DeathWatch No. 125 – It’s Like You’ve Known Me My Whole Life

Posted on January 7, 2016 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #125 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!

PREVIOUS

* * *

Blood. So much blood. Jules woke with a start, pulling her wild hair back from her face, out of her wide, desperate eyes. Silently, she slipped from the bed and went to the bathroom, where she knelt and struggled to remain silent as she retched. Her whole body heaved, and she emptied the meager contents of her stomach, feeling the world tremble and spin, her fingers clutching the porcelain of the commode, nail beds white with the way she clung, as if holding on to that would let her hold on to anything else.

She could see the face of the woman who had killed her, could feel the fury as she tried to lift her hands to defend herself, but it was over in a matter of minutes — the knives bit deep, and her assailant was unflinching. The pain of the knives, suffocating on her own blood, dwindling down into the cold dark, and coming back left her weak and trembling. She hugged the toilet and rested her cheek on the seat, biting her tongue until it bled to keep from crying out. It was too fast, too much; she could only just now process who the man was, and why it had happened.

“Commander,” Coryphaeus said, coming in and turning up the lamps. He wet a washing cloth and carefully wiped her face and lips, then gave her a glass of cold water to rinse her mouth, and a glass of aetheris to settle her head, and ease the agony.

“Legatus,” she said, hoarse.

“Who was it?” He was concerned, but there was something of fascination on his features, as well; he watched her like one might an excessively dangerous animal.

“Not you,” she promised, rubbing her head. “Older man. Hurt his family. His family hurt back,” she said, shuddering.

After awhile, once he was certain she would no longer sick up, he led her back to the bed she slept in alone, and carefully rearranged her blankets to smooth them out. He was solicitous, kind even, and Jules got the distinct impression he was attempting to win her over to trusting him.

It didn’t matter — he was half the reason most everyone she knew was dead, he wouldn’t be able to do anything to fix that.

Days passed while he worked to gain another audience with the Prince. He imagined he might be able to simply ask for what he wanted, and in the mean time, he showed favor to plenty of guards, and learned where the other two thirds of the Westlanders were being kept while the castellanae dealt with the rather large influx of potential slaves.

When he delivered this news to her, Coryphaeus saw Jules’s expression light up, for one moment. “How many still live?” she said, wringing her hands.

“Over two hundred,” he said quietly, looking anxious.

“How many can you save?” she asked.

“I do not know, Commander. I will try t–”

“All of them. Try to save all of them,” she said, urgent. “Even the ones who are supposed to be hunted.” Faces swam before her: Sha, Nate, Djara, Kieron — which of them might she still lose?

Coryphaeus looked half-defeated before he began, sighing, but he nodded, all the same. The weight of a hundred lives lost already rested on him; he’d battled before — he was a veteran soldier, after all, but somehow, the remembrance of those men and women simply submitting to Immanis’s will was not awe-inspiring, but terrifying in a way he could not reconcile with his vision of nobility and honor.

The wedding was days ago, but neither of them had gotten much sleep in that time, and it showed on Coryphaeus’s face as he fluffed her pillows. He began to walk away, but she reached out and caught his hand. It startled him, and he pulled back, his eyes widened.

“Why are you doing this?” It wasn’t the first time she asked.

Coryphaeus sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Because I didn’t believe you, that my Prince was a monster. Because I had assumed there would at least be… at least an attempt at justice. Instead, what I saw was pure vengeance, as childish and damaging as can be. His voice, his presence — he can compel you to love him, to obey him, to do as he pleases. He could’ve ordered your army to retreat. He could’ve sent them all home and made sure they let the West know to stay on its side of the Luminora. To stay safe. But instead… all that needless death. For spectacle. Because I know I am supposed to hate you Westlanders, but I’m not sure why, and so I know I have to fight against it, and understand if you’re truly my enemy, or just a ghost story, meant to frighten and control a herd,” he explains. “Because I’m not as afraid as I was, when I worried my secrets would be found out. Because I must be better than a common thug, a fear-monger.”

