Elliott Dunstan

Little Free Archive: Introduction

June 1st, 2023
Hi everybody! This blog has been really quiet — I’ll spare everyone the details on this platform, but the last year and a half has been incredibly stressful. I’ll do a full update post soon, but first, an intro to my latest column; Little Free Archive.

LFA is a redux of something I initially started on Tumblr a few years ago; sadly, Tumblr decided to delete all of my (linked) blogs with no explanation given, and I lost both the blog and its archives. In essence, though, LFA is a love letter to the public domain and freely published work. As copyright becomes a minefield, late-stage capitalism requires all hobbies to be monetized, and the uneven distribution of the future becomes more and more apparent, it becomes difficult to talk about ‘access’. Who can really access something? If a book is in a library, what does that really mean? “In libraries” usually means, after all, “in American libraries”, or “in Anglophone/Western libraries”. Even ebooks are often region-locked and/or loaded with DRM. At the same time, writers are paid less than ever. At the time that this is being published, the Hollywood Writer’s Guild is on strike, what seems like only a short time after the HarperCollins strike and a near-miss on a catastrophic plan for a Penguin-Random House merger. Only best-sellers are carried in Barnes & Nobles, and Book Depository — one of the only mainstream site that shipped books internationally at all — has finally shut its doors. Piracy becomes the only option for thousands of readers, and thousands of writers watch the little bit of income they have slip away as a result.

The enemy, of course, is the engine of capitalism and its maintainers. But I would like to offer, and to remind others of, the third option. Work that is already in the public domain, and work that is already published free to read and enjoy, with options to support authors and publishers offered but not required. In pursuit of this, I’ll be posting short stories, poetry, occasionally novels, and other written texts that are offered for free. Feel free to send me links or make me aware of things that fall under the Little Free Archive’s criteria, listed below:
1. Written-word only, fiction or non-fiction. So no webcomics (I love y’all but they’d take over so fast), no movies, no podcasts, no music. I encourage those with an interest in those media to make their own projects and I will gladly promote them.
2. Access means access. If someone has to make an account, give any sort of banking detail, be part of an academic institution, etc. then it is not accessible and I cannot post it. Region-locks aren’t always obvious and may be discovered after the fact; I shall try to avoid them, and please let me know if any appear, but it will be on a case by case basis.
3. Legal, or at least moral. While I am not anti-piracy per se, I want to encourage supporting authors; that means if a book wasn’t posted by the living author for free, then it should not be posted on here. There are exceptions to this:
  - The author is deceased and there is an unclear status to their work. This is particularly common with queer authors; many from the 80s and 90s passed away with no clear inheritor, and even today, while an estate might be managed by someone, books themselves often languish, never being reprinted or re-uploaded.
  - The author is deceased and their work should morally be in public domain. Ex. rare books from the 40s/50s/60s where they’re at risk of being lost, works where their copyright status has been artificially stretched by some means or another.
  - Not accepted: The author is a terrible person. I would rather just not post these. (Pirate them all you want! But it’s sort of against the essence of the LFA.)
4. While I won’t be doing much in terms of censorship, exercise some judgement in what you send. There are plenty of old books with extremely questionable racist depictions, for example, but I’m not posting a Nazi creed. (Nor will I post Gone With The Wind, in no small part because if you’re struggling to find it then you may be lost.) And I’m not going to stand here and say “don’t send anything with depictions of underage sex” and thereby discourage hundreds of coming-of-age novels or autobiographies, I’m not posting “My Fifth-Grade Teacher Likes Me! Adventures Of A Preteen Meganekko”.* Smut is fine, but give me a heads up if something is smut vs. “a story with smut in it”. Fanfiction is a no-go — see the access entry. If someone needs to read something else that probably costs money to understand something, it’s not accessible.
5. Self-promote! Do it! If you wrote something for free online and you want me to show it to everybody, do it. But… don’t be a jerk. I will at least try to read everything I’m sent but I probably won’t be able to, and if I don’t get to yours for a while, it won’t be an insult. If I think yours is inappropriate to feature for some reason or another, it is likely not personal. (Much of the time, it’s because it’s a webcomic or on Kindle Unlimited, both of which are disqualified.) And return the favour: plug LFA and my blog somewhere too.
For the time being, LFA will run like one of my normal columns, and I’ll take some time to get back into the swing of things. I’ll figure out an indexing system (I need a better one in general) and then go from there.

