Just outside of arm’s reach
so you can know you’re safe.
I don’t yet realize
what I will do for you.
What I will become.
You touch your lips
the way I touched mine
when I realized
what I’d done.
You can still taste smoke
against your mouth.
I can still taste
you.
There is
a special sort of horror
in wondering how
you got where you are
and wondering as well
how you will get out of it,
especially when
you cannot see,
and all you can smell
is blood,
and all you can hear
are screams.
It is a delight
he loves to inflict.
It is a kiss
he loves to give.
This is Issue #33 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.
Happy Reading!
* * *
Jet stared at himself in the mirror, inspecting the line of his jaw. The razor had been unfathomably sharp; he ran fingertips over the smooth skin of his cheek and chin, and finally shrugged, content with the outcome. The armoire had been stocked with clothing of various sizes; after a shave and two baths — one had not been enough to deal with his filth or the ache in his muscles — he ate the cold food off his tray, drank several cups of tea, then dressed himself carefully, in comfortable clothes he hoped were appropriate to whatever dinner he would be attending.
He kept getting up and looking at himself in the mirror, raking his hair back from his face, plucking at the collar of his shirt, staring at the boots. Everything fit well enough. He was clean and presentable.
He simply felt like a cheat, like he was betraying himself, and Kieron.
I should be fighting. I should have run.
He looked at the clock for the thousandth time, sighing that it was only a quarter of an hour until six bells, and decided that was time enough; he had no idea how to find the dining room, and he did not want to be late. Taking the folding knife from the nightstand, Jet tucked it into his pocket, and tried the door.
It was still unlocked.
He took a deep breath, and let himself out into the hall.
Though it was undoubtedly beautiful, the foreignness and emptiness of it set his skin to crawling — no one else was in the hall; he could have been the last person alive on the planet. Quickly, he strode off to the right, imagining he would find a person at some point who could direct him to the dining room. He wandered for some time, but saw no one in the first five minutes. After a little while longer, he grew worried; he did not want to be late purely because he’d gotten himself lost.
He hurried, glancing down crossing hallways and into empty rooms, and finally he strode around a corner and right into a servant who looked both startled and then terrified. He lifted his hands up palms out, and said, “I won’t hurt you. I’m just looking for the dining room!”
The servant’s eyes darted this way and that; she did not answer, but stared at Jet in fear.
“The dining room, that’s all, you know, where… where you eat?” he asked, miming the motion of eating, and rubbing his stomach.
That got the servant to take a step back, shaking her head.
“Please,” Jet said, frantic. “Can you find Lucy? Lucida?” he wondered. “Is Lucida here?”
The servant paused, still somewhat distrustful. She asked him a question in Ilonan, but all he could make out was the word “Lucida” and so he simply repeated himself. “Is Lucida here?”
The woman gestured nervously for him to follow her, and she turned and hurried down the hall, up a staircase, down another hall, until he was easily lost; she stopped in front of a large set of doors and knocked on them with the massive doorpulls. Another servant opened the door to receive him, and looked slightly startled. “You are Jet,” she said, her accent thick, but understandable.
“I am! Do you speak my language? I’m not yet schooled in Ilonan,” he said, looking hopeful, trying to glance past her — he wondered if those grand doors were to another wing of the palace where Lucy was working.
“Know enough rough tongue, yes,” the woman said.
“Excellent, yes, I am looking for Lucy so she can help me find the dining room?” Jet said, trying not to laugh at himself.
“Is busy. I take you to dining room,” the woman said bluntly.
“Oh. That’s… well thank you,” he said, quite pleased for her assistance, no matter how brusque. He followed along in her wake, and after a time, found himself in a long chamber with a rather huge table in the midst of it. It was filled with all manner of food and drink, tall candelabras, exotic floral arrangements — and people.
And Immanis.
Venator stood at one end, while all the guests sat, talking and gesturing, waving drinks about. When he noticed Jet, his lips twisted into a rather amused smirk — something about it was familiar, and it made Jet flinch — and he said something to his guests, gesturing toward Jet.
Almost as one, the party turned to look at Jet, and the talking stopped. People set down their drinks and rose from the table to approach him. That, too, made Jet’s heart race; he struggled not to run from the people as they approached him, wide-eyed and curious. They began to talk to one another in whispers, but Jet could only understand a word here and there, mostly ‘savage’ and ‘animal’ and so he simply looked to Immanis, standing still, waiting.
