Of the Abyss

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  “So it was wrong then,” Hansa said. He didn’t care much about the semantics, beyond the fact that the Abyssi had not spoken any information that happened to be helpful in this circumstance.

  “No,” Umber replied, infuriatingly, “it was right. There are ways to transfer power that don’t involve blood. They would actually be safer for you. They do, however, take longer, and would require more effort on your part.”

  “I’m willing to put forth a little effort to avoid having you slice me open. What would I need to do?”

  He realized a moment later that, with a little thought, he probably could have predicted the half-­breed’s response. Umber responded by leaning down over Hansa’s chair, putting his hands over Hansa’s to hold them in place, and kissing him.

  Unlike the angry warning Umber had delivered through a kiss in the jail cell, this was soft and fluttering, as if Umber was trying to ask with his body, Isn’t this less frightening than blood and blade? It spoke to how long and terrifying the last few days had been that, even momentarily, Hansa considered it.

  As if he hadn’t already betrayed Ruby—­and Jenkins, and all his coworkers, and his family, and anyone else who trusted him to stay honest and on the right side of the law—­enough. He didn’t like the idea of letting Umber cut him again, but there was one line Hansa could still refuse to cross.

  He turned his head to the side and drew a breath to say something intelligible. Instead of desisting, Umber nibbled his way down Hansa’s neck with light nips, each of which made Hansa gasp. When he reached the edge of Hansa’s shirt, he lifted his head again.

  “As I was saying,” he murmured at Hansa’s ear, “the four coins of the Abyss are blood, pain, fire—­and flesh. If you prefer this way, I am happy to oblige.”

  Speaking broke the spell. Hansa wrenched his hands out from under Umber’s and pushed the other man back. “You’ve made your point! We’ll do it the other way.”

  Umber pulled away with a chuckle. “I’m not quite sure which point I’ve made, but I’ll leave you to tackle those thoughts on your own.” He turned, and as Hansa tried to shake off the fatalistic madness that had briefly snared him, Umber began to rummage through the kitchen cabinets.

  He had to clear his throat twice before he managed to ask, “What are you looking for?”

  “Something stronger than cider to drink,” Umber said.

  “It worries me when you go searching for a drink.”

  “Almost anything I say or do worries you,” Umber observed. “If it makes you feel better, it’s for you, not me.”

  “Not better.” Hansa pushed Umber out of the way, and quickly retrieved a bottle of the same kind of full-­bodied red wine that could be found in almost every home in Mars. Heated with honey and spices, it was what kept most of the population from freezing during those frigid Kavet winter nights.

  Umber sniffed. “That’s it?”

  “I don’t drink much.” Hansa shrugged. He resisted an impulse to try to hustle Umber along; his previous attempts to assert any control over the situation had only made matters worse.

  Umber considered the bottle of wine, then filled a coffee mug. After a little more thought, he poured a second cup, which he set in front of Hansa.

  “Is this necessary?” Hansa asked. The wine was meant for mulling. It was pretty foul on its own.

  Even more foul when cold, was Umber’s response, as he opened a window and set the mug out on the sill before carefully closing the window again. But you’ll need it. You don’t realize how hot the power you’re carrying burns when you’re saturated in it, but once it’s gone, you’ll need something to slow you down and cool you down.

  “I’ll try to stop asking stupid questions if you’ll get on with it,” Hansa offered.

  “Excellent,” Umber said. “Now take off your shirt.”

  Hansa started to undo buttons, but despite his resolve to stop asking questions, he asked, “Would you at least warn me this time before you slit my throat or any other major arteries?”

  “I need to cut your chest, right over your heart,” Umber explained. “It won’t be a deep cut.”

  Hansa wasn’t naïve enough to hope that was the worst part. “And then?”

  “Then I drink, to help me form a link back to my own power, so I can control how fast it flows out of you. Too fast, and you’ll burn out. It may be a . . . strange . . . sensation, but it shouldn’t hurt. If you relax and don’t fight me, it will be over in moments.”

