Machine (4 page)

“No, I suppose there isn’t. Whether that preacher stays in Purinton or moves on, we’ll likely never hear of him again.” Fan put the bread in its box, then gathered up the empty soup kettle and ladle, the pair of bowls and spoons, and carried them to the sink.

Will always washed the dishes and Fan always dried them. When they were finished, they always exchanged a kiss. Cleaning up after meals was one of many small domestic rituals Will had come to treasure.

This was his home, a genuine home. And Fan, he felt in his heart, was his beloved husband.

They were both unusually quiet. Fan, a crease in his brow, seemed thoughtful.

“Is something on your mind?” Will asked.

The crease deepened. “Last night, while I was standing at the window….”

“What about it?”

Fan’s hand went still. The linen towel hung limply from his fingers. After a moment he shook his head. “Nothing. You know, that fellow sounds like a monotheist, the kind who believes in an unforgiving god that exists solely to lay down laws and dole out all sorts of gruesome punishments for breaking those laws. I know there are still pockets of them around.”

Will scrubbed at the soup kettle. “Hm. Whatever the case, making people afraid and suspicious and hateful doesn’t seem like a very good stewardship technique. For
any
god.”

One side of Fan’s mouth turned up. “Except the dictatorial ones.” He leaned a hip against the counter. “Followers probably don’t mind, though. They reckon they’ll be rewarded instead of chastised. I imagine they think of themselves as members of an exclusive club that offers exceptional benefits.”

Will set aside his sponge and pumped clear water over the kettle. “I still don’t understand the lure of it.”

“Nor do I. But I concluded a long time ago that the lure was either very simple or very complicated.” Fan took the kettle from Will and absently wiped. “My mother used to talk about that sort of thing,” he murmured, growing thoughtful again.

“About religion?” Will was surprised. That wasn’t a common topic of conversation unless some new sect, like the Sensorians, struck the public’s fancy. Then
everybody
talked about it, as if it were an explorer’s journey to a distant land, or a life-changing invention.

“Self-righteousness more than religion,” Fan said. “Rigidity of belief. Delight in condemnation.” He made another swipe at the kettle. “Hypocrisy.”

“Why would she talk about things like that?”

Fan’s expression was somber, tinged with sadness. “Because she suffered a private hurt she never got over.” He didn’t explain.

And Will didn’t badger him. Instead, he took the damp towel from Fan’s hand and draped it over the edge of the sink. The dishwater could stay in the graniteware wash pan until they went to bed, for they might be able to use it again.

Their chore concluded, Will turned to the right for his kiss.

Usually, they merely leaned forward without embracing, and the light press of their lips carried more affection than passion. Tonight, Fan held Will and kissed not only his mouth but his hair, forehead, cheek, and throat.

How I love him!
Will thought. “Well, we can’t change the past, but at least we can shape the future.”

He felt Fan smile against the side of his face. “Did your Uncle Penrose say that?”

Pulling back, Will blushed. He did have the most annoying habit of spouting his uncle’s platitudes. Whenever another one slid from his tongue, he felt as incapable of self-censorship as Simon Bentcross.

“Yes,” he confessed. “I’m sorry. You must get so tired of—”

“Nothing, when it comes to you.” Fan delivered another kiss. Tender as it was, Will was stirred by it. He wanted to extinguish every lamp and pull Fan into the bedroom. “Besides,” Fan said with a smile, “your uncle was always right. Now, shall we have a game of chess or écarté?”

“I think,” Will said, grasping Fan’s wrist, “we should have a game of Crown and Ring or Break the Baton.”

T
HE
NEXT
morning, after Fan went off to work on the fieldstone wall he was building for a Taintwellian couple, Will lazed about in bed. Yesterday had pummeled all the energy out of him—the miles of travel, the hectic pace of business at the circus, his tension over the baffling Spiritorium man, two vigorous rounds of lovemaking. Remembering in detail the last of these activities, he hummed in contentment, one hand curled around his half-erect shaft and the other arm hugging Fan’s pillow. Too lethargic even to pleasure himself, he burrowed deeper into the bedding.

