Dreams of Shreds and Tatters (25 page)

It wasn’t a question, but he nodded all the same. His throat was dry, his tongue dead in his mouth.

You don’t have to say anything. He’ll know
.

Who had said that to him? Someone far away, in a life he’d forgotten. His stomach cramped, and if he’d eaten anything today he would have vomited it all over the shining steps. Sweat slicked his palms, prickled his scalp. Alain squeezed his arm, reassurance or a warning.

I don’t like the storm.

Who had said that?

“Come, then,”
the King said through the woman’s mouth.
“Receive the sign.”

The King unwound himself from the thorny embrace of his chair and stood. He beckoned, and Blake went, shaking so hard he could scarcely walk. The smell of bone and roses washed over him, crawling into his mouth and nose. His heart raced as though it meant to escape the prison of his ribs.

The King raised his long gaunt hands and threw back his hood. From the darkness where his face should be, light unfolded.

The world slipped.

Blake wept, enfolded in an angel’s flaming wings. His blood boiled, searing through every vein, burning away imperfections.

He understood now what Rainer had meant. Words meant nothing here, only intent. This oath was unspeakable, unspoken. He had only to give himself entirely to the King and be reborn.

Had Rainer done this, too? He remembered Rainer now, Vancouver, all the things the abyss had tried to wash away.

He swore a shadow of this oath.
The voice rang through him. Painful, but he had already passed through pain into something else.
He was so loyal, so eager, but he didn’t truly understand. You are the only mortal to take the oath in my presence in... spans and spans of time, as you mayfly creatures measure it. You have the chance to be so much more.

The sign burned behind his eyes, the glowing sigil Rainer had shown him. It surged inside him like a choirsong, the cacophony of a thousand fractured voices. For an instant he understood it—a name, a song not meant to be heard by human ears, let alone spoken. For a fraction of a heartbeat he saw past the angel’s devouring light to the darkness beyond. The King, the angel, the shining brilliance was a bright spark against a vast shadow, an anglerfish lure for the timeless presence brooding in the depths of the abyss.

Complete the oath.

He balanced on a knife edge between fear and wonder when the sound of his name shattered the vision. Blake staggered, sagging in the King’s skeletal embrace. His hand closed on the King’s sleeve and rotten cloth disintegrated at his touch, revealing withered grey flesh beneath.

“Blake!”

The crash of a door slamming shut echoed through the room, followed by a roar of sound.

“Stop her,” Alain shouted.

Blake twisted to see the cause of the commotion, falling to his knees as the King released him. A woman strode across the room and the crowd drew back to let her pass, pressing close in her wake to gawk. Despite Alain’s command, no one laid a hand on her as she approached the dais. She wore no mask, only black armor and a white mantle; her boots echoed on the tiles. She lifted her face toward the throne, and Blake’s jaw slackened as he recognized her.

“Liz?”

He didn’t know how he could be surprised after everything he’d seen and felt and dreamt in this place, but still he gaped.

Her eyes widened as she took in the scene on the dais, but her gaze fixed firm on him. “It’s me. I’ve come to take you home.”

“He is home,” Alain said, stepping in front of her.

Liz turned, and her voice was cold and harsh. “Who are you?”

Blake tried to step down, but the King’s robes clung to him like cobwebs. “You’ve met Alain—”

She made a sharp gesture with her right hand, leaving a tracer of silver light in its wake. “Alain is dead. I went to his funeral. This isn’t him.”

Blake opened his mouth to deny it, but his teeth snapped shut on the words.

Alain looked up at the King, and the frown twisting his face wasn’t one Blake knew. “Will you permit this?”

The King’s narrow shoulders hitched, but it was the blindfolded woman who voiced his rumbling chuckle.
“It amuses me. Deal with her as you see fit.”

Blake shook off the clinging robes and descended the steps. Liz met him at the bottom. Her hair was tangled, her pale face flushed. A blood-soaked bandage wrapped her left hand. Her hazel eyes were wide, lashes spiky as if she’d been crying. He started to reach for her, but jerked his hand back again.

“Is it really you?”

She sighed, and her eyes flickered as if they wanted to roll. “It’s really me.”

His fists clenched. “You say Alain isn’t real. How can I trust you?”

