by Mike Truk
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“An old wound, now. It’s funny, isn’t it? How time doesn’t make the pain go away, but instead just… replaces it with new concerns? The business of living?”
I thought of Michael; his honest, grinning face, curly black hair, and relaxed confidence, all goodwill and love. I felt that pang of pain again, but just as quickly it washed away, like a tide receding into the ocean.
“Yeah,” I said, voice growing thick. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Let’s try this wound again. Brace yourself.” She placed her hand over the spear injury. Crackling, itching pain crept through me, but I didn’t so much as wince. I simply observed the sensation, which diminished by slow degrees, eventually disappearing altogether.
“There,” she said. “Better?”
“Mmhmm,” was all I managed.
She moved down from my back to one of my legs, working in silence on my hamstring for a while.
“There’s great corruption here in Ur-Gharab,” she continued after a time, her voice contemplative. “We need to be careful, Noah. I mean, I know you will be? But you guys are getting very close to Lilith now. She knows you’re a threat. And… I don’t know. She’s going to be working hard to stop you. So, whatever comes, we have to be careful.”
She stopped, and I sensed her straightening. “I’m sorry, that was like, the worst advice ever.”
I smiled into the padding. “No, you’re right.”
“I mean, if Tagimron was about tearing you all apart, using your weaknesses against you, then Gharab will attack you in a different but perhaps more dangerous way, yeah?” She resumed her massage. “This sphere is all about endless conflict without wisdom or mildness, where life is endlessly destroyed as soon as it’s created. I don’t know how that will manifest as an attack on your integrity, but it’ll appeal to your darker natures. The corruption, the… temptation? Will be different but hard to resist.”
“Yeah,” I said, turning over as she prompted me. I studied her as she moved to my other leg - her slender frame, her cat mask gleaming. “Why are you still wearing that mask? We’re safe in here, aren’t we?”
She paused, looking up. I’d seen her face briefly back in Tagimron. She was gorgeous, with high cheekbones, a hint of East Asian ancestry to her features. Hauntingly beautiful, a beauty made even more poignant for always being hidden.
“Sorry,” I said. “Your call, obviously.”
“No, I understand.” She reached up to touch the mask. “It is weird, I know. But… I guess you could say it’s my own trauma. What happened to me. What brought me to Tagimron. It’s… I never want certain things to happen again. And protecting myself, my face, my name, my identity – it’s a way to try and make sure they don’t.”
“I understand,” I said.
Still, she hesitated. “I know Imogen said we were safe in here.”
I lay there, feeling heavy and ponderous, relaxed and somnolent, watching her.
“But… there’s no real reason to keep wearing this, other than… maybe habit?”
“You don’t have to take it off,” I said. “It’s your call, absolutely.”
She took the mask by the bottom edge and lifted until it rested atop her dark hair. She stared down at me, expression conflicted; a single vertical line appeared between her brows, her lively, intelligent gaze troubled.
She was beautiful. Youthful and pensive, the kind of beauty that’s only enhanced by the person being completely unaware of how striking they were.
“But… I was just saying how you guys are all becoming like family,” she said, then bit her lower lip for a moment, considering. “And if I can’t relax, even now? Then…”
I reached out and took her hand. “You’re safe. But you don’t have anything to prove. I understand that there’s more going on with the mask than I understand. And that’s enough for me.”
“You sure?” She squeezed my hand. “I’ve been feeling weird about it. Like maybe you guys would be insulted by my still wearing it.”
“No,” I said. “You’re good.”
“Thank you.” Again, she hesitated, then she lowered the mask over her face.
She just stood there, looking somehow smaller. Her shoulders were hunched, head hanging low.
“Hey,” I said, sitting up.
“I’m okay,” she said.
But still, she didn’t move.
I took her hands again. She held herself stiffly, almost rigid.