Soon he’d have to find winter work. But before that, he’d have to return one last time to the Mechanical Circus to secure his caravan, cover his cart with a tarpaulin, and bring all his sales stock and personal items back to Taintwell. Perhaps he and Fan could make a day of it—hitch Cloudburst to the small wagon and, after leaving the circus, stop at a Purinton restaurant for lunch….

Will’s eyes flew open as he was shaken awake. He struggled to focus. What time was it?

“Wake up! Clancy’s gone!”

“Huh?” Will rolled toward the voice and squinted. “Simon?”

“Yes, yes.” He looked like a man standing in a circle of fire. “Get up, would you?”

Awkwardly, Will pushed to a sit. The duvet slid down his torso and bunched around his hips. Bentcross didn’t seem to notice—and for him, that was very peculiar indeed.

“Why don’t you sit in the parlor while I get dressed?”

Mouth set, Bentcross flung the duvet aside. After a stunned moment, Will jerked his legs up to his chest. “What are you—?”

“Oh for hell’s sake, Marchman, I’ve seen you naked a dozen times!”

“More like a half dozen.”

“I wasn’t counting. Now get up and get dressed.” Hand to forehead, Simon walked in tight circles. “Where’s Perfidor?”

Will dropped his legs over the side of the bed. Where were his clothes? Strewn about the room, probably. “Working. Just like he was yesterday.”

“Where?”

“I… damn it, I can’t remember the couple’s name.” Will’s head felt stuffed with cotton batting.

A pair of trousers flew at him, then a shirt. “Put these on. Don’t worry about all the other nonsense.” Simon resumed pacing. “Oh, gods, where could he be?”

Will slithered into the trousers. At least they were his, not Fan’s. Finally Bentcross snuck an interested glance at him, which, oddly enough, brought Will a small measure of relief. At least the man wasn’t on the verge of losing his mind.

“Now explain to me why you barged into my bedroom,” Will said as he plucked his shirt off the bed.

“I told you, Clancy’s disappeared.”

Will sighed. “Simon, Clancy has a habit of disappearing. You knew this was going to happen sooner or later. And happen repeatedly.”

Bentcross vigorously shook his head. “No. No, he’d never leave without telling me, without saying good-bye… and saying it all night long. Things are different now. Between us, I mean.” His gleaming gaze abruptly jumped to Will’s face, as if he were pleading for confirmation. “You know I’m right.”

Will left the room and headed for the kitchen with Bentcross on his heels. “Yes, I know. Clancy
has
changed, but I don’t think it’s prudent to believe he’s changed entirely. His habits have been awfully long in the making, Simon.”

Although Will couldn’t quite fathom their relationship, it certainly appeared to be grounded in mutual devotion. They were truly in love. From all indications, Marrowbone’s feelings for Bentcross had made him less restive, less inclined to depart on a whim and roam about for years. Even Fan had said Clancy wasn’t the creature of impulse he used to be.

Who would’ve thought Simon Bentcross could be a stabilizer in anyone’s life, much less a vampire’s?

After he got the stove lit, Will waited for it to heat the coffee Fan had made. Simon’s nerves seemed to have settled a bit. He sat at the kitchen table, head in hands.

“Coffee?” Will asked.

Simon nodded. “Please.” He looked a wreck.

Will poured two mugs of coffee, set them on the table, then fetched the sugar bowl and a bottle of cream. As he took a seat, he made a mental note that the coldbox would soon need another block of ice.

“What makes you so convinced Clancy’s gone?”

Simon lifted his eyes but not his head. “When I got home last night, at nine or so, he wasn’t there.” He lowered his hands to the table, poured a good amount of cream and sugar into his coffee, and drank. “I figured he might’ve had trouble finding a… you know… a place to dine. So I went to bed. When my bladder woke me up around three, he still wasn’t there.” He pressed a hand to his forehead as his face rumpled.

Good gods, Simon Bentcross actually seemed on the verge of breaking down!

Will was more alarmed by that than by the mystery of Clancy’s whereabouts. Simon had once told him that weeping was “womanish,” and he’d rather cut off his cobs than let his eyes “leak tears like an open spigot wrapped in a corset.”

Simon swallowed the rest of his coffee and abruptly pushed up from the table. “We have to find him, or inquire about him. We have to do
something
.”

“We?” Will drained his mug and got up, too. “What can
I
do?”