“Says the man who keeps a taser collar on my neck,” Jules said softly, rolling her eyes, her fingers touching the metallic ring that glowed dully around her throat. “Couldn’t even get an aetheric one that might’ve kept my head from breaking every time I see death. You won’t stop lying to yourself, fine. Stop lying to me, at least. You didn’t meet me and develop some instant conscience. You don’t want to be a better man, you want to survive.”

“Yes. I want to survive,” he said, snapping. “And I’m willing to sacrifice a great deal to keep going. You’re what ensures that. The collar’s not an aetheric one because I can–”

“I’m what ensures that, fine, but I’ve already told you, I’m not leaving. I won’t run. I won’t leave them,” she said coldly.

“Jules–”

Her eyes went wide and her voice lifted in fury. “You don’t get to call me that–”

“It isn’t even ON!” Coryphaeus sighed, exasperated.

“–you don’t ever get to call me that! You think you’re going to be some big fucking savior, but I’m just waiting for the moment I ca–”

He held up the small remote in front of her face, and dramatically pushed the button.

Jules flinched, reaching hands up to clutch the collar, and uttered a strangled cry. After a moment or two, she opened her eyes hesitantly, and finally ended up staring at Coryphaeus bewilderedly. “Nothing happened. It isn’t even on,” Jules said quietly.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” he explained. “I’m not… you’re here because you’re noticeable and I can’t set you free. Enough nobles have seen you that you’d be picked up and likely killed before the morning market opened. I’m trying to save the rest of your… your family, J–Commander. I don’t know if I can do it, but I know I have to try. Everything surrounding it is pretense. You don’t have any reason to trust me; I know. But I’m trying, all the same.”

“You’re a better man than most any others I know, Legatus,” Jules finally said, looking thoughtful.

“Save that thought for the moment I manage to set you all free,” Coryphaeus sighed. “Til then, I need you to be a proper slave. Angry and barely compliant. Think you can manage it?”

Jules rolled her eyes and readjusted the collar. “Can I manage angry and barely compliant? It’s like you’ve known me my whole life.”

* * *

NEXT

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DeathWatch No. 124 – Noli prohibe, my Jet, my love–

Posted on January 6, 2016 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #124 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!

PREVIOUS

* * *

In his own chambers, Immanis grew still, and closed his mouth, no longer interrupting. He laid a hand over Jet’s, resting his fingertips against his own skin, feeling his pulse, feeling Jet’s. The braziers burned, and an untouched glass of aetheris slowly evaporated, the silverblue distillate fading as the night wore on.

From where they lay tangled on the floor, Jet slid his hands over his Prince’s shoulders, and pulled away the robes covering his skin, revealing the tattoos that whorled over Immanis’s body, from throat to toe.

Immanis pulled the white silk from Jet’s frame, freeing the man beneath him. The fabric came free from broad shoulders, and puddled to the floor beneath them both. Silently, he bared bronze skin, until he could lay his naked body against Jet’s, trembling, his eyes wide.

Skin to skin, Jet leaned up and kissed Immanis slowly, one hand reaching to tangle in the Prince’s long black hair.

Immanis’s lips parted, and he breathed in the scents of cinnamon and fire, blood and tears. “My Jet,” he whispered against the Guardian’s mouth.

“My Immanis.” Jet’s voice was low and sweet, made rough with urgency, fueled by an aching that could not be quelled by anything but touch. He twisted, shifting, and rolled Immanis to his back, covering the Prince’s body with his own. With hands, lips, tongue, he sought to open Immanis, to make him vulnerable, to let him tremble and be held. Each wanted to take all the time in the world, and each wanted the other to rush. It seemed hours later when he moved the Prince again, laying him to his stomach, kissing all along the nape of his neck and down the length of his back, his breath warm against the Prince’s back as his lips touched lower and lower, reaching the curve at the base of his spine, and then returning, higher and higher, as Jet finally laid himself against Immanis, shivering.

