Broken Contracts, page 21
Christopher was looking at him curiously now. “Of course it was me. You didn’t recognize my work? I used the circle pattern, each interlocking spell reinforcing the one before and after—”
“And that’s why the damage couldn’t be contained in the torus,” Slate finished. He slumped back into his chair, rubbing his face. Everything he’d worked on, all his experiments, would have to be redone. He knew even less than he’d thought.
“But I know how it works now,” Christopher said proudly, flipping through to the back of the book. “Lilin and I figured it out. Look, there’s a linchpin at the base of the magic; you break this one point and the gateway will collapse.”
Slate didn’t need the diagram. He knew the pin in question.
“You can’t pull that,” he explained patiently, “because everyone will die. If the gate collapses, everyone who put their blood into it dies.”
Christopher looked pained. He circled the table, settling down into the seat closest to Slate.
“Adam, I know that,” he said softly. “But you’ve seen what I saw. What’s happening now is only going to get worse. We have to stop it while we can.”
So it gets worse, so what? Slate thought, trying not to think of Anthony’s naked body, the way it had sagged in the restraints. “We knew we would have to break some eggs to make this omelet. We knew that.”
Christopher reached out, taking his hand again. “You called me because you know that’s not true. You know that the cost is getting too high, and Adam, it will only get higher. What I saw through there was Hell. We summoned a demon, from Hell.”
Unbidden, Slate recalled the Gestalt’s face, tears on his cheeks as he tried to shove his failing magic into Anthony’s battered body.
There were demons to contend with, sure, Slate thought. But they hadn’t come through the gateway.
“I know you’re afraid of the path you’re on,” Christopher said earnestly, looking at their entwined hands. “But none of you can die so long as the gateway is open. Imagine the depths you’ll have sunk to in a hundred years. Two hundred.” His eyes were wide and earnest behind his glasses. “You know I’m right. This is how we save everyone, Adam.”
Slate stared at his friend in disbelief. He’d thought he was slipping, that Christopher would be a safe haven . . . but Christopher was worse off than any of them. He was delusional. The doorway was incredible, but it wasn’t the fountain of fucking youth.
“You need to stop the magic you’ve been doing,” Slate said bluntly. “I need to see what’s on the far side. I don’t care what it takes.”
Christopher shook his head vehemently, clutching Slate’s hand harder.
“No, I’m telling you, you don’t want to see. You don’t want to know. It’s Hell, Adam, it’s horrible and insane and—”
“I don’t care,” Slate hissed, leaning in. “I have to see it.”
It couldn’t be that bad. It couldn’t. The Gestalt had come from there and he was fine—intelligent, well mannered, and saner than he honestly had any right to be. He knew things he’d never reveal if Slate tortured him for a millennium—and Slate didn’t have that kind of time.
He had to get that gate back open.
Christopher tried to withdraw his hand, and Slate realized he’d been holding on too tight. His nails had left crescent indents in Christopher’s skin. Still, he didn’t let go.
“Stop. The magic,” Slate repeated.
A pained look crossed Christopher’s face, and he yanked his hand back, rubbing at the divots Slate had left. “No.” His voice was harder than Slate had ever heard it. “I’m not going to let you do this to yourselves.”
Slate was almost impressed. He wouldn’t have thought Christopher had it in him.
“I’m not asking permission,” Slate said, standing to look down on his friend. “I’m telling you: it stops now, or you won’t like what happens next.”
Christopher rose as well, leaning in, and for a moment Slate thought the man meant to fight him. His eyes searched Slate’s from inches away, and Slate prepared to dodge a punch.
Instead, Christopher’s hands came up to cup Slate’s cheeks. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Slate’s.
“I’d go with you,” he said quietly. “I’d be there with you, when—when the door closed. I wouldn’t make you do it alone. It sounds horrible, but . . . I’d go with you, into the dark. If you wanted.”
“Your blood wasn’t in the spell,” Slate said dully.
“But I’m in Hell nonetheless,” Christopher said, and Slate could feel wetness on his cheeks. It wasn’t from him. “I lost something that night I can’t live without. And I know I’ll never get it back.”
Slate took Christopher by the shoulders, pushing him back to stare at him from arm’s length.
“I’m telling you to walk away. Now. From all of this. Whatever you lost, live without it.”
“I don’t want to!” Christopher shouted, and the air reverberated in a way that had little to do with sound. Slate drew back, switching focus as he did.
At first he thought there was something wrong with his eyes, something that left shifting starbursts twisting across his blurred vision—but no, Christopher was still there, in the center, clear as day.
He was connected to everything.
Slate wasn’t sure what this meant. He’d never seen this before. He wasn’t even sure that Christopher knew what he was doing. The man stood beside the table, his face a mask of sadness and anger, breathing deeply. Even the air was connected to him.
Slate’s hand inched toward his knife, forgotten on the table beside his half-eaten steak. He switched focus and the restaurant came back into view, ambient lighting on the empty tables and chairs.
“What are you doing, Christopher?” Slate said, keeping his voice level as his fingers curled silently around the handle.