“Hey,” I said again.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I’m being silly. I - it’s just that - I hate needing this mask, and the relief I felt when I pulled it back on, it made me - it makes me so angry, and weak, and frustrated, and -”
I reached up and pulled her down into a hug. Her mask was hard and angular against my shoulder and cheek, but she held onto me tightly, smelling of massage oil, her thick, lustrous black hair spilling down my front. Her whole body shook. So, I just held her, waiting, until she pulled away with a sudden inhalation and adjusted her mask.
“I’m so sorry! This has to be the worst massage I’ve ever given.”
“No,” I said, smiling up at her. “It was great. You’re great.”
She glanced around, as if not knowing where to look, then gathered her thick hair between her hands and moved it behind her shoulder. “Um. I never finished. Want me to…?”
And, sensing her need to finish - to prove, perhaps to herself, that she was still in control - I lay back down and closed my eyes.
Little Meow placed her hands on my chest, resting them lightly there. She didn’t move, but just before I opened my eyes again, I felt her lean down and heard her whisper: “Thank you, Noah.”
The next half hour or so passed in silence; at some point, I fell asleep. Fell into a heaven made of strong fingers, slick oil, and an ever-deepening sense of relaxation from whose gravity well I couldn’t escape.
Hands stirred me back to waking, and I saw Imogen bending over me, a slight smile on her pert lips. “Little Meow said you were snoring.”
“Oh god,” I said, sitting up. “I’m sorry, I -”
“Shh. Come on. I said you had to bathe, get a massage, and then sleep. Let’s move you to the bed.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling thick-headed and lethargic. “Sure. No complaints this time.”
I took a moment to dip back into the pool, washing off the oil, then emerged to towel off and take Imogen’s gloved hand. She led me through another archway and down a brief corridor to a large room, dominated by a bed big enough to play tennis on. A multitude of pillows and cushions adorned the carved wooden headboard, and the thick, plush blankets had been pulled back to reveal an invitingly smooth interior.
I sat down with a sigh, finding the bed at first yielding, then firm a little deeper down. I fell back with utter contentment. The sheets were clean and cool, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laid down in such utter comfort.
“Imogen,” I began, turning to where she stood, then fell silent.
She was undressing.
She peeled her gloves off her arms, revealing the dark tattoos that covered every inch of her skin. Reaching behind her back to unbutton her dress, she shimmied out of it, allowing the thick black skirt and white apron to fall to the ground.
She wasn’t muscled like Valeria or toned and sculpted like Brielle, but rather trim and petite, with surprisingly generous hips and a narrow waist. Her twin messy braids fell over her shoulders. Every inch of her skin was covered in Harmiel, which rippled and changed sluggishly if examined for long; overlapping scales like that of some koi fish gave way to bruised petals like that of some Hawaiian flower, which changed into the slowly melting face of a demon. All of it in shades of yellow and purple, the darkest blue and black.
Imogen undressed with calm deliberation. I watched, head propped on one hand, drinking in the sight of her, but moreover appreciating the deep trust this took on her part. At last, she set the glasses down on her pile of clo
thing and slid in beside me.
Her skin was cool and smooth; I’d never have guessed she was so covered in tattoos from touch alone. She nestled against me, leg sliding between mine, arm draping over my chest, cheek resting on my shoulder.
I pulled the blanket down over us and lay still, staring up at the high ceiling. I didn’t feel at peace; even now, I was too aware of the dangers that awaited us, could feel the lurking monsters from my recent traumas awaiting me in the wings of my mind. But it was as close to peace as I could come, holding Imogen, her body slender and trusting beside my own, her hair brushing against my cheek, her fingers gently caressing my chest.
“I love you,” I said, surprising myself.
“And I love you,” she replied, without hesitation, without doubt.
I felt the urge to ask her thoughts on our situation, To sound out her advice on how to approach Emelias. How we could go about revealing his plans, foiling his stratagems.
But Imogen closed her eyes, nuzzled in closer, and sighed contentedly.
So, with effort, I allowed my eyes to close as well, and soon joined her in a deep sleep.
