Machine

by K. Z. Snow

  Fanule’s apprehension rose. “Might I speak to Clancy if he’s there?”

  Sharply, “He isn’t.”

  “Oh. Well, he must still be out searching for a host.”

  Simon answered in a sad, angry rush. “He isn’t here, and I doubt he’ll be here, because he wasn’t here last night. Even if he does show up, he’ll be turned away. I’m done with vampires. I’m done with him.”

  “Oh, gods,” Fanule muttered, dropping into a chair. “Bentcross, we need to talk.” Betty appeared in the doorway, or at least her head did, and her wavering features betrayed her alarm.

  “All we need to talk about is working out that deal, as soon as you get your OMT back from Marchman. Which reminds me… why the hell did you throw him out? You’ve been under the weather before but never wanted to be rid of him.”

  Fanule felt an upsurge of grief and guilt. “You talked with William?”

  “He came to my shop today.”

  “Why?” William wouldn’t think of staying with Simon, would he? The mere thought of them living under the same roof set Fanule’s stomach roiling. He couldn’t summon any outrage. He was, after all, the one responsible for William’s homelessness.

  “For gods’ sake, Perfidor, don’t come undone over it. He just wanted to know if Clancy would look after you at night, since he’s not there to do it himself.” Bentcross muttered something Fanule didn’t catch.

  “What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

  “I said, you and Marrowbone are both pigeon-kissing tossers. Maybe the two of you should get together again. He’s unaffected by your spells, and you’re unaffected by his fickleness. And if you want to punch me for saying that, I don’t give a damn. It’s the truth, and I’ll damned well punch you right back. Just don’t suck the light from my eyes, ’cause I’ll be needing them to find a new and better playmate.”

  Hanging his head, Fanule sighed. He had no desire to punch anybody. Hurt rang through Simon’s furious words, and it drowned out any outrage Fanule might otherwise have felt. “Clancy hasn’t just been your playmate, Simon, and you know it. That’s why we need to talk. You can’t write him off.”

  “The hell I—!”

  “Something might have happened to him,” Fanule cut in, raising his voice.

  The parlor clock ticked through Simon’s silence.

  “Bentcross?”

  “What might’ve happened to him?” Simon’s voice was tight and quiet. Just like that, he’d stopped being incensed. If he still felt wounded, his hurt was of a different nature now.

  In the doorway, Betty despairingly shook her head.

  “I wish I could tell you,” Fanule said, “but I don’t know. We’re going to look into it, though.”

  “We? Who’s we?”

  “A mutual friend and I.”

  “A vampire friend?” Judging by the sound of his voice, Simon’s level of tension was rising.

  Fanule made an effort to sound calm. “No. I don’t know any other vampires. She’s the healer I’ve mentioned. Clancy sleeps near her cottage.”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  “You can’t, Simon.”

  “Damn it, Perfidor, I’m the one who’s… most attached to him!”

  Fanule smiled at the euphemism. It was a limp smile, granted, but at least he was capable of feeling a small touch of amusement. Why would so many men rather choke than admit to loving someone?

  “You can talk to me,” Fanule said. “She knows no more than I.” He glanced at Betty, who did look relieved. The poor woman had already been seen by William. He was probably the first mortal human who’d laid eyes on her since Louis Pandemain, the monster who’d done away with her and her cat.

  “Then tell me what you know,” Bentcross said.

  Fanule realized he must choose his words carefully, lest he upset Simon unnecessarily or give away the location of Marrowbone’s sleeping chamber. The latter wasn’t his secret to divulge. “It appears Clancy hasn’t been to his hide in the past couple of days. Before you assume he’s fled the province without a word, it also appears he hasn’t done that, either. His possessions are still where he left them. But most important,” Fanule hastened to add, “there’s no indication he was attacked while he slept.”

  Simon hesitated before responding. “So… what exactly are you telling me?”

  What indeed? Fanule hadn’t told Bentcross anything, really. He glanced at Betty, who lifted and dropped her arms in what appeared to be a shrug. “I’m trying to convince you that Clancy hasn’t abandoned you. He’s disappeared. All his things are where he left them. Yet there’s no sign that any harm has come to him.”