“I’m trying to talk some sense into you!” Christopher shouted, and his words echoed in a way they shouldn’t, as if the air were reluctant to let them go. “You know there’s something wrong, you admit you’re even scared of yourself—and your solution is to save Micah? Micah? One hospitality slave, and everything else can burn?”
Slate did have to admit that his priorities on that one might be a little skewed.
It probably wouldn’t help his case if he argued that he didn’t even really care about Micah, per se, it was just that the medic kept giving him these looks, after, and he didn’t have any excuse, really, for the things he did. If it were any slave but Micah, he could just kill them and not have to summon the medic at all . . . it had worked with Anthony, it could work again . . .
Okay, yes.
There might be something very off about his priorities.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Slate said in a low voice. “You’re the one who left. You’re the one who’s been undermining me from the shadows this whole time—”
“To save you from the demons you’d pull through!” Christopher protested, and Slate laughed. It was dark, and low, and it sounded very small in Christopher’s atmosphere.
“I’ve been blaming the demon for the gate failures,” Slate said, his grin flavoring the words. “And Hell is what I’ve put him through, trying to force him to fix it.”
Don’t antagonize him, said a small, scared little voice in Slate’s head, but it was drowned out by a larger one, an angry one that said he had no right.
“I killed someone,” Slate hissed, and it was so easy to say it now. “I told the demon that I’d stop if he fixed the gateway, and would you know it? He refused. He refused through the beatings, the amputations, the rapes, Christopher. Oh, I’m sure you can imagine those.”
Christopher’s face was turning white, and he’d taken a step back. Good. Be afraid. Be disgusted.
“You’re lying,” Christopher said, and Slate shook his head, grinning. He could feel that little tendril of excitement curling in his belly, the one that purred when he had someone dead to rights.
“Swear on the gods. How does it feel, knowing that you let a demon suffer all that, just to protect you?”
“You’re lying!” Christopher shouted, pushing him backward, and Slate almost dropped the knife as he stumbled back. He caught himself on a chair before he could go down, and he sat there, laughing.
“I don’t need to lie, Christopher. Whatever lie I could spin to hurt you, the truth is worse.” Slate looked up at him, a grin playing at his lips. “Now the question on my mind is, what do I need to do to him to make you stop?”
“You wouldn’t,” Christopher said, his voice as thick as the air, tight and oppressive around Slate’s chest. “You’re not that kind of man. I know you, Adam—”
“Do you hear yourself?” Slate asked, almost laughing. “We killed someone together, Plant. Or, wait . . .” He paused, tapping a finger on his chin. “Do you mean I’d never do something like that to you? Because you’re different?”
The expression on Christopher’s face let Slate know he’d struck truth. He stood, laughing, and set the knife back on the table. He gestured for his jacket, before remembering that he’d told the staff to leave.
Annoying.
He settled for buttoning his suit coat, not looking at Christopher as he did so.
“He heals very quickly, so bear that in mind when I tell you this. I’m going to go home, and I’m going to cut his tongue out for lying to me. Then I’m going to start repairing the gate. And every time I get the suspicion that it’s not working the way I hope it will, I’m going to take one of his fingers off with a bolt cutter.”
Christopher was shaking his head, the air reverberating with the frantic motion. “I can’t, Adam, I can’t let all of this go just for him—”
Déjà vu, Slate mused, settling his hands into his pockets with a nonchalance he didn’t completely feel.
“—but I’m not giving up on you. You do . . .” Christopher swallowed hard. “I can’t stop you from doing what you feel you have to. I’ll just have to trust in the good I know is in you.”
The air shifted, telegraphing Christopher’s intent far ahead of his motion. It parted for him with ease, candles flickering and almost going out.
Slate didn’t resist as Christopher pressed their mouths together, magic swirling around them like a cool breeze. The air rushed back into the room, pressure relenting until Slate became aware of Christopher’s hands on his hips.
One, two, three gentle pecks as the air-starved candles rose again to their full height, chasing away the oppressive darkness. It was like a physical weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Christopher stared up at him, hope written plainly over his features. Slate gave him a small smile, then leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against Christopher’s temple.
“When he runs out of fingers,” Slate whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Christopher’s ear, “I’ll cut off his cock.”
His business thus finished, Slate didn’t wait to revel in Christopher’s wide-eyed stare. He simply turned and walked away.
Or at least, he tried to.
Two steps away from Christopher, the air turned to stone. Slate froze, midstep, the space beneath his foot becoming stone.
“I tried, Adam,” Christopher said, his voice choked. “I want you to remember that. I want you to remember that I tried.”
“With what?” Slate snapped. At least he could still talk, even if he couldn’t move. “Your stupid fairy tale kiss? You thought I was going to give up everything I worked for because I’m in love?”
“Shut up!” Christopher screamed. Tears spilled from his eyes, making him look younger than he was. He dropped to his knees, rummaging through his bag. “I didn’t want to have to do this! You made me!”
Slate had no idea what “this” was, but considering the current circumstance, he couldn’t imagine it was anything good. The smug tendril of warmth in his belly twisted into something not unlike fear.
But, no, Christopher wouldn’t hurt him. Christopher was in love with him. Or at least, he thought he was.