Immanis himself strode to Jet’s side, carving away people right and left, letting them step back and watch. The tall, copperskinned man offered him a hand. “I see you have decided to join us,” he murmured quietly. “And you are quite on time.”
Jet stared at the hand for longer than a moment, without reaching out his own.
“I am certain I have the custom correct,” Immanis said softly. “A grasping of hands for mutual assurances of safety?”
“Yes, I…” Jet flushed, offering out his hand; when Venator took it, the young man schooled his trembling, but only barely. “I hope not to offend; the situation is… not what I am used to.” He stared, for a moment, at the way his pale skin laid against the darker tones of his captor.
“I should imagine not,” Immanis murmured. “And yet it is what you shall be used to, now. You will join me for dinner,” he intoned. “Come, sit by my side — across from my sister.”
Jet shivered, nodding, and followed Immanis back to the table, letting himself be seated. When he looked up, he flinched again, staring dumbly across the table at the dark-haired beauty.
Her smirk was precisely like her brother’s, and she had a way of looking through her lashes that made Jet’s breath catch.
“Lucy?!”
* * *
This is Issue #32 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.
Happy Reading!
* * *
Come to dinner? With the thing that told him he’d be hunted? Served by the woman who spoke of him as though he were nothing more than cattle? Jet’s mind spun; he paced the room for over an hour with no more thoughts for breakfast, looking for other ways out, other weapons. Two hours later, the sinking feeling in his stomach confirmed what he’d begun to suspect, as he examined the various things he’d found and laid out: a straight razor with stone and strop, two pairs of scissors and a seam ripper within a mending kit, another pair for grooming mustaches and such, and a pocket knife in the bedside table.
A chill crawled over his spine as he ran for the door, an awful suspicion curling cold fingers around his insides, clenching slowly into a fist.
He put his hand on the knob and turned — when it opened, he uttered a low cry of distress.
It was no longer locked.
If they weren’t stopping him, there was something else here in this place that would keep him, or destroy him if he tried to leave. Something they considered worse than simply staying here.
He opened the door, holding a straight razor, determined to see how far he could get, and promptly bumped into the woman who’d brought him the breakfast tray. She was rolling a cart with a tea service on it, and was rather startled to see him, if her wide eyes and fish-gawping mouth were any indication. She exclaimed loudly in Ilonan, but then switched to their common tongue, and said, “Did you need something?”
He lifted the razor, gritting his teeth, and opened his mouth to speak.
The razor was gone from his hand.
It was in hers. Jet felt a chill, his heart thundering. He’d only seen the barest flicker of movement — she’d been so fast.
She folded it carefully, pocketed it while smiling, and said, “If you needed assistance in a shave, caro, you could have rung the bell. Guests of honor don’t wander.”
Now it was his turn to gawp. He stared at his hand, flexing his fingers, and backed up a step.
“Come now,” the woman said. “In the room with you. I’ll pour you a tea — have you eaten your breakfast? No, you haven’t. Gracious, are you sure you aren’t a savage?”
“Please,” Jet began. “I need to leave.”
“If you go now,” the young woman said, “the hunt begins. Are you ready? You don’t seem ready.”
“What?” Jet gasped. “What do you mean?”
“Explaining everything to you is getting tiresome, caro,” she said, looking imperious and irritated all at once. “You can stay here as long as you like. You can leave, at any time. The instant you walk out of the doors of this palace, the play begins. He is hunter. You are hunted.”
“And… if I stay?” he said, watching her.
“You are treated as a guest,” she explained, shrugging. “Eat here, read in the library, enjoy the gardens.”
“…for how long?” Jet whispered, looking confused. The airship slavers had said they did this often. The trader behaved as though this happened monthly, if not more often. The situation was set up with such structure — he cannot have been the first to receive this offer.
“As long as you like.”
So where were the others who chose not to be hunted? he thought.
As if to prove this place were strange enough that the woman could read minds, she said, “No one stays.”
“Why not?”
“How long do you suppose you could live in a cage?” she wondered, smiling tightly. “Even a large cage. A pretty cage.”
Jet looked around, taking in the well-appointed room, the tea service, the smiling woman. He thought of the life he’d left behind, and the simple fact that he didn’t know if he’d ever see Kieron again, alive or dead. “I don’t know,” he murmured, “but I want to find out. I don’t want to die.” Besides, he thought, if I’m here as a guest, for now, I could use the time to figure out how to escape.
“Excellent,” the woman said. “I suggest you have your breakfast, hmm? Then perhaps a bath and a shave. You say you are not a savage, but you certainly look like one, still, caro.”
