Widows of the Sun-Moon

by Barbara Ann Wright

  And then he was lost in memory again, Dillon being both carrot and stick. He’d never had to threaten Simon, never held friends or family hostage, but he didn’t have to. Simon couldn’t get away from him, and in the end, he’d let Simon go, but only because the power was gone. For years, Dillon had called them friends when he didn’t even know the meaning of the word.

  Someone touched his shoulder, and he whirled around, visions of Dillon still in his head, but it was only Horace, and Simon couldn’t help feeling the concern that washed over him.

  “Simon, it’s all right. You’re free. He’s gone. It’s all right.”

  Simon breathed deep, and tears filled his eyes again. “I pictured you under his thumb, under all their thumbs, and I had to do something, Horace. I won’t do anything like it ever again,” he said, and the tears were coming now, twisting his words into sobs. “But I had to then.”

  Horace pulled him into a hug. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Simon, don’t cry! Shit. I knew you’d do something that’d make it easy to forgive you.”

  Simon kept sobbing but let out a bark of a laugh. “Glad I could help.”

  Horace held him at arm’s length. “I’ve thought so hard about this, imagined how this would go a million times. In the space of a few days, you went from someone I’d never met to the most important person in my life, who kept my sanity together, and when I found out you were as attracted to me as I was to you, I…saw a future.”

  He was crying now, too, and Simon couldn’t stand it. He pulled them back together, and they wept like a couple of children. How Dillon would laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said. “I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I mean, I knew it would hurt, but I didn’t want it to.”

  “I know, and I think I understand, but it still makes me so angry!”

  “You can hit me!” Simon said as he stepped back, drunk on emotion. “If it will make you feel better.”

  “I’m not going to hit you. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I can hurt myself with my power if that—”

  Horace stepped forward and grabbed his chin. “If you even try to do something so idiotic…” His eyes were bright, and so close, they were easier to see though the night made them colorless. Still, Simon saw when Horace’s gaze traveled to his lips, and he let his own mind wander to their kiss. When desire flooded him, he didn’t try to hide it, nor did he try to avoid looking into Horace and seeing that desire returned.

  Their kiss was hurried and brutal, teeth knocking together, hands rubbing over tear-stained cheeks. They pawed at each other like animals, tearing away clothing as their power entwined; sensations passed back and forth so that they reveled in the effects of their own touches as well as those they received. Simon couldn’t tell where one of them ended and the other began. He just knew he couldn’t get enough, and Horace felt the same as they rolled across the grass, grabbing and kissing and thrusting until the world faded to nothing, and everyone and everything else was a far distant memory.

  The roar in Simon’s ears finally faded, and he realized he was on his back, staring up at the starry sky and breathing hard while Horace lay in his arms, the cool night air gusting over their sweat-streaked bodies. Simon held his breath and waited for all the negative things to return, but for the moment, they stayed at bay.

  Horace lifted his head. “Are you all right?”

  “Perfect.” And he hadn’t thought of Dillon, not even once. He kissed Horace again, but this was tender, thankful. “Are you cold?”

  “You know I’m not, and you’re not either. This is the kind of power sharing that I like, by the way.”

  “We should have grabbed a blanket.”

  “Were you thinking we’d wind up having fantastic sex together? Was that your plan?”

  “I wasn’t thinking with my brain.”

  Horace’s jaw dropped. “Simon Lazlo! That’s a very naughty thing to say.”

  Simon stammered. “I meant heart! I was thinking with my heart!”

  With a laugh, Horace kissed him again. “Do you want to go back for that blanket, or shall we stay here? What does your heart tell you?” His hands went wandering, but they didn’t stop at Simon’s chest.

  Simon gasped and decided to show his answer instead of speak it.

  Chapter Eight

  Whenever Caroline said she needed a walk, Dillon tried to go with her. As pregnant as she was, he didn’t want her walking the streets alone, never mind that she could always call for help with her power. He liked to think that if something went wrong, he’d be there to help before anyone else.

