Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #59 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!

Happy Reading!

PREVIOUS

* * *

“You let me sleep,” Secta said, looking almost wounded. He rubbed his eyes as he rolled out of the bed, looking confused. “Why would y–”

“You were exhausted.” Jet tried to keep his voice from being irritated. Now was not the time.

Secta did not flinch, but seemed faintly ruffled for being so dismissed. “I can hardly serve you, my Guardian, if you do not allow it.” Secta’s voice was not chastising, but instead wore an undisguised longing. Let me serve you. Let me love you. Let me do for you, so that I can show you the extent of my devotion. He dressed himself hurriedly, and went to get things ready for Jet, who was busily fending for himself, without any real struggle.

As the two tried to both do the same thing at the same time, they got in one another’s way more and more. Finally, Jet reached to put his hands on Secta’s shoulders and hold him still, saying, “You’re fluttering about is making me rather nervous, famulo.”

“Nervous?”

Jet raked the long dark waves of his hair back out of his face and sighed. “Nervous. What is on your mind?” He turned gold eyes to Secta, and watched him with earnest worry.

“Only what should consume the thoughts of a devoted servant.” Secta paused, frowning as he looked to Jet, turning his eyes rather than hold to the gold ones that tried to pin him down. “I worry I’ve done you a disservice. That I have failed you.”

Failed me. Jet tried not to make a face, but he couldn’t help it. One brow shot up while the other furrowed in. He stared, his mouth half open for a moment, until he was able to gather words enough to ask, “Is it that I do not show my gratitude enough? Is that why you are always so uncertain of my pleasure with you?”

Secta did not blush, but chewed his words for quite some time before finally saying aloud, “I… am not the one uncertain of your pleasure, my Lord.”

Those words were met with silence, and an expression that could only be described as hurt. Jet’s voice was quiet as he returned, “You know that isn’t fair.”

Emboldened, Secta said, “And yet, it is true. I live and die for you, my Guardian. I fight for you. I serve you. I would give anything for you.” His voice rose as he reached for the man he’d pledged himself to, entirely. “I will bleed for you as no one else ever shall. Even your Kieron.”

Stung, Jet pulled back. He closed himself off, and shuttered up his expression. Those were not the words to use. “Kindly check on Her Majesty. Make certain we are ready to depart. We require the carriage, a decent sized retinue of guards, and appropriate gifts of mourning.” He remembered the thousands upon thousands upon thousands of tokens of misery that had been delivered to him, to the Princess, upon the death of Immanis. He knew the showering of gifts in a time of grief was expected, and he did not wish to cause any stir by being ill prepared.

Secta’s shoulders sank; he bit his lip and turned away, blinking back tears. He glanced back, to see if Jet’s expression might soften, if he might relent. When there was no gentlness forthcoming, he nodded abruptly. “It shall be done,” he said, determined to prove himself, somehow.

* * *

The carriages that would take the Guardian, the Queen, and their retinue to House Aecus were sleek and dark, and moved through the city like drops of dark water, running quickly, easily over the stones of the street. People moved out of the way of the rolling wheels, though some of the children who might never have cause to ride in such a vehicle came right toward it, to slide their fingers over its glossy surface. Behind tinted windows, royalty hurried through the streets, ferried to the home of the grieving family in speed and style.

* * *

News traveled, as it does, and soon, the city was in shock and mourning. Because house Aecus was respected, banners of black were hung over nearly every appropriate surface. Nate shuffled and hunched along, listening to the news criers and the vid screens. It either meant the home he was about to get into was full of people and guards — or empty of them, perhaps. The longer he meandered the streets, the less he played his part to full affect — the people in the city hardly watched him. No one quite cared about any one particular stranger, it seemed, and there were occassional oddities much stranger than he.

He made his way to the house of Coryphaeus Aecus, and found he was able to slip over the wall, and into the home proper, without being seen.

No one was home.

He walked room to room, looking for signs of life, but found only emptiness. There was food left out, beds unmade, bloodstains, dirty clothes, and general chaos. The Legatus Coryphaeus Aecus lived without servants, apparently. Nate looked over everything, touched the pillows in the beds, and then finally–

“Got you,” he said quietly, bending low and picking up the flight suit. He could smell the blood as he examined the clothes, and he dropped them, backing away. A thorough searching turned up more evidence of Jules living in the house, from the particular way she arranged the books she was reading, at her bedside, to the way she left whorls of orange peel after she consumed them.

Signs and signatures of Jules all over the house.

But no Jules.

“You must be at his side,” Nate said quietly. “Are you friend, or prize?” He felt that groaning, that creaking, heard the strain and looked down, purposefully unclenching his fist, shaking his head. “Now what?” he wondered, talking to the Jules that wasn’t there. “Do I wait for you here, not knowing who might come home? Or do I seek you out?”

While he talked to himself, his stomach growled in response. He sat at Coryphaeus Aecus’s table and decided to eat. “If y’come home in the mean time,” he chuckled to himself, “so be it.”

* * *

NEXT

This is Issue #57 of DeathWatch, Book II: tentatively called Heart Of Ilona, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find DeathWatch, the first in the series, or start from the beginning of Book II!

Happy Reading!

PREVIOUS

* * *

He woke to the sound of his door being tried, the sound of his father snarling in the hall. Nixus scrambled back through the doorway connecting their rooms, and he laid back down, his heart thundering, and pretended to be asleep.