They moved against one another, and the discovery of pleasure was both urgent and gentle; when Immanis surrendered, when he let himself be entered, they both froze, panting, Jet holding to Immanis’s hips, Immanis holding himself up, reaching back to hold one of Jet’s hands against his body. Unable to remain still, they both began to shift, to press closer, to settle skin to skin again, and ultimately, Jet laid his belly to Immanis’s back, and pressed his lips to Immanis’s shoulder, complete. They moved slowly, carefully, until they could not stop themselves, and when Immanis reached to bring Jet’s hand to encircle him, they writhed on the floor, a sweatslick tangle of naked flesh and unrestrained desire.

Immanis closed his eyes and bowed his head, then reached up to tangle his hand in Jet’s hair. “Noli — noli,” he breathed, and Jet froze again, worried — Immanis was saying ‘Don’t–‘ but it sounded like begging, and he nearly pulled away again until Immanis tightened his grip and cried out lowly, “Noli prohibe, my Jet, my love, don’t stop, don’t–”

The need was too great, the pleasure too keen — Jet held to Immanis, held him up, bodies straining, fingers twined, toes curling against the floor, and once he shifted again, Immanis pushed back, crying out in both desire and something akin to shock. Jet felt the sudden heat, the rush of it over his fingers curled with the Prince’s. The sensation overwhelmed Jet, and he lost himself quickly, muffling his cry with his teeth against Immanis’s shoulder. The pulse of it left him dazed, still holding to Immanis, and they sank to the floor in breathless wonder, weaklegged and shaking.

Jet could not bring himself to pull away; he kept his lips against Immanis’s skin, and breathed him in, still trembling, whispering quiet meditations on the nature of their joining. He could think of nothing and no one save his Prince; the whole of his life before the instant they touched seemed to have been wiped away.

There was no undoing what had been done; while Gemma and Lucida lay in one another’s arms, spent and delirious after lovemaking, so too did Jet and Immanis, quietly murmuring to one another, speaking of the evening, of the coming morning, of what their lives would become now, now that they had one another.

They grew so caught up in their talk, they never got up off the floor, and when Immanis shifted to be able to better look at Jet, neither of them could stop as they clung to one another again, and sought out every movement, every gesture, every expression they could think of, to pleasure one another. Their cries drifted into the gardens, into the hall; when they reached their peak, the wedding guests cheered — everything was cause for them to celebrate, and they thought it was the newlywed couple, no matter which of the pairings could be heard.

They lay in one another’s arms for hours, as the braziers burned, Jet beside Immanis, his golden eyes half-lidded in a satisfied contentment. With their hands twined, bodies twined, they listened to the wedding guests out in the far gardens, the musicians hired to play on through the night, and when Immanis found himself restless, he twisted to pull Jet closer, and pressed his mouth to Jet’s, murmuring, “Again.”

Jet could taste blood and aetheris against his lips, and he felt his heart thunder in his chest, “Again?” Jet wondered, not hesitant, but liking the way it felt to have the Prince need him.

“Again, my love,” Immanis pled, his breath hot against his lover’s skin. “Again and again until the sky lightens. Until the day takes you from me. Lucida will need you; Ilona will need you–”

“–but for now, I am yours,” Jet finished, nodding, and leaned in once more, to quiet his Prince with a kiss. The morning would come too soon; if all he had were these moments, he would take them with all due desire.

* * *

Out in the hallway, leaning against the doors alone, having sent away the guards on lengthy errands of utmost import, Secta stood watch. Faithfully, he waited the hours until daylight, heart pounding, and quietly shepherded his master and his Prince, allowing them to have the time they needed to finally let their two hearts become one.

* * *

NEXT

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DeathWatch No. 123 – I chose this. I choose you.

Posted on January 5, 2016 by Catastrophe Jones

This is Issue #123 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!