“I thought Perfidor could at least give me some idea where Clancy sleeps during the day. If I could just be assured that he’s safe….”

Will was beginning to understand the source of Simon’s concern: the Special Threats Unit of Purinton’s Enforcement Agency. Although Marrowbone had been granted “Immunity from Pursuit,” a new agent might not know that, and a zealous agent might not care. Clancy could be killed before he even had a chance to wipe his mouth following a feed.

“All right, listen,” Will said. “I’ll try to find Fan. Maybe his customer’s name will come to me. If not, I’ll ask around. Someone’s bound to know. Why don’t you stay here and vox some of your old acquaintances at the EA?” Oh, how Will hated saying the next part. “If… if a Special Threats team came upon a vampire last night,
somebody
there will have heard about it.”

A single rivulet crept down Simon’s cheek. He cleared his throat, turned, and tried surreptitiously to wipe away the moisture.

Without thinking, Will held him from behind, his chin resting on Simon’s shoulder. “You’re allowed to be worried. Please don’t cut off your cobs over it. They’re quite nice ones.”

Bentcross made a sound that was a laugh, a cough, and a sob rolled together.

A
S
HE
steamed around Taintwell’s back roads in Fan’s one-man transport (for Fan had ridden Cloudburst to give the horse some exercise and fresh air), Will finally spied a property where Fan might be working. Undulating toward a thick stand of bare trees, a largely completed wall rose and fell between two pastures.

Just before heading out, Will had remembered Fan telling him the job was in the country, not within the village limits. There was only one area of farmland immediately adjacent to Taintwell, and that was to the north. Thick forest lay to the west, on both sides of Old Post Road, and Purinton sprawled to the south and east beyond Whitesbain Plank Road and Division Highway, its clamorous hodgepodge of humanity stretching all the way to the sea.

Sheep bleated in the distance as Will pulled up to the covered porch of a farmhouse. He bounded up the steps and knocked on the door. A faint odor of cinnamon threaded through the pervasive scents of dewy grass and fresh manure.

The Pinshins,
read a carved and painted wood plaque above the doorframe.

Yes, this was the place.

Will smiled and tipped his hat as soon as the lady of the house opened the door. “Good morning, ma’am. I understand Fanule Perfidor is working here. Where might I find him?”

“He just left.” Mrs. Pinshins, who was quite tall and thin, eyed Will but not unkindly. “Rode into the city to pick up something he needed.”

Will almost cursed but caught himself at the last second. “Do you have a voxbox?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr.—” She raised the ridge of flesh where her eyebrows should’ve been.

“Marchman. Will Marchman.” How could he have forgotten to introduce himself? Simon’s discomposure had obviously rattled him.

“We’re too far out of Taintwell with too few neighbors for the company to run a connection.”

“I see.” Will had difficulty keeping his eyes on the woman’s face. The ratio tattooed at the base of her throat was 30:70, so she had a hefty measure of nonhuman blood. How, he wondered, did it manifest? She had rather odd-looking skin on her forearms. Suffused with a duotone pattern, it seemed to be covered with delicate, overlapping scales. “No sense in my staying, then.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Perfidor you came by looking for him,” Mrs. Pinshins said pleasantly.

“Thank you. Much obliged.” Will inclined his head and returned to the OMT.

Chugging back toward Taintwell, he decided he should’ve told the woman not to say anything. Fan might just rush home and, in so doing, lose nearly an entire day’s work.

“Damn it,” Will muttered. “Idiot.” Of course Fan wouldn’t be angry with him; Fan never got angry with him. But Will nevertheless blamed himself for his lack of foresight.

He hoped Clancy was tucked within his sleeping nook, wherever it was, hale and oblivious. He hoped that tonight Simon would greet Clancy with a fanfare of fury—the purgative kind that springs from inexpressible relief. He hoped there’d be no more hand-wringing or hidden tears, no more gray undercurrents of collective anxiety undermining everybody’s peace of mind.

Will adored Fan and cared deeply about their friends. The four of them had become family. Simon was like a sometimes-annoying, sometimes-amusing older brother. Clancy was the eccentric uncle, the dark side of the moon while dear, departed Penrose had been the bright. Then Will remembered how unchaste these family ties were—he and Clancy had slept with both Fan and Simon—and he wondered if he should think of their group in a different way.