Magic Dirt: The Best of Sean Williams (42 page)

“Courage is for the young,” said M. Bennett, with which M. Guillard solemnly agreed.

~ * ~

Martin settled back into his chair to listen while his future was dissected; when pressed for an opinion, he hinted at the possibility of becoming an artist. That was a vocation he had considered as a child, before the death of his grandmother, when life had seemed so much simpler.

Until he made his decision, all he really had to do was watch, and learn. After that, his uncle and fate could toss coins to see what happened next. At least for the moment, he had managed to avoid M. Guillard’s probing curiosity.

When the time came, four gruelling hours later, to announce that he had decided to retire for the night, he declined the offer of stimulants from the bar. Although he had enjoyed the company of M. Guillard’s friends, he was no match for them — intellectually or physically. He had heard that reves could party for days on end; certainly they could discuss a single topic for hours without losing interest. When one’s life was measured in centuries, he supposed, the everyday passage of time became somewhat trivial.

He wasn’t yet at that stage, and Professor Munton never would be. The fat scholar had left an hour ago, wishing Martin the very best of futures and expressing sincere hope that they would meet again another day.

As Martin bade his own farewells around the table, shaking hands with all but the mod, who deferred physical contact for a simple bow, M. Guillard saved herself and the enigmatic mute deliberately until last.

“It has been a pleasure, Martin,” she said when it was her turn, curtsying expertly.

“The honour was mine,” he replied, although he hadn’t failed to notice the way she had deflected conversation from her own affairs. He knew as little about her now as he had before: that she was a multi-faceted enigma twisting like a bauble in one of the chandeliers above their heads, casting brilliant reflections wherever she pleased.

“Mais oui,”
she purred, gracefully kissing him on both cheeks. “The Celebration will last another three days. Maybe we will meet again before it ends.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “I leave on the first flight tomorrow morning.”

“Well, it was a nice thought.” She turned to her companion. “Spyro will walk you to your rooms. I hope you have a pleasant night.”

Before Martin could protest that he could find his own way, M. Guillard had whispered something into the ear of the mute reve and glided swiftly away, leaving the two men awkwardly facing each other.

“You don’t have to,” Martin said, hoping against hope that he would be allowed to leave alone. Whatever had happened to Xenophou before or after the Change, he didn’t want to know. The thought was heavy in his mind that
he
might be like this in a month’s time — that he too could come out the other side disadvantaged or, worse still, truly dead.

Xenophou shrugged, the only form of communication he had made the entire night, and indicated the exit.

Martin gave in. Xenophou followed him through the crowd, then came abreast as they entered the empty corridor beyond the banquet hall. Martin’s suite lay on the windowless second floor, well-appointed for someone yet to undergo revenation, but not immodest. Most of the rooms on that level were unoccupied, as testified by the silence around them. Their footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet, smothered in the rich crimson impregnating the weave.

At the door to his rooms, Martin fumbled for the key in his pocket and turned to face his silent companion.

“Thanks, Spyro. I know you probably didn’t want to do this, but ... she is hard to resist, I realise, and I appreciate the gesture anyway. So thanks. I hope things work out for you in the end.”

Martin turned to open the door. The air inside the suite was clean and smelled of flowers. The lights were already on, and the bed, glimpsed through the opposite doorway, had been turned back in anticipation of his arrival.

Xenophou nodded, but didn’t leave. When Martin took a step forward, he followed.

“You want to come in?” Martin asked.

The bald reve shrugged again.

“I guess that means yes.” Martin sighed, resigning himself to the situation. “Come on, then. Take a seat, make yourself comfortable. I’m going to slip out of my shoes and jacket, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

Martin strode through to the bedroom while his guest moved towards the sofa. He shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, then tugged off his tight leather shoes. Relishing the feel of air on the soles of his feet, he took a moment to reflect upon the situation.

His overnight valise lay in one corner, ready to be repacked before he went to bed. The trip had been fleeting but productive. He already had two names for his uncle: Elaine Bennett and
Le Comptable Froid,
the latter being, he was almost certain, another reve. Both had demonstrated themselves to be removed from the core politics of the Plutocracy, the sort to entertain innovative thought rather than to blindly follow the current trend. Whether they would prove to be allies depended on what happened in the future, and whether Martin met his side of the bargain or not.

He stared grimly at the reflection in the mirror. Revenation, except in highly unusual circumstances, always occurred at twenty-one years of age, and his birthday was only a month away. If he chose to proceed, his tanned skin would become pale; his hair would fall out and not grow back anywhere on his body; his eyes would dull and crystallise unless he used eye-drops or had artificial tear ducts installed. He would cease to be human, and become something altogether different.

A reve.

Sudden tightness in his stomach caught his breath. Silently, he mouthed the most offensive word anyone could utter in an immortal’s presence:

Zombie ...

“I don’t really have anything you might want,” he called through the doorway, remembering his guest, “but help yourself anyway. Perhaps we can talk. If you
can
talk, that is.”

Only silence answered him. Whatever Xenophou wanted, it obviously wasn’t conversation. Slipping his skull-cap off and putting it on the dresser, Martin stepped out of the bedroom and into the lounge, half-hoping to find that Xenophou had departed.

Instead he came face to face with two women he had never before seen in his life.

“Hello,” said one, a brunette with short hair and a slender figure, wearing a sheer, silk dress. “Are you Martin Winterford?”

Martin glanced past the women to the door. It was open.
Fool,
he chided himself. Xenophou’s presence had disturbed his usually impeccable sense of security.

“Yes,” he said, wary of sudden moves. The other woman moved closer, her long blonde hair swaying with the movement. He didn’t recall seeing her at the party; he would have remembered if he had.