PREVIOUS

* * *

Braziers burned within Immanis’s private chambers. Jet lit the rest of them as he walked about the rooms, touching books, statues, picking up pieces of the Prince’s life, and putting them back down again. His heart tightened in his chest, burning lowly, and he watched the hours tick by on the Prince’s bedside clock. He touched the crystals on a chandelier and watched them swing. He plucked withered orchid blossoms from one of the many plants around the room and dropped them into the braziers, listening to them sigh and scent the room with perfume and vanilla.

He poured himself a glass of aetheris, but couldn’t bring himself to drink it. He could hear, out the balcony window, the occasional cheer from various groupings of wedding guests, but he didn’t go out to look at the stars. Instead, he paced.

And paced.

And paced.

When the door finally opened, some time well after the midnight hour, when he was certain Immanis must have already escaped the celebration and perhaps wandered off with a pretty courtier. He had worked himself up to nearly a fit of jealousy, and then suddenly he felt his heart in his throat, and he stopped his pacing, his hands curling into fists. He didn’t turn, didn’t yet see Immanis as he was closing the door, but all at once, Jet felt the world tightening around him, his view greying at the edges, everything gone to tunnel vision.

What am I doing? What am I doing here?

It felt like drowning.

It felt like coming home.

Immanis shut the door behind himself, and leaned back against it, feeling the world swim, his veins half full of aetheris. He could see someone wearing white in his room, someone hooded, facing away from him. “You dare?” he snarled, pulling a knife from his robes. He ran for the intruder, brandishing the weapon, baring his teeth, secretly pleased for the challenge. He had killed a hundred men and women — one with his bare hands — and still he was not sated, still he did not feel he had done enough to slake the thirst of his wedding guests, his people who expected him to be the predator, the leader, the all-powerful head of their nation, merciless and fierce. And besides — he needed something to take his mind off the idea of Jet in Lucida’s bed.

All that death had left him only anticipating the gift he’d been given by his Guardian — the prey for his hunt. His fingers curled tightly around the knife as he launched himself at the intruder.

The world spun, and Jet remembered for a single instant, the feeling of heat closing up over his mouth, his eyes, liquid and red.

I am here because I am reborn.

He turned around as Immanis closed in.

Jet pulled his hood down, and revealed his face, his bronze skin, his sharp white teeth, the long, dark waves of his hair. His laughing, shining golden eyes.

Immanis collided with him, too late to stop the rush, and they tumbled to the floor, a riot of wedding robes, white silks, bare feet.

Jet let himself be pinned, and lifted his chin so the point of the knife would dig against his throat. Blood ran, staining the collar of his white cloak — the spot darkened, widened. He hissed lowly, tipping his head back further, baring his teeth. “My Prince,” he whispered, smiling, his eyes half-lidded.

Shock registered on Immanis’s face. His eyes grew wide, and he lay against the Guardian, panting. He dropped the knife with a clatter, panting, and froze, his eyes even wider. “Jet?”

Jet nodded, saying, “Yes, Immanis.”

“Should you not be with your wife?” the Prince asked. “It is your wedding night, after all.” Wind from the balcony blew against them, stirring Jet’s white robes, Immanis’s black hair.

“It is,” Jet said. “But I have long since known how the night would go, to serve us all well. In fact, I am entirely certain I have given her the wedding night she deserved,” he explained quietly, earnestly. “The one she wished for, but could not claim, herself. And in return–” As he spoke, he reached up a bare hand and slid it over the Prince’s jaw, trailing fingertips over his skin, cupping his cheek in the palm of his hand. He leaned up, his breath warm against Immanis’s cheek as he said, “–I have come to take the wedding night I wish for.”

Immanis’s eyes widened, but then looked pained. “I forced your hand, in this, my Jet,” he said, shaking his head, his dark eyes saddened. “It is no victory for me, my brother, that you chose under duress. I was foolish, and–”

His words were cut off as Jet pressed a finger against his lips. “I did not hesitate in choosing because I don’t love you,” Jet said quietly, “but precisely because I do. I was torn between a memory, and this life. I knew that if I held to that memory, my love would never be worthy of you. I couldn’t bear to give you only a half-measure of my heart. I wanted to love you with all of myself,” he said, urgent. “The life I had before I came here is no more. The boy I was is gone. I have set it aside. The man before you is newly born. You asked me to choose, and I did. You must believe me, Immanis; I chose this. I choose you.”