  She liked to walk near the warehouse district. The sight of the hoshpis always made her laugh. He did his best to ignore everyone but her, but she didn’t talk much. She liked to enjoy the silence, so he tried to enjoy it with her as they strolled, never going far from certain shops with “clean places to pee” as Caroline said, but any house would probably do. Who would deny the odd outhouse or chamber pot to the woman carrying God’s baby?

  Probably some. He hadn’t seen any graffiti that day, but he couldn’t help scanning every alley and wall. The people in the warehouse district didn’t seem to have time for that sort of nonsense, though. They were always hard at work with the animals or shifting goods from one area of the city to another. Even the shop owners were pure business. He was starting to relax when Caroline’s voice vibrated through his head. “Look out!”

  He turned in the direction of her pointing finger, shook off her other hand, and flexed his power. Stabbed by a burst of lightning, the man she’d pointed at flew backward and bounced off a wall. A knife dropped from his hand to the street, and all around, people screamed and scattered.

  Dillon drew his sidearm, jogged over, and kicked the knife farther away, though the would-be assassin was too busy twitching to try again. The strike hadn’t been enough to kill him. Dillon had been practicing. Caroline approached, rubbing her belly as if soothing it.

  “Do you sense anyone else?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  He frowned and looked to the fleeing people, but none seemed exactly murderous. Sun-Moon assassins would come in pairs, but he supposed this could be a gift from the renegades or one of the graffiti artists putting on his big boy pants. “Pump him.”

  She grimaced and rubbed her belly faster but nodded all the same. Dillon waited while her eyes moved back and forth as if reading or searching, and after a few heartbeats, she blinked. “Done.”

  Instead of wasting a bullet, Dillon touched the man with one foot and sent another strike into him, stopping his heart. He waved over one pedestrian who didn’t seem too terrified to move. “Call the paladins to clear this body away.” With another look at his face, the pedestrian fled. Even if he didn’t obey, someone would.

  Dillon took Caroline’s arm and led her back toward the temple. “What have you got?’

  “There was a lot of pain,” she said softly.

  He put an arm around her shoulders, trying to hide his irritation, even if he did wish she hadn’t had to do it. “I’m sorry, but I need to know.”

  “He was going to kill you. He knew other people who want to kill you, too. They want revenge for their god. Is it Simon Lazlo? Is he the god they’re talking about?”

  He couldn’t help a flinch. “He isn’t dead. And he isn’t a god.” But he knew which god he had killed. How the fuck had Marie Martin’s followers gotten wind of him? She hadn’t been a weak telepath, though not as strong as the Sun-Moon. Maybe she’d been able to call out to her people before he’d killed her? Naos’s words about people coming after him echoed in his brain. Oh, that fucking asshole! Was she sending random followers after him now by playing Contessa?

  He sighed. “Maybe he was crazy.”

  “I’ve read the minds of those with mental illnesses,” she said, not adding if this was the same or different.

  He rubbed her shoulders. “You know I wouldn’t ask you to do anything you’re not capable of.”

>   She gave him a bright smile, and he didn’t have to be a telepath to know how much she loved him. After he dropped her off at the temple, he went to his office, not wanting to walk the streets again now that people were literally out to kill him. Strange as it was, having an enemy with the intestinal fortitude to just come at him made him giddy. He’d often tended toward paranoia; he tried to control it, but many people on Calamity were actually out to get him.

  And maybe this pathetic attempt on his life meant those people were working together. Caroline wouldn’t necessarily have detected that. Since people didn’t think about names and faces in neat, orderly rows, minds were often hard to read; he remembered Christian and Marlowe saying that same thing once. Maybe he should have kept the assassin alive a little longer, but he didn’t want anyone else talking to the man, and they couldn’t risk an escape. It didn’t matter. If the bastards were going to come after him with knives, they were going to fail, over and over. Even without his power, he had a gun, for fuck’s sake. It would be nice to smoke them out, though, before they tried again.