Chapter 3
I awoke to discover that Brielle and Emma had joined us in the huge bed. Taking up the far side, they lay carelessly intertwined, their hair meshed, both breathing easily. Their skin had that fresh, well-scrubbed look none of us had sported in ages.
For a moment I wondered why I’d awoken, then saw Little Meow standing in the doorway, mask on and knuckles raised to the frame where she’d just finished rapping.
“Breakfast? Or perhaps it's dinner? I can’t tell,” she said.
My stomach gargled as I felt a pang. “Perfect. How long were we asleep?”
“A few hours. There isn’t a good way to tell the time here.”
Imogen stretched, startled, then jerked the blanket up to her chin.
“I’ll leave you guys to it,” said Little Meow, backing away.
“Hmm?” Brielle arched her back, stretching even more luxuriously than Imogen, then turned to blink her searing blue eyes at me. “Something about dinner?”
“Or breakfast,” I said, kissing Imogen on the cheek as I slid over her to get out of bed. “Last one there has to eat the Brussel sprouts.”
“A true delicacy,” said Brielle with a sniff, turning to consider Emma, who still lay asleep. “When braised with a reduction of balsamic vinegar and crusted with sea salt.”
“All yours, then,” I said, pulling on my clothing.
“Where am…?” asked Emma, blinking and coming awake. “Oh. Good morning.”
“Morning, kitten,” said Brielle, tapping Emma’s nose before sitting up. She wore a dark bra and little else, her crimson hair tumbling down her shoulders to curl over her freckled cleavage. “Time to rise and embrace the glory of the Source.”
“Oh,” said Emma, turning her face away to bury it in her pillow. “Do we have to?”
I chuckled and left them to it, knowing Imogen wanted solitude in which to get dressed. Stepping back into the main chamber with its still-steaming pool, I saw a table had been set up by a half-dozen strangers in collars. They bustled around it, placing the finishing touches on plates, silverware, glasses, and platters of food.
“Morning,” I said. “Thank you for the food.”
They glanced at me, half-startled, half-horrified; then as one, they dropped to their knees, bowing their heads to the ground.
Little Meow and I froze.
“Uh - there’s no need for that,” I said.
They didn’t move.
“Seriously. Please get up.”
Cautiously, slowly, they rose, glancing at each other. Then, avoiding my eyes, they resumed their work.
I glanced over at Little Meow, who shrugged.
“You guys work for Emelias?” I asked, drawing close.
They all dropped to their knees again and bowed their heads to the ground.
“Okay, seriously. Stop doing that. On your feet, yeah?”
Again, they rose, this time a little more quickly, and once more glanced at each other before returning to their duties.
“Guess they’re not allowed to talk?” said Little Meow.
“Guess not.” It was weird, standing there while being studiously ignored. None of the servants were alike; their skin, stature, and age all varied, with only their extreme deference in common. A few moments later they were finished, and with deep bows, they backed toward the door, never turning around till they were gone from sight.
“That was awful,” I said. “They looked terrified.”
“Their master is a Morathi,” said Little Meow, surveying the spread. “Guess that says it all.”
“Yeah.” The joy in the food died within me. “You think this stuff is safe to eat?”
There were platters of gleaming sausage links, bowls of fish soup, loaves of light, airy bread with crocks of butter and honey, fruit salad in a crystal bowl, salvers of smoked salmon, boiled eggs - more than an entire football team could eat.
“I think so?” Little Meow took up a plate and held it to her chest. “Be strange for them to go through such effort to make us comfortable only to poison us later.”
“Or it could corrupt us,” said Valeria, sitting up from where she’d been sleeping all this time. Her face was still lined with pain, but her eyes were bright and alert once more. “Like their healing is wont to do.”
“True,” said Little Meow, then sighed. “But I’m so hungry.”
“Maybe we can wait for Imogen,” I said. “She’s got more familiarity with this than any of us.”
“All right,” said Little Meow, setting her plate down. “Fair enough. How are you feeling, Valeria?”