When the door banged open, he could not help but flinch; he rolled over to see what the fuss was about, but then his father was upon him, his breath reeking of aetheris, his hands tearing at the bedclothes.

“Visne mutto inter tibi crura, Phaedra?” Exosus growled. “Ego dabo vobis unum,” he hissed, undoing the laces at his braccae.

As he opened his mouth to cry out, to beg for peace, for rescue, but one of Exosus’s hands covered his nose and mouth, while the other sought to clear the fabric between them. He panicked as black blossoms began to explode behind his eyes; he couldn’t breathe.

“Docebo vos decet mulierem conversari–” Exosus was still snarling, growling like an animal, fumbling in his drunken mania. He did not notice they were no longer alone, not even as Nixus brought the statuette down against the back of his head. He slumped in the bed, his body jerking once, and then going still.

Nixus pulled him away, letting Father fall to the floor. “Come,” she said, offering her hand out, her expression grim. “Did he manage it?”

“Manage it?”

“Was I too late?” Nixus said, panting, looking fearful. “I had to find something heavy enough, my Coryfrater, to–”

Coryphaeus threw his arms around Nixus and silenced her, shaking his head. “He did not. He did not. You were not too late,” he promised her.

***

Once Nixus accepted she had not killed Exosus, and that Coryphaeus could not allow her to finish that job, she retied his braccae, took the statuette, and landed a blow squarely between the unconscious man’s legs, for good measure. Servants were called; Coryphaeus let Nixus speak — she was easily convincing as she explained the master of the house was in his cups and simply needed to be put to bed.

“I’ll join the army.”

“We’ll tell mother.”

“No!” Coryphaeus looked stunned, and frightened. He shook his head, holding Nixus by the shoulders. “You will tell no one. I’ll join the army.”

“You’re too young. He won’t allow it.”

“You cannot tell mother.”

“But why not?”

“She would blame me. Besides, he will not remember what happened,” Coryphaeus told her. He would remember it, always, he was sure, but Father would not. Even if he ever did, he would deny it. “He was drunk. He will deny it. I could be scourged in the square for such accusations. I will wait. I will wait, and I will avoid him. I will avoid bringing attention to myself for this. I have been hiding for fifteen years. I will continue to do so.”

Nixus relented, not knowing how else to help. The statuette was cleaned, and put back in her room.

All that remained was trying to sleep through the rest of the night.

Coryphaeus was certain he would not manage it.

Rather than have him sleep in his own bed, Nixus took him to hers. Laid to the pillow, cradled in his twin sister’s arms, Coryphaeus fell asleep, and stayed there dreamless, until the next morning.

***

It was of no use — whether Exosus remembered or would ever admit to himself of his actions that night, he behaved with nothing but cold disdain toward Coryphaeus from then on. He refused to call him anything but Phaedra, referred to him as ‘the most wretched daughter of mine’ and would show him not the slightest hint of anything approaching love or approval. Coryphaeus found all the braccae and shirts removed from his rooms, replaced with capistri and full skirts, scarves, and the most feminine of dresses. Every time he managed to get himself a pair of pants or a robe, it was inevitably found by a servant, who took it to launder, but then it never returned.

***

When suitors began to call for Nixus, several were arranged for Coryphaeus. He pled sick, pled monthlies, pled everything he could think of, to keep from being farmed off as a dutiful wife; it was easy to avoid being matched — no young man particularly wanted to be chained to someone who would rather be dead than married.

***

One afternoon, Exosus stormed into his room again, where he was busy with his studies. He’d been working hard to make certain he would get top marks for the entrance exam into the militia; it was only a few short weeks until his sixteenth birthday. He would be able to leave the dreaded family halls, and finally be free.

“What are you doing?” Exosus snapped.

“Studying, sir,” Coryphaeus answered meekly; he did not meet his father’s eyes, and behaved as quietly as he could.

“Yes, I suppose you think you’re so terribly clever. Off to join with the Prince in his army, hm? Going to defend the country? Do you think they take your kind, there?” Exosus’s voice was thick with hatred.

“I don’t know, sir.” Coryphaeus imagined that honesty, in some cases, was the only answer possible.

“You don’t know what kind you are?” Exosus said, eyes lit up as he ran with the tease, the imaginary bait taken in his furious mind. “I know what kind, child. You’re an abomination. Say you’re not my daughter, hmm?” He paced back and forth, a wretched panther in a cage of his own making.

“Y–I…” Coryphaeus looked up at Exosus, and then closed his mouth. There was nothing he could say that would take the look of disgust off his Father’s face.

“If you’re not my daughter,” Exosus hissed, “If you’re not a girl, I suppose you have no need of girlish things.” He flung open the closet, and began to tear apart the dresses he had tried to force him to wear. “No silky clothes,” he snarled. He flung jars and pots of unused makeups and perfumes at the vanity mirror. “No makeups.” He ripped the canopy for his bed, and then, standing beside it, frowned down at a small, misshapen lump laying at the pillows.

Coryphaeus felt his heart freeze. No. Poppa, the doll given to him by Mirus when he’d gone into a Legio. It was a constant companion. A memory of a better time, before things had come all undone.

Exosus must have seen the look on Coryphaeus’s face; he grabbed up the doll, and bared his teeth, growling, “And no dolls.” Before Coryphaeus could object, Exosus tore the thing open, and flung it to the floor, determined to crush his child in any way he could imagine.

He stalked back out, leaving Coryphaeus to pick up the tattered remains.

* * *

NEXT