, overwhelming sense of damage urging me to try.
The noise I hear now once again sings of damage.
I am still. The noise does not happen when I am still.
“Is that the reverse?” the gray-eyed man asks me. I ask him to repeat the words. I do not need him to, but I would like to prolong his visit. When there are humans in the room, they turn lights on. I like the lights.
The gray-eyed man reads the first reverberation, then the second. He asks if they are the reverse. I assure him that they are. It is not a lie. Being nonsense, the statement is nonfalsifiable.
I do my best work in the midst of maybes.
He is putting together an incantation, one that he hopes will repair the damage I did to his encroachment. The theory behind it is quite clever, actually. I’m not sure I would have thought of it myself.
I answer his questions carefully, putting the most malice and obfuscation into the most irrelevant, mundane of details. I spit my hate at him while feeding him nonsense.
Crafting puzzles for him helps take my mind off the flesh. The flesh is loud today.
The sharp man wants to know how the magic flows through my body. He wants to know the difference between a stilled heart and a tourniquet. I could tell him. I choose not to.
He does not ask. Wisely, he does not trust the answers I give him.
Not like the gray-eyed man. The gray-eyed man believes my answers because he believes he is too clever to be lied to. He is wrong.
I feel the blood try to push into my wings, and I feel it turned away. The wings feel like nothing now, so long as I do not move them. I worry for the state I will find them in when the ropes are loosed.
I worry that the sharp man plans to remove them again.
The heart beats faster. The flesh fears for its own.
“Is it safe?” the gray-eyed man asks me, and I realize I have not been listening. I have been trying to hold still. The flesh moves when it is frightened.
I do not like being flesh. I cannot begrudge the gray-eyed man his quest.
But I will not help him succeed.
He holds the paper out to me, and I stare blankly.
(I maintain that I cannot read. They accept this without question. Stupid.)
Frustrated, the gray-eyed man snatches the paper back. He reads out his nonsense, the reverberations forming a clever melody. I nod approvingly.
“It is safe,” I assure him.
“How safe?” he demands. I inhale to speak, and my back erupts in cacophony. I bite my tongue to stop a whimper. I do not wish to inhale again.
“There is no way,” I say truthfully, “that performing that magic could ever harm or kill a human. Outside its intended target.”
Because he will kill another human to attempt this magic. The same way he killed the man once built of this flesh.
There is something reprehensibly incorrect about this species.
The gray-eyed man searches my face. I stare back at him, not caring if the noise shows.
He likes what he sees and withdraws.
He has more paper.
The noise from my wings is very loud.
It is disgusting that I can feel them and not heal them. I detest being locked inside the flesh, subject to the endless, endless, endless noise of its needs.
Not for the first time, there is temptation.
I could help the gray-eyed man. I could make a doorway back to my home. I could—
I cannot, I tell myself, and the weight of it turns the noise to pain.
Pain is when the noise sounds like despair. It is what I feel now. I fear that it may never stop.
But I will not teach the gray-eyed man the magic he needs. I will not let him bring pain to my people.
He shows me discordant nonsense. I say nothing. He orders me to speak, and I tell him it is wrong. He beats himself against it, and me, for the next hour, dragging each corrected syllable from my reluctant lips. When it is done, he has a simple melody. Any child would be proud.
I tell him the words are correct now. It is not a lie.
His face is smug as he collects his papers, revealing the sharp things waiting for me beneath.
I hate them.
I hate them.
I hate them.
June 2014
There were significantly fewer people at the second summoning.
There was a party upstairs, of course. There was always a party upstairs. But in the ballroom, that quiet, dark, offsetting ballroom? There were eight people, the bare minimum that Slate required to open the gate. He’d only needed eight the first time too, but at least then, people had been curious.
They weren’t curious now. They were impatient. They didn’t understand why he needed to work a spell he’d already worked, they didn’t understand why he’d needed to wait so long, they didn’t understand why this was different. He was being slowly buried in the expectations of people who didn’t understand.
Coffey brought the first sacrifice out. Mercia was here, upstairs, but he hadn’t bothered to engage with theatrics when there wasn’t an audience to perform them for. This slave was dressed in a plain blue uniform, cotton shirt and drawstring pants. Silver bands gleamed at her wrists and throat. Her soft shoes squeaked as she dragged her feet along the marble floor. She’d been given the same narcotics as the Gestalt’s slave, even though the spell had taken that one with a minimum of pain and fuss.
Slate cast a dark glance to where the angel stood in the corner, waiting. A thick leather muzzle covered the bottom of his face, and his wrists were held behind his back with metal shackles. His wings were restrained too: thin chains laced through grommets that Godfrey had punched through the skin.
He could be ordered not to move, of course, but there was the potential for this scenario to get somewhat volatile.
Slate turned his attention away from the angel and went back to his books. After working on this for a year, he thought he knew what the problem was. The angel had described it as scoring, as though he’d dug claws into the walls of the gateway as he’d been dragged through. Slate hadn’t found a way to make him stop working that magic—the unknown conceptual unknowns of the magic created linguistic shortfalls that Slate didn’t know how to overcome. The Gestalt’s description was intentionally vague and misleading, but it had given Slate a place to start.
In theory.
In theory, Slate should be able to open a second, smaller gateway within the first, but while the first gateway had come from his side, this second one should be able to open from the far side. The two gateways would work against each other in the void, forming a kind of torus that should hold the gateway open while containing the Gestalt’s damage safely within.
Should.
