Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #24 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!

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* * *

“How did it go?” Secta wondered, ushering Jet into his rooms, moving to take his mask, to peel away his bloodied robes. He did not allow himself to show overmuch concern; Jet did not appreciate fawning, in any case.

“It went well,” Jet said, leaning heavily against the door frame as Secta undid his robes and braccae. He uttered a low groan as his boots were taken off and he stood on the cool marble tile.

“You’re exhausted,” Secta said, his voice carefully neutral.

“Happily so,” Jet answered, closing his eyes. Even so, there were flickers of pain written over his brow, his lips. He shifted, turning, moving as he was bidden, allowing Secta to remove the straps holding the knives, the knives themselves.

Secta nodded, smiling faintly, and said, “You were gone quite some time. Did you find many to bring to justice?” His touch stuttered briefly as he was removing the bands of knives; a series of long gashes still laid open near Jet’s hip.

“I did,” Jet said, and pulled away from Secta’s hands, wincing. He opened his eyes and looked down, frowning slightly.

“Stay still,” Secta admonished quietly. “It is not healing.”

“I can see that,” Jet said, reaching to touch one of the cuts, only to have his hand slapped away by Secta’s.

The other man looked up at Jet, dark eyes pleading. “Hold still. I cannot help you if you interfere,” he murmured. Gentle fingers touched, explored one of the wounds carefully, delicately. Finally, the groom gestured for Jet to lay himself on the bench. Secta knelt over him, and said, “Next time, perhaps go through a door, not a window?”

“How did you–” Jet began, but his words broke off as he sucked in a breath, gold eyes widening.

Secta put his mouth to Jet’s cut skin, closing his lips around the wound. His cheeks hollowed, and then he carefully pulled back, reaching quick fingertips to grasp the slick, bloody end of the glass shard from where he held it in his teeth.

From there, he drew it forth from Jet’s wound, pulling a three inch dagger of window glass from the Guardian’s flesh. He set it aside, and moved to the next slash. That one came free, much as the next. Piece after piece, Secta drew forth the sharp shards, and when he was done, he sat back on his haunches, panting, his lips bloody, his cheeks dark and flushed.

Jet shifted, moving to sit up and swing his legs down from the bench. He stood, twisting, stretching, and brushed the ash from the wounds that seared themselves shut, then reached down and helped Secta stand.

On his feet, Secta swayed, his pupils yawning wide as he looked up at Jet. He whispered, “Sanguinus enim donum est,” and his knees buckled as he laughed, falling against Jet, clinging to him as though somewhere well past drunk, drugged, lost.

Jet gathered Secta into his arms and stood him up straight, cupping his face in his hands, looking at his eyes. “It is,” he hissed. “It is a gift. Of the Prince. Oh, my famulo. The blood can be poison, to some.”

Shaking off the dizziness, Secta blushed, and covered his smiling mouth with one hand. “Forgive me, Master,” he said, clearing his throat. “I was merely dizzied. I am well; I am sorry to have startled you.” He could feel his heart thundering in his own chest, his blood pounding in his ears. He could feel his own temperature rising.

He wondered if the gift present in his Lord’s blood would burn him to nothing but ash.

Then he wondered if he would mind it.

“I will finish running you the bath, Guardian,” Secta said, composing himself so neatly, Jet nearly could not believe the transformation from one instant to the next. He pulled back, nodding, and looked to the still-closing wounds on his flesh, flexing, shifting, wincing briefly. The scent of charred meat accompanied the brief sound of burning flesh. Within the bloodied gash, burning coals seemed to sear his skin shut. Ash fell away from Jet’s wound, and he turned, displaying his scarless back to Secta. “Any others?”

Secta reached out a hand as though to touch, to inspect, to confirm. Before his fingers touched Jet’s back, he paused blushed, smiling faintly, and said, “No, my Lord. You are perfect.” He dropped his hand, and swallowed roughly.

Jet first met Secta’s eyes in the mirror, and then his own, studying the man he had become, golden-eyed and sharp-toothed.

Secta drew a hot bath, quietly attending to a dozen little details, putting a bag of soothing herbs directly into the running water, lighting particular candles for their warm light and their gentle scents, pouring various oils into the tub. Soon, the room was perfumed, but not cloyingly so, and the clear, hot water shone with a shimmer of golden oils along the top, and Secta gestured to the tub, saying, “My Lord?”

Jet nodded, turned, and moved to get into the hot water, sliding down beneath the surface until the water lapped at his collar bones. He shuddered, skin flushing from the heat of it, and then sat up higher, letting the oil streak his skin as he rose to lean against his knees, sighing quietly.

“I shall attend you only a little longer,” Secta murmured, “and then I shall let you relax and have the privacy of your own thoughts.” With that, Secta leaned in and put his hands to Jet’s shoulders, digging his palms against the Guardian’s tense muscles, pressing, rubbing, slowly working out the knots and the tightness.

Secta moved without urgency, pressing, squeezing, kneading until Jet felt weak as putty, relaxing as he had not in weeks or more. He moved his hands from Jet’s neck to his arms to his shoulder blades, working each area in turn, quiet and without attempting to initiate conversation, without trying to vie for attention, or give him advice, or admonish him and it was, for Jet, one of the most singularly relaxing and blissful evenings he could remember.

“I needed this,” he admitted aloud, quietly. “Thank you, Secta.”

“You are most welcome,” Secta responded, smiling to himself. “I live and die to serve you, my Lord.”