  Hansa stared at the mug of wine, considering it now.

  Shaking his head, he folded his shirt and set it next to the full mug of wine. “Okay then. Let’s do this before I lose my nerve. Should I stand up or something?” He focused on the practical details, since that was less disturbing than actually concentrating on what he was doing.

  “You should probably sit or lie on the sofa,” Umber suggested, with a nod toward the sitting room.

  Hansa sat, reminding himself there was no point to stupid questions because they not only made this take longer, there was nothing he needed to know. He didn’t need to understand this because he never wanted to think of it again. Umber waited a few seconds, as if to see if Hansa was going to protest again, and then drew his dagger.

  “You might prefer to close your eyes,” Umber suggested.

  Hansa did so. In his head, he started to recite an old Tamari nursery rhyme his mother used to say to him when he was a child. It was better than focusing on the knife and the half-­demon leaning over him.

  The sails are white, the deck is brown, the sky above is—­

  Ouch. There was the slice. Umber leaned across Hansa’s lap, one hand on the arm of the couch to stabilize himself as he caressed Hansa’s cheek then eased his head to the side.

  Where was he? Tamari sailors often raised their children on ships. His grandfather had been raised that way before meeting his grandmother and settling in Kavet. If Hansa could just keep his mind in inanities like family songs and stories, he could get through this.

  The sky above is blue. And there’s a word we use to name the ocean’s hundred hues. Then the chorus, which always confused him as a young boy because it had words in some old Tamari language. What was it? The ocean’s colors had a name, but he couldn’t remember it.

  When Umber started laughing, Hansa opened his eyes. “What?”

  “Ayalee,” Umber provided. Once again, he was far too close for comfort. “Tamari sailors call the ocean Ayalee. I don’t know the song, though.”

  “Az Ayalee,” Hansa returned, with a near-­hysterical giggle, before squeezing his eyes shut again as Umber leaned down. Keep you safe az Ayalee.

  Sailing ships. Think of ships on the water, not of the demon who was leaning against him, whose warm mouth had just touched the new cut on Hansa’s chest.

  Where was he? The summer sun is hot and gold, the storm clouds cool and gray . . . red hat, gray mountains. . .

  The words of the poem scrambled in his memory as his head swam. He pushed against Umber, worried he was going to be ill. “What—­”

  Don’t fight it, Umber said. Relax. Remember you don’t want this power.

  He could do that. Even if he was getting a little seasick.

  CHAPTER 18

  He lost the words of the poem and all other awareness of where he was and what he had been doing until Umber said, “Okay. Take a moment to come back to Kavet.”

  “Mm.” Hansa opened his eyes and sat up, shaking his head to clear it. He didn’t know when they had separated, but Umber was now sitting back, probably waiting for him to reorient himself for the next step. Hansa wished he could believe they were done, but the cut on his chest was still bleeding, and he had learned enough recently to know that meant the magic wasn’t finished. “What next?”

  There was still a residue of laughter in Umber’s voice when he said, “Your turn, Hansa.”
>
  “No.” He spoke without even processing the entire implications of the statement, and pushed to his feet. Gray fog encroached on the edge of his vision and the ground under his feet seemed to take a sharp tilt to the side. He ended up kneeling on the wool carpet with his head down. “How much blood did you take?”

  “Not much. What’s wrong with you is that you’re leaking power.” Umber stood, passed Hansa on his way to the kitchen, and returned with the mug of wine from the table. “Drink, then we’ll finish this.”

  With the mug on the carpet in front of him, Hansa started to translate just what Umber meant when he said, “Your turn.”

  “You don’t mean . . . I mean, you can’t expect me to . . .”

  Umber hefted Hansa with one hand on his arm, lifted his wine with the other, and deposited Hansa on the couch before putting the wine in his hand. Then he sat and began to unbutton his own shirt. “Drink your wine if you need it, and then we have to do this before you pass out.”

  “You couldn’t have warned me?”