Xenophou stood between them, frozen but attentive, as tense as an animal about to bolt.

“I’m Martin Winterford,” he reaffirmed more loudly, trying to bluff his way out of whatever situation he had blundered into. “How can I help you?”

“You’ve got it the other way around,” said the blonde, smiling and keeping her eyes fixed on his. Her skin was refreshingly pink, and patently human.

“We’re here for you,” said the brunette. To Xenophou, she added: “Both of you, if you like.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” he protested, backing awkwardly into the wall as the blonde approached him.

“Sssh.” One finger touched his mouth, followed shortly afterwards by her lips. Too stunned for the moment by the boldness of her advance, he was unable to resist. It wasn’t until the lock snicked shut in the doorway that he finally forced his hands to push the blonde away.

“Wait,” he gasped, reeling. “What’s going on?”

The blonde shifted a shoulder. “We’re yours for the night, if you want us. We can’t force you to do anything.”

“No, no — of course not.” Martin glanced at the mute reve, who silently echoed his own puzzlement. Not a conspirator, he decided; caught in the cross-fire. “Who sent you, then? Can you tell us that?”

“No,” replied the blonde. “But they said you’ve earned a reward. And we are it.” She slid a hand across Martin’s shoulder. “Well? Do you want us to stay?”

Martin found it hard to think through the alcohol in his system. But part of him rebelled, discomforted by Xenophou’s presence.

Sensing his awkwardness, the blonde’s hand tightened. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go into the other room. At least I can give you a massage. You look very tense.”

He did as she suggested and, despite the cliché, was grateful for the reprieve. She guided him to the bed, and indicated that he was to lie face down upon it. He did so nervously at first, ready for any unexpected moves. He didn’t anticipate an actual attack — not in the high security of the Chateau, where weapons were confiscated immediately upon arrival — but he found it hard to let his guard down. The simple act of being there made him feel guilty and vulnerable.

Gradually, however, he relaxed. He let her strong fingers worry at the knots in his back and shoulders while her voice whispered soothingly in his ear. Her smell was tantalising, part perfume and part natural female. Whoever had sent the women had certainly paid for quality.

That in itself helped convince him. If she wasn’t a professional sex worker, then she was maintaining a skilful performance. Which only made her all the more difficult to resist.

In that day and age, prostitution was both legal and perfectly safe, and he wasn’t a prude by choice. Although young and fair-looking, he had avoided serious relationships ever since his primary application had been accepted — at the age of sixteen — for fear of heartbreak when and if the final approval was granted. One night stands had been few and far between since then, however. The offer was therefore extremely tempting.

And, if the truth were told, he really didn’t want to think about it at all. He had no enemies yet, that he was aware of. What did he have to fear, except, as they said, death itself?

When she asked him to remove his shirt, he didn’t resist. He rolled over and she straddled him to work on his chest, temples and throat. Her thighs were warm, and growing warmer as she worked. His own hands began to move, stroking her calves in return, revelling in the feel of warm skin beneath his fingertips. With every stroke, her hips swayed, ground languidly against him.

Then she was undoing his trousers, and he had forgotten all thoughts of resistance. He helped remove her dress. They coupled smoothly, he revelling in the wetness and practised muscles of her vagina. Her breasts swayed before his face, and he reached upwards to cup them, brought one nipple down to his mouth. She shuddered and began to move more urgently. If it was an act, it was a good one. His hands wandered to her buttocks. With one in each palm, kneading gently with every thrust, he felt the passion build. And when it erupted, his mind went blank ...

Afterwards, they played less seriously; teasing coyly, arousing sated flesh, exploring. For her, he was sure now, he was just another client, but for him she was something special. A time to be enjoyed, a celebration of life — of
le petit mort,
the little death — however he had earned it.

For an hour they did nothing else. They might have for longer had it not been for the noises coming from the other room.

“Let’s go see,” the blonde eventually whispered. He, both relaxed and emboldened by then, agreed that they should.

The lounge looked as though a small but effective storm had ripped through it. Clothes lay everywhere, and cushions had been scattered across the floor. Clearing a seat on the sofa, where they spooned together with legs entwined, Martin and the blonde settled back to watch the show.

Xenophou was naked but for his unbuttoned shirt; his pale, hairless skin shone a pearly white, marred by shadows when his muscles flexed. The brunette was covered only with sweat, glistening on her buttocks and back. The bald reve had penetrated her from behind and was maintaining a steady, firm stroke, neither speeding up nor slowing down unless his partner requested it. With every thrust, the woman gasped for breath, in time to the movement of her own fingers on her clitoris.

Both seemed oblivious to the spectators on the couch. They looked, the blonde whispered into Martin’s ear, as though they had been fucking for hours. The sight clearly aroused more than an academic interest.

Martin watched less pruriently. He knew that reves were unable to sire or bear children, but this was the first hint he had received that they might still enjoy sexual congress. Certainly the activity of the couple was as vigorous as and even more prolonged than that between fully mortal partners.

Xenophou’s mien, however, was one of intense concentration, not enjoyment, as the brunette’s hands guided his to her breasts. Her mouth opened in ecstasy, and she arched her back. Her heels clasped Xenophou’s tightly, rocking her hips with every thrust. Riding high on a wave of constant stimulation — and perhaps with the help of drugs — she looked as though she was about to achieve orgasm — the latest of many, if the sounds she made were anything to go by. The only sound Xenophou made was his breathing, fast and heavy.

Then the blonde woman’s hand found Martin’s stiffening penis behind her, encouraged it, guided it home. For the next few minutes, he completely forgot about Xenophou and the brunette. His second orgasm of the evening took longer to achieve, but was even more intense than the first. It seemed to last forever.