Then again, Christopher was also a couple piñatas short of a party and had started the meeting under the impression that Slate wanted his help committing mass murder and suicide, so, it was hard to predict what Christopher would do, really.
From his bag, Christopher withdrew an intricate wooden box, no bigger than a deck of cards, and set it on the ground. He didn’t open it. Instead, he retrieved a grease pencil and began drawing on the floor: square, geometric characters that Slate didn’t recognize.
Slate took the opportunity to shift his weight, testing his reach for the table and the knife resting on it. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he moved a few centimeters.
“It’s not forever,” Christopher said, to himself or to Slate, it wasn’t immediately clear. “It’s just until I find a better plan. A way to close the gate on my own, or someone to help me. Someone who isn’t afraid of you.”
Slate wished him luck with that. Magic tended to make money, and people with money tended to like each other. The circles Slate ran in tended to keep an eye on their enemies—while they lasted.
Christopher had only escaped their notice because the Gestalt had been taking credit for the shit he pulled.
Slate’s fingertip brushed the knife just as Christopher finished drawing and looked up.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing. The air around Slate’s hand turned solid, just as his fingers closed around the handle. He had it—uselessly.
“You were going to—to stab me?” Christopher asked, his voice layered with hurt, and Slate actually had to think about it. Before this unfortunate meeting, Christopher had been the one person whose company Slate really enjoyed. He’d been the person Slate trusted to keep Micah safe. And mass murder aside, his misguided heart really did seem to be in the right place with this “gateway to Hell” thing.
Could he kill Christopher, if he needed to?
Slate looked down to the engraved wooden box and the containment spell it sat in the center of.
Yeah. Yeah, he could.
Christopher must have seen it in his eyes, because he sighed and picked up the box, setting it on the table. Slate tried to pull away, but he was frozen in place so tightly he didn’t even twitch.
“I’ve done this before, don’t worry,” Christopher said. “On an incubus I tried to summon as a familiar. You’ll meet him when we get home.”
“I’m not going home with you,” Slate said, too loud, but the bravado fell flat when they both knew he wouldn’t have a choice.
“This might hurt,” Christopher said apologetically, and Slate got out a single shout before the air cracked. The solid restraints around him turned intangible, leaving him stumbling. His ears rang, and he checked the box, expecting to see that it had exploded or something.
It sat silently on the table, innocent and unopened.
“What . . .?” he started, and then Christopher collapsed forward against him, almost taking them both to the ground. Fortunately, Slate’s chair was still behind him, and he dropped into it, Christopher’s limp bulk on top of him.
“Sir?” someone asked, and Slate looked up, confused.
Justin stood in the doorway. The guard’s gun was drawn.
Of course.
Slate’s brain worked backward through a chain of realizations as the bloodstain bloomed across the back of Christopher’s shirt.
The security team had been here, waiting outside to make sure he and Christopher remained undisturbed. He’d brought them to keep away intruders, but they would have heard the commotion. They would have recognized the danger.
And Justin . . .
Slate watched the indent re-holster his gun, his scarred hands strong and sure.
Justin could do what needed doing. He’d killed men for less than this; that was why Slate had bought his contract.
“He’ll live, if we get a medic in here fast enough,” Justin told him. It wasn’t an order, or even a suggestion. Just information for Slate to use as he pleased.
Christopher’s head lolled against Slate’s chest. Hot blood was seeping into the space between them, ruining Slate’s jacket.
Christopher’s eyes twitched, and he let out a pained whimper. His breath rattled wetly; there was blood in his lungs.
Could his magic heal him? Was that a power he had?
Slate didn’t know.
He kept his eyes on the wooden box as his hand found the knife, slipping it into the space between two of Christopher’s ribs. He could feel the resistance on the blade as Christopher’s heart tried to continue beating, autonomous flesh unable to recognize the harm it did itself as it spasmed and flailed against the sharp edge. But what could it have done if it had known? The heart cannot choose contrary to its purpose.
Blood poured over his hands, and Slate waited for that twist of feeling, the joy in his belly that told him he’d done something real. That there was no turning back now.
It didn’t come.
He waited as the motion of the blade slowed and stilled, as the blood between them cooled, as the candles burned to their prickets.
When he withdrew the blade, the hand that held it was black. Whether it came from blood or a deeper stain, he didn’t know.
November 2014
Slate lay on the table, letting Micah’s hands wander over him.
He’d had a masseuse for this once—a woman whose hands hinted at a Gift, though she swore she didn’t have one. She was a person, not an indent, though, and that had rankled at him. He’d asked her if she would consider a contract, a permanent placement, and she’d laughed.
Slate didn’t permit many people to laugh at him.
She had a husband and hopes for a baby, and the money she made was too good to need a contract. So he’d gone the other route and paid off her mortgage in exchange for lessons. She’d given those lessons to three rounds of hospitality slaves now. She thought they were Slate’s lovers; no one corrected her.
Micah wasn’t as good as she was, but he was certainly better than nothing.
Part of it—and Slate realized he was partially to blame for this—was the hesitancy in Micah’s hands, a softness where there should be force.