“Because I’ve fought my way here through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered. Because I brought this.” She held up her right hand and he saw his ring, the ring she’d given him, shining loose around her thumb. “And because I’m getting you out of here whether you trust me or not.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, a hitch of breath full of worry and impatient determination. The sound caught in his chest like a hook and pulled him forward. He threw his arms around her and the unfamiliar bulk of armor, tucking her head under his chin. She smelled of blood and sweat and fear and the fading sweetness of vanilla shampoo.

“I missed you,” he murmured against her hair.

She shook; he thought she was crying until he heard her laugh. “You could have asked me to visit. You didn’t have to nearly get yourself killed.”

“This is very sweet,” Alain said. “But now isn’t the time.”

Blake turned, and once again doubt paralyzed him. “Who are you?”

Alain’s face crumpled, a miserable expression that twisted in Blake’s gut like a knife. Then he laughed, and the pain fell away like a mask.

“This game is boring me. Your friend is right. Alain is dead and buried. I’m all you have left of him. But I’ll keep wearing his face if you ask me nicely. We can still have fun together.”

Blake recoiled, his stomach churning. “Who are you?”

The false Alain stepped closer. “I’m your lover now, aren’t I? And more. I’ve seen all the dark ugly things inside you, more than anyone else ever has.” One sharp-nailed hand reached up to stroke Blake’s cheek.

He moved without thinking. It wasn’t until Alain sprawled on the floor in front of him and the dull warmth of pain spread through his knuckles that Blake realized what he’d done. The crack of flesh against flesh hung in the air. Alain—Alain’s face— stared up at him, dark eyes wide with shock, blood trickling from a split lip. Blake’s hand ached, and the taste of sour metal filled his mouth. His cheeks burned.

Was this what it felt like? This rush?

His knees gave way and he doubled over retching. His stomach was empty, but it heaved all the same, strings of spit and bile dripping onto the floor.

Laughter washed over him, cold and mocking. He knew that laugh, and it wasn’t Alain’s. He retched harder.

Hands closed on his coat, hauling him up. “You can be a predator, darling, or you can be prey. It’s a pity you seem disposed to the latter. Perhaps the King can cure you of that. If not, well… better sport for the rest of us.”

Liz grabbed Alain’s arm and tried to pull him away. Instead he backhanded her with casual viciousness and sent her sprawling across the tiles.

“I’m glad you’re here, after all,” he said. “You can keep my friends company. This was a boring party anyway.” He whistled sharply, and an answering howl rose from the dancers.

“Now,” he said to Blake. “Let’s finish what you started.”

Blake struggled, but the false Alain was too strong, carrying him up the stairs as if he were a child. Something moved inside him, something more than his own helpless panic: a coil of darkness, some lingering taint of the abyss. Black and cold and alien, but it gave him strength.

He smashed his skull into Alain’s face and kicked. Their legs tangled and both of them spilled down the stairs. Blake’s head bounced off stone and the world exploded into white starbursts. He landed blind and dizzy. Alain fell across him, pinning him to the floor. All Blake could do was lie limp and pray he didn’t fall to pieces.

Alain’s voice whispered in his ear. “Aren’t you tired of being a victim? Anyone’s meat, to use or save or throw away. This place could make you so much more, if you’d only let it.”

Blood roared in Blake’s ears, leaked down his face. Darkness sang to him and he wanted so badly to listen.

The door crashed open again, and a new voice carried over the shrieking din. “Enough!”

Blake knew that voice. It burned through the pain-haze, drew him back from the edge of unconsciousness.

I’m not helpless,
he told himself.
Not a child. Not prey.

He drew a breath, choked and spat blood. He heaved Alain’s weight aside and pushed himself up, fighting the urge to vomit again. Blood trickled into one eye, splashing bright as rubies against the floor. Through red-webbed lashes he watched a white-robed man cross the room.

“You’ve had your entertainment,” the man said, looking up at the throne. His voice was the velvet warmth from Blake’s dreams. “Now if you’ll excuse us, it’s time these children went home.”

The gargoyles on the dais had held so still that Blake had almost forgotten them—now they stirred, unfurling wings the color of decay.

:You trespass:
They spoke in unison. The woman in white had vanished from the dais, leaving the King alone in his chair.