[Speaking of late-stage capitalism: want to support me? I have a Patreon here!]
The Gremlin’s Library: The Death of Jane Lawrence

October 27th, 2022

Trigger warnings for the review: some minor gore discussion
Trigger warnings for the book: gore, surgical/body horror, ghosts, unreality/reality shifting shenanigans, period-typical misogyny (period is, like, Regency/Victorian-ish?)

The Death of Jane Lawrence is a book I’ve once again deliberately stepped into while knowing very little about, and I’m very pleased to report that whether by luck or fate, this is absolutely, absolutely my shit. To be fair, I’ve already read – and adored – The Luminous Dead by the same author. So when I saw that Caitlin Starling had a gothic horror/ghost story coming out, I put that on my TBR faster than you can say “Daphne du Maurier”.

Still, it took me a while to get around to it, and new books are always a bit of a gamble. Jane Lawrence is mysterious from the start, with a main character who’s so uncanny about her own prospects and so organized that I was wondering (honestly dreading) that the reveal might be that she was a murderer. (Small spoilers: it’s not. Thankfully.) Jane Shoringfield is setting about finding herself the most suitable possible husband, now that her benefactors/employers are moving and not taking her with them. She wants a husband where there’ll be as little romance as possible, where she can make herself useful, and where there won’t be any fussing around about courtship or anything like that. After reviewing all the potential candidates, she makes her first choice Augustine Lawrence, reclusive doctor… who’s very surprised to hear about this. Especially since she has it all figured out ahead of time. (Having a wedding proposed To You like a job offer must be a bizarre experience. I truly, truly adore Jane as a character.)

After Jane helps him in his clinic, he accepts on one condition – she must never spend the night at Lindridge Hall, his crumbling family manor outside of town, where he has to spend every night. She’ll spend the nights at the clinic; he’ll sleep out there. Given Jane’s disinterest in sex/romance (at first, anyway – more on that) she’s fine with this. More concerning is the case she helps him with — where there is something growing in a man’s stomach. And despite their best efforts, despite a successful surgery, the man’s bowel turns necrotic during the night and he dies. An overheard conversation tips off Jane that there’s something more involved here; dark magic and meddling in the occult.

Of course, the nature of these stories means that obviously Jane ends up at Lindridge Hall. The story does some absolutely fantastic work with setting the tone and mood, and the dark magic and ghosts at work are both evocative of the long tradition Starling is working within and original enough to keep tripping up every prediction I made. The character work, however, is where I think I’m the most impressed. Jane Lawrence herself is a take on a particular archetype within older work (cf. Austen, the Brontes) and occasionally more modern literature, of the passed-over, overly-practical Plain Jane sibling/spinster/what have you. Charlotte Lucas in Pride and Prejudice is likely the most famous example, or at least the most instantly recognizable. But instead of entering into a loveless marriage and being punished for it, simply “making peace” with her lot, or just falling in love with Augustine with no other questions or demands, Jane is an active, questioning and flawed protagonist. Augustine, who in other books would be elevated or heroized, is both noble and pathetic, making choices that don’t feel like just “bad choices for plot” but the kind of squirrelly bad decisions that come naturally from his characterization. (And I have so much to say about the ending, but it’s best experienced without spoilers, truly.)

My one gripe with the book is ultimately a minor one, and one that only exists in context with the literary world as a whole. It was, I’ll admit, a bit disappointing when I realized about a quarter of the way into the book that Jane was falling in love with Augustine. I expected it; certainly I wasn’t disappointed with the narrative once I readjusted. But part of me enjoyed the set-up of a marriage of convenience with someone who came off as completely disinterested in sex/romance, but who could easily get embroiled in someone’s personal issues anyway. Ultimately, this isn’t that book, and I wouldn’t ask it to be any other book than it is, but it does make me a little sad that those characters still don’t exist as much as they could.

Otherwise, it’s a great read. Nothing jumped out at me in terms of bigotry, although I did wait a while before writing the review; the main thing is the misogyny inherent in the premise, and even that isn’t too bad. If you’re sensitive to gore, I’d give this one a miss. But if you like Mexican Gothic, Crimson Peak, Jane Eyre or Rebecca (the latter two of which I’m fairly certain are explicit influences) definitely pick up a copy.

The Death of Jane Lawrence is available through Barnes & Noble – or find it at your local indie store here!
First Chapter Thoughts: One Hundred Years Of Solitude

October 25th, 2022

It’s been so long since I did one of these! I’ve been slacking on my reading this year (for, ah, fairly good reasons) but I’ve been meaning to read my magical realism classics for a while. I started House of the Spirits a while ago and promptly… put it down and forgot where it went. But this is my first go at One Hundred Years of Solitude, and… wow.