  He pulled a piece of paper over and dipped a pen in his inkwell, trying to remember the last time he’d written a note. He ordered people to carry his messages from one place to another, but he needed to brainstorm now and didn’t have a handy computer.

  “People who want to kill me,” he wrote. After a moment, he underlined it, the ridiculousness making him chuckle, even as a pleasant feeling scythed through him, leaving him warm and tingly.

  Despite the part about killing a god, he listed the renegades at the top. If there was a conspiracy, they were part of it. They’d be recognized in Gale, if not by him, then by someone, and word would get around. He’d thought gossip on the Atlas was bad, but at least it was contained. Events didn’t just get passed around in Gale; with so many ears and mouths, they got distorted, too, but a kernel of truth remained. So, the renegades would need someone to do their dirty work.

  He listed Marie fucking Martin’s followers next. “Deliquois,” he said aloud. He didn’t know how far that was from Gale. He remembered it as an island chain to the south and wished he could see it from above again so he could send a lovely hurricane their way.

  “Naos,” he said loudly, “care to do me a favor?”

  No one answered, and he sighed. He should have known she’d never be helpful. He listed Christian and Marlowe under Marie’s name. Any Sun-Moon pairs would also stand out in Gale, but he supposed they could shuck their symbols in order to disguise themselves. Unless…

  Maybe the assassin hadn’t been thinking about Marie but about the lieutenants. If something had happened to them, their people might blame him. Some of the breachies might have carried word about their final meeting with Dillon to Celeste and might have claimed he did something to them, and then if they’d died, maybe even been murdered by the breachies, the Sun-Moon worshipers would definitely set that at his feet.

  He wrote “Breachies” last, but Caroline had said god and not gods, so either just Christian or Marlowe had died, or his original thought about Marie was the right one.

  Unless something had happened to Lazlo. Even without powers, Laz had knowledge that people might find godlike, especially where plants were concerned. He started to write Lazlo’s name under the breachies, then scratched it out hurriedly. Angry as Lazlo might be, he wouldn’t send assassins or encourage anyone to go that direction. No, any worshipers Lazlo gained would be pacifists sitting around communing in a field or growing a garden together.

  He turned back to the top of the list. He had people watching the renegades, but he could spare a few more. They’d been quiet for a long time, trading with the plains dwellers and staying put, but they were too close for comfort. He’d send a few more telepathic spies and find out what they were up to, see who visited them. He’d also put someone to watch for any plains dwelling clans wandering close to Gale, see if any of them could be Marie Martin’s people.

  As for the assassins already in Gale, he wouldn’t be able to find them until they acted. Even if he wanted to set his telepaths loose on the city, reading minds willy nilly, they could never read everyone, not deep enough to predict their movements. And random thought reading was still against the law. He didn’t want to give the graffiti artists more ammunition.

  Luckily, Dillon didn’t have long to wait. Brown rushed into his office not two days later, dragging one of the telepaths with her. Dillon jumped from his seat and helped the winded man into an empty chair.

  “A gathering, Storm Lord,” the wheezing man said. “Plains dwellers and renegades, but more of them than usual.”

  “Coming here?”

  “To the large rock they’ve met at before.”

  Dillon smiled and rubbed his hands together. They could be getting ready to mount an attack. Perfect. “Captain Brown, let’s put together a welcome wagon.” He gestured for the spy to go with Brown. “Tell her everything you know.”

  Now they were cooking. Maybe the renegades thought he wasn’t watching, that they’d catch him unawares. Or maybe this was the prelude to an attack, and they were still gathering their forces. Well, he wasn’t going to sit and wait for the fucking soup pot. He’d remind them why staying so close and sticking their necks out in his direction was such a bad idea.