“I don’t belong here, it’s true, but neither do your guests. Give them to me and I’ll trouble you no more.”

Blake heard the thunder of wings, but Alain leaned over him, blocking his view. “Let them play. You didn’t answer my question.” His smile bared too many teeth. “Don’t you want to be something more? Or do you like being fragile and broken?”

In response, Blake punched him again. Something crunched—his hand or Alain’s face, he wasn’t sure which. Pain traveled up his arm, warm and sweet. “How’s that?”

The false Alain grinned. Blood black as tar leaked from his nose, seeped between his sharp, sharp teeth. “Much better! I knew you had it in you somewhere.” He lunged, quick as a snake, too fast for Blake to dodge. But instead of a blow, he pulled Blake close and kissed him.

Sharp teeth shredded Blake’s lips and Alain’s tongue slid hot against his, bittersweet and sticky with blood. Hands slipped under his coat, tugging at his shirt buttons. Thread snapped; nails scraped his skin. And even now, after everything, he arched into the touch with a gasp, inhaling Alain’s bloody breath. He clenched a hand in Alain’s hair, dragging his face away.

“Yes,” the impostor hissed, the cables in his neck standing taut. “That’s it. Hit me. Hurt me. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that what you know best?”

Blake rolled, pinning the false Alain against the floor. His hands ached with the effort of not giving him what he asked for. “No.”

“Then run.” Alain lay back, hands held wide in a gesture of surrender. Purple-black hair drifted around his blood-streaked face. “Who knows, maybe you’ll even win free. But every time you think of your poor dead boy, you’ll really be thinking of me.”

Blake’s vision tunneled until all he could see was blood on ecru skin, the jump of Alain’s pulse in his slender throat. This was what it looked like from the other side.

His fists clenched. But if he gave in, he wouldn’t stop. And that was exactly what the impostor wanted. Instead he scrambled to his feet and ran to help Liz.

Alain’s mocking laughter followed him.

L
IZ FOUGHT
,
BUT
the crowd kept coming. They wore suits and gowns, satin and velvet and jewels, but beneath the finery they were the same bacchanal procession she’d glimpsed in the streets of Carcosa. Hooved and horned and clawed, men with goat legs or goat heads, women with hyena teeth. They howled and laughed as they surrounded her.

The ring blazed on her hand, sword and shield all at once. Bone and cartilage crunched as she drove her boot into a muzzled face. Adrenaline sang in her blood, and for one terrible moment she felt strong. Her veins burned, a sensation that moved through panic and into something wild and electric.

But even armed and armored, there was only one of her and too many of them. Talons tangled in her hair; teeth scraped against leather, tore through it to reach the flesh beneath. Maenads and satyrs fell beneath her shining blade, but more came on, wave after wave. Liz screamed and kicked and bit, drove her elbow into something’s ribs and broke a laughing woman’s nose.

The laughter never stopped. It wasn’t until her throat began to ache that she realized she was laughing too. Her skin felt wrong, too tight and tingling, blood surging hot. Was this desire? The lust that drove the world? Sex and death and madness—Carcosa would teach her all of them if it could.

The wall of leering faces opened and clutching hands gave way. For an instant Liz felt alone and bereft, cold without the press of flesh. Then she fell and cracked her head on the tiles. Colors burst behind her eyes and a roar of static drowned the cries of the bacchante.

With doubled vision she watched Blake break through the crowd. Two Blakes tossed bodies aside. Two Blakes throttled two unlucky satyrs. Blood splashed his hands and face, clotted in his hair; she couldn’t tell how much of it was his. She tried to shout, but his name was a wet sound in her throat. She spat pink-streaked phlegm and called again.

He turned and it took all her resolve not to flinch. Black oozed across his eyes like tar, swallowing grey and white alike. Dark veins stood out in his sunken cheeks. “Let him go,” she said, climbing painfully to her feet. “It’s not worth it.”

He looked down at the body sagging in his grip and flung it away with a shudder. “You’re hurt.” Even his voice was darker, thicker.

“I’ll be fine.” Probably a lie, but she didn’t have time to inventory her wounds. Blood trickled down her face and throat, dripped from her hands, but her throbbing left hand eclipsed any lesser pain. The white mantle was a lost cause, but the scarab pin still gleamed on her shoulder.