  “No sign?” Bentcross shouted. “How the fucking hell do you know? Have you searched the entire blasted province for ‘signs’? He could’ve been taken down anywhere, Perfidor, not just where he sleeps! And with your damned lunatic of a father prowling around—”

  “What’s he got to do with this?” Fanule broke in, jarred by the reference. Even Betty’s head drifted forward.

  “He thinks vampires are devils, that’s what! And a twor vampire?” Simon barked out an acid laugh. “In his eyes, that’s the most diabolical kind of devil. Your old man sweats hatred, Perfidor. And who knows what the hell is inside that damned wagon he’s been hauling around?”

  Betty’s eyes opened wider as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Cold swept over Fanule when he looked at her.

  Someone pounded on the front door.

  Betty withdrew so rapidly, her departure made a soft, suctioning sound.

  Simon’s voice sliced through the room. “Fuck all this, I’m going to find out what he’s up to.”

  Before Fanule could ascertain what Bentcross meant—whether he was referring to Clancy or Zofen—the front door banged open. Scowling and wild-eyed, Doder Cormorand barged into the parlor, his arm curled around a bedraggled, oversized doll.

  “End call,” Fanule croaked into the voxbox, his mind spinning and stomach churning, his unsteady legs barely able to carry him forward.

  The doll was Yissi Sweetgrass. Her eyes were open but sightless.

  She looked deader than Lizabetta.

  Chapter Nine

  “WHAT’S WRONG with her?” Fanule asked.

  “Can’t you see? Overnight she turned into a damned sack of rice, that’s what’s wrong.”

  “Where were you?”

  Doder’s face reddened. He was a broad-shouldered man with a dome-shaped belly and arms like war clubs. His short, choppy hair matched his ill-shaven face. “In the city, enjoying a few games. I’ve a right, you know. I work damned hard every day.”

  So he was in Purinton, at a gambling parlor. The man did work hard, Fanule had to grant him that, but he played even harder.

  Doder, face set stubbornly against any judgment, steered Yissi across the room and sat her on the sofa. He remained standing, staring down at her. “Aggabin voxed me when I got home from work and said she’d been wandering aimlessly around the village all day. He managed to get her into his store and keep her there until I came to fetch her.”

  “Did you take her to see Doc Crimple?”

  “Just came from there.” Doder finally tore his gaze from Yissi, put his hands on his hips, and looked at Fanule. “He tried to talk to her, which got him nowhere just like it got me, then made her picture and studied it. He said it was ‘moral insanity’ that done this and she should be in Cindermound.” His expression grew more belligerent, if that were possible, and a patch of skin beneath his right eye began twitching. “You know what’s goin’ on in this village better ’n anyone, Eminence. So you tell me if it’s moral insanity.”

  “Give me a moment to feed the fire, Doder. It’s getting cold in here.” Fanule went over to the parlor stove and shoveled in more coal. He hadn’t been tending to his fire very well, and a chill had indeed been overtaking the house.

  Damn that puffed-up Crimple. He was a smart man, smart enough (and with a large enough human component i
n his lineage) to have made it through some medical school. Most of the time he could treat common illnesses and injuries well enough, but he espoused some bizarre notions when it came to nonphysical maladies.

  Crimple had certainly heard the rumors about Yissi Sweetgrass and Jusem Fober—everybody had heard them, except for Yissi’s common-law husband—so the doctor had simply paired those rumors with some lame-brained new theory. Had Crimple known about the wild swings of Fanule’s mental pendulum, he would have had the Eminence of Taintwell unseated in a blink and on his way to the asylum. Either melancholia or mania alone would have been enough to guarantee him a place there, but both? Fanule was certain he’d have been caged and bound like a demon escaped from the underworld.

  He wished Crimple would retire. There were two good healers in Taintwell who didn’t have the pretensions that seemed to come with a diploma.

  Before addressing Cormorand, Fanule bent over the chair. “Hello, Yissi,” he said gently. “I’m honored you came for a visit.”

  Her expression didn’t alter one whit. She didn’t so much as glance up.