  “Not unless I wanted to argue with you all night.”

  Given the circumstances, Hansa thought that was an unfair accusation—­he had argued very little, and even tried to stop asking questions—­but Umber was right that he probably would have objected more if he had been told the entire process up front.

  Hansa stared at the wine for only an instant this time, then lifted it to his lips and chugged the foul stuff. Umber was out of his mind. Out of his Abyss-­spawned mind. When Hansa put down the mug and looked back at the spawn, Umber’s expression was tight; Hansa suspected he was trying for the sake of his Quin partner-­in-­madness to suppress a grin or a chortle.

  “This part might take a little longer,” Umber said, “but once it starts, you’ll probably find yourself drifting again. I doubt you’ll be aware of much.”

  “Thank Numen for small favors,” Hansa whispered, only barely aware that the words would have earned him a censure at work.

  “These particular favors come from a lower plane,” Umber pointed out, before leaning back against the sofa’s arm again, and lifting the knife. He cut the same spot on his chest that he had on Hansa’s.

  “What did I ever do to deserve this?” Hansa grumbled as he leaned forward, trying to find a way to do this disgusting thing without actually touching the half-­Abyssi.

  “As I recall,” Umber answered, “you summoned me by blood and demanded a second boon. You meddled in the affairs of the Abyss.” He locked an arm around Hansa’s back, pulling him forward. Hansa recoiled, trying to stop himself from falling against the other man. “Now quit being such a Quin.”

  Ayalee, Hansa thought, as he stared at the wound on Umber’s chest. The blood wasn’t flowing like normal blood should; it seemed thicker. It was also darker, with an incandescent sheen.

  What do you suppose the Tamari would call that color? Umber supplied helpfully.

  Well, that ruined that song forever.

  Shut up, Hansa snarled back. Umber put a hand on the back of his head, encouraging him. You’re enjoying this far too much.

  There are other things I’d enjoy more.

  Just . . . quit talking.

  Then quit stalling.

  Okay. Just get it over with, Hansa told himself. Umber, thankfully, did not reply. He touched his lips to the blood, then had to pull back, suppressing a gag. He licked his lips instinctively and discovered that the half-­demon’s blood tasted like something you would expect from the Abyss: smoky, dark, and spiced. He still knew what it was, but maybe he could go through with this if he could pretend it was something—­anything—­else.

  No choice, he told himself. Just do it to get it done.

  He closed his eyes and leaned forward again, and this time closed his lips over the wound. Umber offered no encouragement this time, which was helpful, since it meant Hansa could think about anything but what he was doing. He could do this. Had to, really, unless he wanted to walk around looking like a mancer to anyone with the sight for the rest of his life.

  He made the mistake of taking a breath, which brought with it the smell of flesh, reminding him that he was not at a tavern with a hot mug of some spicy mulled beverage, but rather pressed against another man.

  Get over it, Quin, Umber snarled.

  Get over it, indeed. This would have been easier if Hansa didn’t suspect, given Umber’s many previous flirtatious comments, that the spawn was enjoying it.

  To the Abyss with it all. Hansa put a hand on Umber’s shoulder in order to brace himself, and then leaned down to the blood one more time. Lips to flesh, he deliberately licked along the length of the cut, drawing fresh blood to the surface. Umber shuddered, and his fingers twined in Hansa’s hair, but he didn’t speak, thank Numen . . . or Abyss, whoever there was to thank.

  The blood filled his mouth, and his throat swallowed, reflex he couldn’t have avoided kicking in. He tried to clear his mind of exactly where he was or what he was doing, but couldn’t, since he was very awkwardly bent over Umber. His neck hurt.

  He could fix that.

  Never lifting his lips away from the wound, he reached around Umber’s back, lifting him enough to turn him. Umber let out a surprised yelp, but didn’t struggle. He let Hansa move him so he was lying full-­length on the couch, shoulders propped up by the sofa’s end-­pillow and arm-­rest, with Hansa more comfortably sprawled atop him. That done, Hansa could close his eyes, and go back to what he was doing.