“Why are you calling me that?”
The serving girl smirked at him, looking through dark lashes. “You haven’t told me your name.”
Jet stared for a moment before he finally said, “It’s Jet. My name is Jet.” He took the time to watch her, then, to look her over, and fully take in the copper of her skin, the dark of her hair, the line of her nose and mouth. She had a bearing that was iron, not simply hard from doing manual labor, but strong.
“Jet,” she said, catching the word in her teeth. “Black stone,” she murmured, nodding, as Immanis had done. “I’m Lucida. You may call me Lucy.”
“Lucida,” he repeated, as she had done, and then said, “Bright.”
She looked thoughtful, and then nodded, saying, “Yes. That is close enough.” She watched him, then, for awhile, narrowing her eyes and said, “I will leave you, Jet, to eat, and do as you will. Dinner is called at six bells. Lateness is considered rude, here.” She removed the razor from her pocket and handed it back over, adding, “As is poor personal care.”
Jet felt his cheeks flame; he took the razor and nodded. “Goodbye, Lucy.” He listened for the latch, and once it shut, he put his hand on it, twisting it to see if she’d locked it behind her.
She hadn’t.
He strode to the bathroom with purpose, and stood before the mirror, staring at himself. After a short time, he closed his eyes and held tightly to the razor, sliding his thumb over the handle, flicking the blade out.
No one stays.
How long do you suppose you could live in a cage?
He lifted the razor, much like Eisen did, cocking his elbow down, tilting his hand out, feeling the keen blade touch his throat. He watched his own face, his own eyes, and said aloud, “I’m sorry, Key.”
* * *
This is Issue #31 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.
Happy Reading!
* * *
He remembered the feel of the strut against his ribs. Frigid. Impossibly huge. Crushing him.
He remembered the feel of his ribs caving in.
He remembered the chill of the air at fifteen thousand feet.
He remembered the way they all called to him. Told him to hold on. They sent another line. They didn’t close the fin on him again. They were headed back to the mountain — but it wasn’t over.
Not yet. He was climbing. He would make it out of this.
He remembered the feel of his hand settling into the Captain’s. She was almost smiling.
Then he felt the world tilt, turn sideways, get gray and narrow. He felt that slipping.
He tried to breathe, to scream. To resist.
Her face wasn’t smiling — it was screaming.
But then everything was black.
* * *
And then it wasn’t.
He drew breath as he knelt, body taut, muscles trembling. He was staring up at someone, somewhere he’d never been, couldn’t even recognize. The architecture was gorgeous, delicate, but entirely foreign. The man in front of him equally so, with his tattooed chest and his sculpted face, his flowing clothes and long, dark hair.
What was horrifying to him was what he felt at his own throat. His arm was up; he had just finished dragging a great sharp knife against his own flesh. He struggled for the breath that had wanted to come, but the end of it was a sucking cold whistle — his eyes widened impossibly as he dropped the knife away from himself, struggling to swallow, to breathe against the sudden tide of blood that poured forth, rocking as he looked up at the man who watched him do this one act with — what was it? — fascination?
Pleasure.
Breathless, bleeding to death, Kieron fell forward, hitting the stone floor. As he slumped, he turned his head to the side, his eyes fell upon another person, there on the stone with him. Barely out of arm’s reach. Even ragged, half-starved, clad in filth, with weeks of scruff against his cheeks and jaw, even with his face a mask of horror as he began to scream, long, high and loud, agonized, Kieron knew those eyes. That voice.
Jet.
Kieron’s whole body jerked; if there had been a way to bring the bleeding man back to life with sheer will, it would’ve happened. Jet. Instead, he grew colder, felt the stone against his skin, pressing up against his bones. Look at me, Jet. I’m here. His eyes were wide as he struggled to speak, muscles growing weaker. Jet.
His vision of Jet was half obscured as the man who’d watched him kill himself strode through the puddle of blood, dragging fingers through the crimson pool, and then painted Jet’s face with it. There on the floor, unseen, Kieron used the dying man’s body to try to say something. Anything.
Where are you? What happened?
The world went grey again.
Kieron fought the dark, panicked, knowing somewhere back where he came, his body had perhaps only minutes left.
Knowing somewhere, Jet was screaming in terror, painted in the blood of another man.
He could already feel himself falling.
Jet was dragged away from him as the world went black.
* * *
“No, fuck, BRODY!” The Captain moved to lift herself up onto the railing, to reach further.