  Sighing, Fanule straightened. This was very strange indeed. Strange and unsettling. He’d heard of Pures looking after family members who were in their dotage and who behaved in a similar way. He’d even seen a few. But they’d descended gradually into dementia and catatonia. Yissi was a Mongrel, not a Pure. She was young and personable and had apparently lapsed into this state overnight.

  “Doder,” Fanule said, hoping no trace of his own illness was evident, “I may not be a doctor, but I know you can’t see inside a woman’s mind by looking at a photograph of her face. If that were possible, many marriages would be much happier. Or end altogether.” He smiled, but Cormorand’s scowl only deepened.

  “Then why did Doc Crimple make her picture and study it?”

  Fanule shrugged. “Damned if I know. It could be a new medical fad. He’s always been drawn to odd machines and theories. They must make him feel like a visionary, even when he doesn’t understand them very well.”

  Doder regarded Fanule through narrowed eyes. “You still ain’t answered my question. Have you heard any gossip about my Yissi? Tell me what you know.”

  “What I hear and what I know are often two entirely different things. But when it comes to you and your wife, I suspect they aren’t.” Fanule glanced at the woman. It was exceedingly rude to speak about someone as if she wasn’t present when in fact she was. But Yissi truly didn’t seem to be with them. Where her mind was, he couldn’t begin to guess.

  Cormorand fixed him with a defiant stare. “What’re you getting at, Perfidor?”

  No more “Eminence.” That was telling. Fanule had no desire for a confrontation—his reserves of energy were low—but he had even less desire to placate a man whom he knew to be unneighborly and, from all indications, a wife beater.

  “Since you asked, I’m not going to mince words. You’re a cruel taskmaster. You work Yissi like a mule, berate her, and vent your temper on her. The entire village is aware of it because countless people have seen evidence of it. So if she’s withdrawn from the world, I’d be far more inclined to blame you than some condition dreamed up by an educated idiot who’s scornful of women.”

  Cormorand lunged forward. Instead of either pulling back or meeting his aggression with fists, Fanule grabbed him tightly by the shirtfront and stared into his eyes. Only as a last resort would he suck the light from them. “If I were you, Doder, I’d take my wife home, beg for her forgiveness, and lavish her with kindness. Provoking a man who’s never lost a fight is rather a waste of your time. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Whether intimidated by Fanule’s words or their tone, or the fact he was a lightsucker, Cormorand slanted his eyes away and took a few steps back. He turned toward the sofa and grasped Yissi by the hands, urging her to stand. Although she did so, she still registered no awareness of her surroundings, or even of her own body.

  “I’ll consider what you said about my misbehavior. But let me tell you something, Eminence. Maybe other cuckolded husbands in Taintwell don’t have the cobs to settle their scores, but I don’t suffer from that kind of infirmity. If some pissant excuse for a man has stripped Yissi of her senses, I’ll handle him the way I’d handle a weasel in my henhouse.”

  Doder led his shell of a wife out the door.

  Betty immediately came out of the kitchen. “Go to bed now,” she told Fanule with caring firmness, smoothing an airy hand over his back. “I’ll be staying here until morning. You’ll think more clearly once you’re rested.”

  Fanule nodded. One thing was certain: he had plenty to think about.

  THE FIRST thought that came into Fanule’s mind when he awoke with a stiff jack was that he would have to wake William for their morning relief.

  His second thought was far less pleasant and infused with even greater urgency.

  He was lying in bed alone, and deservedly so. “Jackass,” he mumbled to himself. His first order of business today would be to ride to Elva’s boardinghouse, kneel before William, and ask for forgiveness. No—more than that. Fanule would humble himself as he’d never done before and beg until his knees were chafed and his voice gave out. He’d vow to drink that foul tea by the troughful if he had to, for he’d not let his illness—no, his pride, his damned pride—deprive him of the love of his life.

  Never again.

  If he could win William back.

  Without complaint, he ate the breakfast Betty had prepared and drank his medicine. He shaved, then filled his tin tub and bathed. Betty said she’d be returning to her cottage and spending some time in her gazing box, trying to determine Clancy’s whereabouts and gather any other information she could. Fanule would be spending his time in Taintwell.