  Vaguely, he was aware of a struggle, a pulling sensation, not physical but rather somewhere else.

  Don’t fight it, Umber said, as he had before, though this time his mental voice sounded a little dazed.

  Okay. He didn’t want to pay attention to that, anyway.

  It was easier now. Thinking, he decided, was overrated. Unnecessary, unhelpful.

  Hansa? Umber’s mental voice was wobbly.

  Mm?

  Why hadn’t he noticed before how soft Umber’s skin was? It was like fine silk.

  That’s enough, Hansa, Umber said.

  No, it wasn’t.

  Yes, it is. Hansa felt a strong hand, still twined in his hair, pulling his head back. He hissed in protest. You’re blood-­drunk, Quin. Intoxicated, though damned if I know how.

  Hansa stopped struggling against the hands pulling him away from the wound when he saw the flesh close, sealing the blood away. It didn’t matter. There were other coins of this realm, ones he had been offered earlier and refused for some silly reason he couldn’t remember now.

  He reached a hand under the half-­Abyssi’s head, and lifted him just far enough to kiss him. Lips met lips, tongues twined, but one long, deep kiss later, Umber snarled, “Back off!”

  The blow came not physically, but in the form of raw power. It hit Hansa hard enough to knock him back, at which point Umber shoved him from the couch and sprang to his feet.

  Hansa lay on the floor, dazed, suddenly aware that his heart was pounding like the hooves of a racehorse. He gasped for breath, body inexplicably heavy. He couldn’t even summon the energy to lift his arm to wipe away the sweat he could feel gathering on his brow.

  He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before Umber crept back, helped him sit up and lean against the couch, and placed a cold cloth across the back of his neck. He offered the mug of chilled wine, which Hansa cradled in trembling hands, sipping carefully, still steadied by Umber’s arm.

  “That last bit shouldn’t have happened,” Umber said as Hansa drank. “Abyssi, spawn and mancers can get intoxicated off blood if they aren’t careful, but it shouldn’t have happened to someone who has no natural tie to the Abyss.”

  The words reached Hansa, but they were next to meaningless. What mattered in that moment was the cold ceramic mug in his hands, and the warm arm across his back.

  “I know these words mean nothing to you now,” Umber
continued, “but later, I hope you remember that I chose to stop you. I didn’t have to.”

  Hansa was starting to come back to himself then, enough that his eyes finally focused. He turned to look at Umber, whose deep blue eyes swam with concern. Full lips, slightly reddened with blood, moved as the man continued to speak, but Hansa didn’t hear whatever he was saying.

  “Get away from me,” he managed to choke out.

  Umber frowned. “Well, I guess that’s the gratitude I should have expected from you.” He stood, lithe body uncoiling in one smooth moment, and started toward the door.

  “Not what I meant.” Hansa coughed. “You just—­” He was not going to say that. Umber paused, twisting back, expression still cross. “You still look . . . feel . . . really good.” He closed his eyes after he said it, squeezing them shut as if doing so could block out the truth.

  “It’ll wear off,” Umber said sadly. “Let me help you to bed. Sleep a few hours, and when you wake, you should be back to normal.”

  Hansa let Umber help him to his feet mostly because he couldn’t have stood on his own. One arm looped across Umber’s shoulders, he couldn’t quite resist smoothing his free hand down Umber’s chest. After he realized what he had done, he curled that hand into a fist, trying to control himself.

  They stumbled at the doorway to the bedroom. Hansa wrapped his arms around Umber’s waist and tried very hard to remind himself that he did not want to kiss the half-­naked spawn again. Even if he smelled and felt as good as he looked.

  Umber chuckled. “I guarantee, as soon as you’re back to yourself, you will be cursing my name and blaming me for all of this. A good little Quin like you couldn’t possibly be interested in anything so untoward.”

  The sound of the front door opening caused them both to turn.

  “Didn’t you lock that?” Umber asked.