The Quartermaster moved faster.
“Captain, duck!” He ran from where he’d anchored the line, boots thudding across the deck, said a prayer as he got to the rail, and one gloved hand reached down and slipped around the rope as he stepped up, put a boot on a crate, another on the rail, and launched himself off the deck, over the Captain’s head. As he flipped, he watched her astonished face, and counted himself lucky for the gratitude he saw amidst the shock.
He’d gone diving before, dozens of times, and they always played around like idiots, but this time — this time he’d manage to save the boy’s life, or they’d both be dead.
In split seconds, he was nearly to the folded fin, level with Kieron, who was only barely tangled in the rope, an instant from slipping free and falling to the earth far below. Nate tightened his grip on the rope to stop himself from falling as he wrapped himself around the younger man. His falling slowed to nothing, but the rope itself burned through the glove and tore open his palm, while the weight of his body plus Kieron’s all but tore his shoulder from its socket.
His own scream echoed through the comms as the line snapped taut, and they were crashed against the fin. “PULL US UP!” Nate howled. “PULL US THE FUCK UP!”
Nate held Kieron gingerly; he could feel how the young man’s ribs were cracked, grinding against one another beneath his skin. He could see blood on the inside of the boy’s O2 mask. If he survived at all, it would be a miracle.
When he got to the rail, the Captain had everyone pull them both up, getting them back onto the deck, and the surgeon was there, immediately pulling off Kieron’s mask and putting a fresh one on him. The Captain settled Nate to the deck and eyed his shoulder, then him.
“Do it now,” he said tightly, in pain but resigned.
“S’gonna hurt.” Her voice had a warning tone.
“Don’t be a baby.”
“Fine, hold still.”
The Captain had the First Mate brace himself carefully, and then she laced her fingers with his and grabbed hold of his hand… and pulled. There was a stomach-clenching, wrenching, sucking noise, and Nate made a brief choking sound, then simply fainted. “I’m never letting you live that down,” she said, trying to laugh. “Fucking idiot.” She turned toward the surgeon and yelled, “DOC! Will he live?”
The surgeon looked up from where he ministered to Kieron, whose face was bloody. “Let’s get them below decks, and then I’ll tell you.”
She nodded grimly, let other airmen pick up the two wounded, and bear them below decks as she yelled into her personal radio. “Gator! If we’re through, take us down!”
* * *
He woke, trying to cry out, feeling like he was falling, but the feeling of his broken ribs drove his cry higher, took the words away, took his breath away.
Almost immediately, the Captain was at his side, with a hand on his cheek. “Shh,” she hissed. “S’agoddamn order.”
Kieron shuddered, staring up at her, tears in his eyes. “Jet,” he whispered. “I saw him.”
“No. Be quiet, and sit still. I didn’t almost lose my quartermaster so you could get yourself locked up with crazytalk,” Sha whispered.
That got Kieron’s attention. “Nate?” he whispered. His heart sank.
“He’ll live.”
“But what happened?”
The surgeon who was still there, in the cramped quarantine area, said “He jumped off the railing t’save you. Y’shoulda seen it. Boy flew.”
“He did what?” Kieron’s eyes bulged open. He moved to sit up, to look around for the first mate, and then winced and groaned, a shocked look crossing his face as he quickly laid back down.
“That’s what I’m saying,” the Captain growled. “You cracked three ribs with your little stunt. Nate damn near pulled his arm out of his socket. Burned a hole in his fucking hand. Now you lay still, and you recuperate, you hear me?”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Kieron said, nodding. “If he wakes up again before I do… Please tell him thank you for me.”
“Tell ‘im yourself. Don’t fucking die on me.” The Captain walked away, and Kieron turned his head to the side, to look at the man who’d risked his life to save him. Nate lay in the bed beside Kieron, small cuts and scrapes stitched and bandaged. One arm was set in some kind of plaster cast, while the shoulder was poulticed and heavily bandaged, the whole thing in a sling, keeping him immobile. His eyes were closed, and his expression was tight, but he was alive–they both were–and that was something, at least.
Kieron thought of Jet, and how he would watch him sleep, how his expression was always like that, tight, pained, like something in his dreams was hurting him.
Jet, who had always protected Kieron — until Kieron had wanted to protect him. There had to be some way out of this mess.
Kieron watched the Quartermaster sleep for awhile longer before he felt himself succumbing to exhaustion, and finally closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank you.”
* * *