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This is Issue #23 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!

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* * *

“The reports I am receiving from Aecus are heartening,” Acer said, handing a file back to a runner as he strode into the study that had once belonged to the Prince. He paused his pacing and stood at the spot his brother had bled to death, with Jet’s knife at his throat. Beneath his feet, the floor still bore the faintest of stains — stone remembers.

“Mmm,” said Jet, non-committally. He was looking over other papers, without much interest; nothing could hold his focus lately. All he could think of was Kieron; his childhood friend had consumed his waking thoughts. Did he survive? Had he made it back through whatever Kriegic invasion was apparently coming, or would he have been steamrolled by the northern war machine? Would they have thought the small band of survivors simply plants of the Ilonan culture, ready to invade or steal secrets?

“Guardian,” Acer said quietly, “I–”

“You are being a fool, Guardian,” Gemma said, without warning, or gentleness. “Something of your heart or head is not where it must be,” she said, frustrated. “You do not listen to your advisors, you do not take counsel where it would benefit you, you do not–”

“I do not listen to the prattlings-on of my wife’s handmaiden,” Jet snapped, turning to look at her. “You are, without a doubt, the most vexing woman I know, and that is saying something, considering I was half-courted by the princess herself,” he said through his teeth.

Gemma’s eyes were dark and angry as she left the room, saying, “You should not insult me so. I am not some idiot to be so cruelly handled.”

When she was gone, Jet regretted it almost instantly, sighing and putting his face in his hands. “How is it she can be so infuriating?” His shoulders slumped, and he looked over at Acer, who was still watching the door through which Gemma had left.

“Perhaps, if I might be so bold, Guardian — perhaps you are simply too hard on her?” Acer wondered. “You are not nearly as hard on Lu–” He caught a glance at Jet’s expression, and shifted his words, finishing with, “–the Princess?”

“And you have a soft spot for the woman who is growing to be an ever present thorn in my side,” Jet said irritably. “I’ll tell you what, Acer: Manage her, and she’ll be yours to manage.”

Acer flushed, turning to look at Jet, and began to stammer. “Guardian, I am– it’s an honor– I don’t know how to thank– it’s very–”

“Calm down, Plaga. No doubt you’ll hate me as much as she seems to by the end of it,” Jet said darkly. “Now I know within fifteen minutes, my wife will come in to try to smooth things over by guilting me. Seeing as I already feel terrible for being rude to her handmaiden, I’m going to try to circumvent the whole issue.”

Secta stepped in, took Jet’s documents and carefully packaged them back up, putting them in folders for easy reviewing, picked up his pens and immediately shadowed him, waiting, silent, ever present and ready. He nodded politely to Acer, who was already off in his own wonderland of thought — he’d been mooning over Gemma since she introduced herself to him when he nearly invaded Ilona — and then left with Jet, without any further hesitation.

* * *

“Master?”

“Secta.”

“Perhaps–”

“I regret most decisions I have made, lately, the instant I have made them,” Jet said quietly. “I fear I am distracted beyond all measure,” he sighed. “I need… I need to do as I had done before the hunt. I need to go out in the streets again.”

“It is not as safe as it was,” Secta began.

“But I make it safe,” Jet said, insisting. “That is my purpose, yes? That is why I exist? To guard the city, to bring light and warmth to the cold, dark, and unforgiving world of alleyways and illicit dealings, to expose graft and corruption and murder, and make our citizens desire peace.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Secta said softly, nodding. “I understand. Shall I make ready your robes and knives?”

“Do,” Jet said. “And the mask. Let us terrify those who still work to bring down the beauty that is our Empire, hmm?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Secta said, and could not tell if the beating of his heart was from excitement, or fear.

Or both.

* * *

The city itself was unquiet as Jet skulked through the streets; he could hear both revelers and rioters — though the main thrust of the city’s self destructive urges were quelled by the guards flooding the streets and enforcing order on the populace, there were still those who sought to take advantage of the political disruption by reaching for more than what they’d earned.

The first group he came across was busily storming through a shop; the keeper was being held down, was being beaten, and merchandise was simply being bagged up and carried away.

Others in nearby shops were awakened; they watched in fear as the small group of thugs sparked torches and prepared to burn the place down.

Jet watched as the owner was tied hand to foot, dragged into the center of his shop, and beaten until he could not move.

“All right, boys,” laughed the leader. “Let’s show them they still need our protection.”

Certain he’d understood the nuances of his forthcoming actions, Jet strode in, knives in hand. He walked up to the leader, moving to draw his hand back, ready to cut into the man who so clearly was in the wrong, when the leader turned, laughing, and said, “I was hoping you’d show up.” He looked past Jet and snarled, “Get him!”

Expecting to be able to attack from behind, to crush the Guardian’s skull and render him inert, the men were quick and focused, but not ready for anything except winning quickly.

They brought their weapons down quickly, but Jet was ready for them — he shifted just enough to take the blows against one shoulder. While it was dislocated, he simply twisted and swung his arm around; it popped back into place — the knife that hand held sank home in the throat of one of the men, while the other was pulled into a headlock. The now-bloodied knife went into each eye, quick-as-you-blink, and the second thug dropped.

The leader staggered back as Jet advanced. “Did you think such a trick would ever work on me more than once?” Jet’s voice was thick with cruel laughter as he drew ever closer. “You could never provide such distraction,” he taunted.

The leader’s screams climbed high into the night as the torches died out.

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