  *

  Fajir had been following the winding trail of her prey for over a week. She’d kept her distance as they stopped at the Engali camp. They hadn’t stayed long, not even long enough for Fajir to snatch up a captive and question him, which seemed a shame, but Nico suggested caution, and Fajir had never known him to be wrong about such things.

  As the nights wore on, though, she’d wished for at least one captive, someone she could torture in Halaan’s name. She began to wish she’d stayed near the Engali and sent Nico, excellent tracker that he was, on the trail of the prey, but she didn’t dare disobey the Lords.

  Now her band lay along the side of a hill and watched the Svenal scurry about their camp like insects. She could almost smell their agitation on the wind. People raced from tent to tent, and she hadn’t seen her quarry for two days. They had to have escaped and sent their captors into a panic.

  Fajir signaled one of the others to watch and slid farther down the hill, Nico at her side. They’d have to wait. They couldn’t search the surrounding area for tracks while the Svenal were so stirred up, so they’d wait for the clan to move, and then pick up the scent again. She pulled a small jar from her pack, untied the tiny knots that held it closed, and then breathed deeply of the oil inside. The acrid scent brought back Halaan and lazy afternoons. He’d always taken meticulous care of his bone sword, rubbing it with oil so it never turned brittle.

  She drew her blade, then dipped her fingers in the oil and rubbed them along the sword’s pitted surface, just as Halaan had done so many times. She could almost feel his hand over hers, his whisper in her ear.

  Nico settled at her side and wiped his short dark hair away from his face. Shorter than her but stocky and strong, he made a good second, would have been a good friend if she’d allowed herself time for such things. His small, rounded face had been the first one she’d seen after she’d awoken from chasing Halaan’s killer. He’d found her on the plains after she’d passed out. He’d said her dark hair stood out like a stain upon the grass, as she would be a stain upon the hearts of the Engali.

  Comforting words. She’d let them guide her as he guided her. One night, as he’d held her while she wept, he’d told her he was a dual child, born as a male soul in a female body. The Lords had spoken to him even as a young child, reassuring him that he would be the male in his partnership. He’d had a true partner, like hers, but his love had died in a storm, lost and alone. He’d kept a house in the middle of nowhere, helping lost travelers, and that was how he’d found Fajir. He’d claimed no one was as lost as her and said he knew her anguished look as he knew his own heart.

  Nico had stayed with her when they wrapped Halaan for burial. He’d held her hand whi
le other widows tattooed her, her real tears mingling with the ink of her fake ones. He’d whispered his memories in her ear, and it had calmed her to know she had company in her loss. On the day of Halaan’s funeral, he’d wrapped his strong arms around her waist, and she’d wondered how he’d known she planned to throw herself onto the pyre and join Halaan in the other world, but of course he’d known. Someone had once kept him from doing the same.

  “He needs your revenge,” he’d whispered.

  And one day, he would have it. As she cleaned her sword, Fajir smiled at Nico. He leaned back, surprised. “Seren?” A hesitant smile started on his own lips. “Is there something…”

  “I just wanted to thank you.”

  He ducked his head. “You needn’t.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m thanking you for.”

  Though he shrugged, she thought she saw a twinkle in his dark blue eyes. “You never need to thank me.”

  Above them, the scout waved, and Fajir capped her jar and crawled up to join him.

  “Someone came into camp and went into a tent with their leader,” the scout said.

  “One of our prey?”

  “No, Seren. Two strangers, one of them very odd.”

  She frowned but nodded. “Get ready. If they move, we follow. Circle out for now, far. I want to know if anyone else is coming.”

  “Your will, Seren.”

  They spread out, and when they returned, the two who’d entered the camp still hadn’t left, but they found other tracks, as if there were more watchers who’d recently fled. Fajir didn’t want to follow old tracks. She had to stay with those who’d last seen the prey. “Maybe we can catch one,” she said, “And wring the truth from him.”