  As much as he loathed the idea, he was also determined to track down his father, if for no other reason than to put his mind at ease. Bentcross’s statement about Zofen had burrowed beneath Fanule’s skin, where it tormented him more with each passing minute. “He thinks vampires are devils…. Your old man sweats hatred, Perfidor. And who knows what the hell is inside that damned wagon he’s been hauling around?”

  “NOT HERE? But the OMT is parked in your lot.”

  Elva shrugged as she gazed up at Fanule. “Maybe he couldn’t get it started. I happened to hear him voxing someone yesterday about repairs. He did rise mighty early, even missed breakfast, so he must’ve feared he’d have to fuss with that transport. I imagine he gave up and either set out on foot or secured a horse from Neyanon’s stable. At supper last night, he mentioned looking for winter employment.”

  Shit! “Would you mind terribly if I slipped into his room for a moment and left a note?”

  “I suppose it would be all right, seeing as he’s been living at your place.”

  Pulling a ring of keys from beneath her apron, Mrs. Scrubb walked out of her improvised office, the concealed rear-half of which served as her private quarters, and down the first-floor hall. Fanule followed. How discomfiting, being admitted to William’s “rooms” as if he were a stranger or mere acquaintance. What must William have thought of his lover for doing this to him?

  I don’t deserve his forgiveness, but to get it, I’ll prostrate myself and eat dirt if I must.

  Once the door was unlocked, Mrs. Scrubb opened it and stepped to one side, letting Fanule enter.

  Immediately, a knot formed in his throat. Familiar articles of clothing were draped carefully over the back of a chair in the sitting room. An open valise stood just inside the door to the bedroom, its contents spilling out. The bedding was rumpled.

  Fanule was tempted to lie down on it. William’s scent had wrapped around him as soon as he’d stepped into the small suite, a smell that was a unique, drugging mix of fragranced hair and skin, and of hidden nooks and hollows that harbored richer, more seductive odors.

  They’d only been apart for a day, but Fanule hadn’t reveled in William’s presence for what felt like a month. He missed his love, his second wing,
more than he could bear.

  When Mrs. Scrubb continued to watch him rather than depart, Fanule stepped back to the door, smiled, and said, “Thank you. I won’t be long.” He eased the door against its jamb, just to be free of her prying eyes, but didn’t securely close it. She finally minced away.

  A book of some kind, bound in dark-red leather and secured with a gold cord, lay on the thin-legged writing desk. The cover bore no gilt-stamped title. His curiosity aroused, Fanule lifted it and eased the looped cord off the small red knob that held it in place.

  At least I have something with which to pass the time, read the first line, while I await the arrival of some form of good fortune. It was written in William’s neat hand, which explained the bottle of ink and agate-stemmed pen that were lying near the book. He’d begun a journal, probably to fill the hours he and Fanule would normally have filled together.

  It would not surprise me, the script went on, if the drummer on the floor above appears at my door one night. I must prepare myself, for I’m still unused to such advances, and need to meet them with appropriate self-possession.

  How humiliating if I, a fellow sales-man, appeared bumbling and inexperienced!

  Fanule’s brows drew together as a feeling very much like nausea drizzled through his stomach. William had a suitor? Already? And cared what the man thought of him?

  But why not? Fanule wasn’t the only twor who lived in or passed through Purin Province. And William was certainly worth a longing gaze… or twenty.

  “No,” Fanule whispered, splaying his fingers over the inked lines as if he could lift them from the paper. “I’m not going to lose you.” He would out-court any man on the planet to secure William’s love.

  I haven’t the wakefulness to keep writing. Good night to me! I do wish—and there the thought abruptly ended.

  Farther down the page, William seemed to pick it up again: I wish to have a compass flower.

  Fanule frowned at the mystifying change of subject. Had that drummer perhaps been wearing a compass flower in his buttonhole or on his lapel? Had it struck William’s fancy? He did like flowers, and Fanule hadn’t thought to bring any into the house in at least two months.