“Even so,” Immanis sighed. “You–”

“Silence,” Jet admonished Immanis, shifting beneath him. “I was a slave! You paid coin for me. You marked me with blood. You planned to hunt me as an animal. But then… your heart changed, and you called me brother,” Jet said, remembering the night clearly, Lucida’s mouth on his, her urgent whispered directions. The lie that saved his life. The drunken pact that resulted in his novo. It might never have happened, had he not been interesting to the Prince’s mischievous sister. “You made us brothers.” He lifted his hand and showed Immanis the scar, then reached to press his palm over Immanis’s heart. “And now… I will make us something else.”

* * *

NEXT

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Untranslateable

Posted on January 4, 2016 by Catastrophe Jones

Gone in a flash,
in an instant,
in a moment
and all I have left
are the memories
of a time and place
that never were.
I can see your too-blue eyes
and I can taste the smoke
on your lips
and I can even feel the flash of fire
at your fingertips,
but all you are
is a seizure
in some undiscovered country of my mind,
and no matter how many times
I dye that braid green,
it grows in whisky blonde,
and someone is left with the job
of finding the right needle
to put in my arm
so I don’t split the world in two.
I exist in a state
of perpetual hiraeth;
the only thing that drowns
the saudade of the imaginary
is your favorite brand of whisky.

It burns me like I needed you to,
and that will have to be enough.

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Chronological Gaps / The Stories We Tell / Let’s Pretend I’m A Liar, And You Can Sleep At Night

Posted on January 3, 2016 by Catastrophe Jones

I convinced you
I had magical powers
because I could make the lights on my street go out
by concentrating at them.
You pinned me
against my front door
and kissed me
until I couldn’t breathe.

I would stare
at the earring in your left ear,
a dangling cross.
I would watch it shine in the light,
and I would turn
and bury my face
against the stubble of your throat.

I’d put my tongue to your neck
and hum, delirious,
while you play-fucked me on your couch.

I let a stranger
finger me at 38,000 feet
while you were
two rows over,
six rows back,
still recovering from food poisoning.

I fucked you
in your parents’ bathroom
while your friends played video games
in the next room.
I put mint condoms on you
and made you come
until you couldn’t walk.

I kissed you,
when I shouldn’t have.
I wonder about what happened to you
all the time.
I know your best friend left
not long after,
and you felt alone.

I punched you once.
I should’ve hit you harder.
A lot harder.
Often.

I called you up,
asked you to come over,
got you hard,
and scared the shit out of you
while I trashed my apartment
and raved like a maniac,
then asked you to leave
and never come back.

I would put my hand between my legs
while you talked to me.
I crossed the country for you.
You wanted to leave the light on.
I loved your hair.
You were beautiful in the moonlight.
I don’t know if I ever told you.
You howled for me, and introduced me to your friends,
and no one thought of us as strange.

I made myself come
while you held me down
and told me I was naughty.
I thought about your friends the whole time,
in the bed next to us.
I hoped they’d hear us,
and join in.
I cheated on you,
and it was one of the best kisses I’ve ever had.
We were never the same.
You were needy and jealous.
I know I was wrong.
I hope you’re all right.

I gave you my phone number when you asked for it,
and you called me.
You put your hand around my throat
and watched me falter.
I stumbled back to the real world,
delirious,
and slept in another man’s bed.
Everyone in that hotel could hear me.
I spent the next week
wishing I’d made you leave marks,
wishing I’d left marks on you.

I read a message you left someplace you weren’t sure I’d read it.
But then it was a whirlwind of pain and pleasure,
horror and red.
I played so rough
you used your safeword.
I didn’t.
You left messages
carved into my back.

I let you tie me down
and fuck me for hours.
We wasted a lot of time not realizing
I should’ve been letting you hit me
instead of fuck me.

As for you, you are the best.

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