“Better, thank you.” She rose to her feet, rolling her head about her neck so a series of pops sounded out, then crossed an arm over her chest and pinned it with the other to stretch her shoulder. “Feeling weak, but much better. Might take a dip in that pool before eating, though. I feel like I’ve been rolled down a mountain of corpses.”
“Not a good feeling,” I said. “But even if you felt much better, the water’s still great.”
“Then if you’ll excuse me,” she said, and quickly shucked her clothing. I no longer knew how many times I’d seen her body, but it still never ceased to impress me. She was feminine yet strong, with muscles flaring into view as they tensed; her thighs were rock hard, her core sculpted, her arms possessing a panther-like strength. Geometric tattoos ran across her arms and thighs, emphasizing her power. She looked like a Valkyrie brought to life.
I saw amusement in her gaze as she looked over at me, fingers working to untangle the thick braid in which her golden hair was bound.
No need for words. I grinned at her and enjoyed the view as she gave me a wink, then moved down the steps into the heated water.
“Ah…” she sighed, closing her eyes and sinking beneath the surface. A moment later, she emerged, blowing spray from between her lips. “Now that’s good.”
Emma and Brielle entered shortly after, soon followed by Imogen, who declared the food innocent of corruption.
That was all the encouragement we needed. The next ten minutes were silent but for the sounds of silverware scraping on plates and the chewing of food.
Valeria swam slow, lazy laps, the pool so short it was barely worth the effort; I sat and enjoyed the show, the long pull of her muscled arms, the way her golden hair formed a shifting halo around her face.
When the last of us set our plates down, a knock sounded on the door, which opened without waiting to reveal Isossa in a black dress that was almost Victorian in cut. Tight across her torso and chest, it billowed out into a voluminous skirt, at once emphasizing her femininity while hiding most of her charms.
“Good morning,” she said, taking in the scene with a smile. “I’m glad to see you’ve availed yourself of Emelias’s hospitality. He’d like a word with you all when you’re ready. Simply exit through this door when you’re presentable - or not, I s
uppose - and you’ll emerge into his library.”
“Is he going to supply us with answers?” asked Brielle, her facing turning hard.
“Oh yes, we’ve no secrets here,” said Isossa. “But you may not like what you hear. Alas. Isn’t that the way of the world? Still, don’t keep him waiting. He’s so excited to see you. It’d be cruel to linger.”
“I’d not wish to be cruel,” I said.
“Not yet, no,” replied Isossa with a smirk. “You’re too young and inexperienced. But give it time. I’ll see you all soon.”
With an inclination of her head, she stepped back out and closed the door.
“Answers,” said Valeria from where she’d stopped at the edge of the pool and folded her arms over the lip. “How can we trust what they tell us?”
“They’ll be revealing no matter what they say,” said Imogen. “And we’ll have to trust our instincts to tell the difference. Alas that we can’t simply psyche-imperium them into telling us what we wish to know.”
“Why not?” asked Valeria, looking up at her. “We disarm them, bind them, rip their amulets away…?”
“They’re not as defenseless as they seem,” said Imogen.
“And we’d be burning that bridge before we even know where we want to go,” I said. “Though it’s an option for later. First, let’s hear what they’re willing to volunteer.”
Valeria frowned. “Lies, that’s what they’ll volunteer. But very well. We’ll hear them out, and then wrest the truth from them.”
With that, she pushed herself up and out of the pool, the motion a wondrous display of physical prowess, to rise and walk to the closest towel.
Fifteen minutes later, we were ready, having donned our cloaks and packs and gathered before the door.
I took a deep breath, pulled it open, and stepped into a large, inviting study. It was all shadowy depths, with heavily waxed wooden furniture and a roaring fireplace under a massive mantel of black marble.
Emelias stood before the great fire, hands linked behind his back, gazing into its roaring depths. He turned and fixed me with an inscrutable smile as I made my way forward, over the plush carpet and toward the ring of armchairs set before the fireplace.