The book, strikingly, starts with a man facing a firing squad. The rest of the book – or at least, the chapter, so we’ll see where it goes – is about his thoughts right at the end of his life. Quite literally, his life flashing before his eyes. This man, Colonel Aureliano Buendía, grew up in a small village called Macondo somewhere in the Andes; cut off from the rest of the world and connected to the idea of a wider world only through the visiting gypsies. These gypsies bring all sorts of fascinations to the village, which whip up his imaginative father’s fancy, despite their warnings otherwise.

Obviously, I’m not fond of the word ‘gypsy’, but between this being a book in translation (it’s a Colombian novel, so originally written in Spanish) and being published in 1967, I’m willing to let it slide. I’m also willing to let it slide because the depiction of the gypsies is fascinating. The main Romani character in the first chapter, Melquíades, warns Aureliano’s father time and time again against his fantasies. The first time, Melquíades shows off an immensely powerful magnet that pulls all sorts of iron and steel towards it — and Aureliano’s father immediately buys it and tries to use it to search for gold, despite Melquíades warning him that it won’t work for that. The second time, it’s a magnifying glass that Aureliano’s father wants to repurpose as a weapon, and in a wonderful bit of characterization, after this also fails, Melquíades gives him the money back in exchange for the magnifying glass, and gives him a map. (So often, Romani characters are immediately depicted as shady and dishonest; the only comment I have is that it’s a little funny how much time the narrative spends on ‘no, no, they were super honest and super forthcoming about this’. Goes to show how deep the assumptions run.)

Ultimately, Aureliano’s father wants to set off and explore the world, and only his wife Ursula manages to dissuade him from it — because, for one, he’s absolutely terrible at it. (He manages to, through some extremely bad navigation, convince himself that Macondo is on a peninsula with no way forward. He’s, uh, wrong.) Two, his sons need attention – so the next time the gypsies come to town, he takes them down with him, and it’s together that they discover the ‘latest’ invention; ice.

I’ve always loved magical realism, but there’s something about reading one of the first books to establish the style to really ground what it means. ‘Dreamlike’ is correct; but also the sense of dislocation, the blurred lines between reality and fantasy, where it’d be just as easy to believe this is a fantasy world where Aureliano’s father really is discovering that the world is round and witnessing the invention of ice. The writing is gorgeous, too, and such a huge part of establishing the tone — some of this, obviously, is thanks to the translation. One day I hope I get to read it in the original Spanish, but even in English, the prose is just… so so good. And all of it’s colored with a bit of darkness, the knowledge that Aureliano dies by firing squad; and we don’t know why.

I’m excited to read the rest – keep your eyes peeled for my full review! This went up 24 hours early for my Patreon supporters.
Chapter 26: Penumbral Whispers

September 14th, 2022

CWs: unreality, suicide attempt trauma, mental illness/PTSD (SO MUCH), paranoia, drug discussion, closet anxiety/internalized homophobia

The beliefs of the Southlanders are as varied as their tongues, but one sticks out to me in particular; that of ‘prophets’ or ‘seers’, who would speak of things that had passed, things unknown, or things yet to be; the words of gods, the decrees of spirits, and suchlike. Elessans have long since moved past such notions, but it has always struck me as terribly tragic that the suffering of these ‘prophets’ never seemed to matter to those who benefited from their words. Indeed, in a recent intervention, I had the opportunity to study one of those afflicted, and instead of anything divine or supernatural, it seemed to me to be a case instead of dementia praecox; premature dementia. These beliefs, then, rely on the mad ramblings and fading minds of the insane and nothing else, and divine inspiration consigned to the same bin as holy shrines and displeased watchers.

Still, though. One thing troubles me still, one that shall not leave the pages of this journal.

It occurs to me — how could it not? — that an oracle may very well be demented, half-rotted and speaking of nothing but his own delusions… he may very well be all this, and also be what he claims to be. One must admit, if a god wished to remain hidden, one could think of no better disguise. But that would mean accepting the existence of gods at all.
Dr. Alois Gulliversohn Gammon, personal journal, 1845 entry (Journal #4, 1844-1847)

Wolfie was the one driving him home, not Jacob; and Rook had never felt so guilty in his life. He stared out of the window, resolutely not looking at Csindra or Wolfie. Achielsohn, he reminded himself. He was… trying to get better at that. He hated calling anybody by their middle or last names. It just rubbed in what a nothing his was.

At least Csindra was in the back. She was pre-occupied with something; Rook could tell that even without turning back to check. She’d barely spoken to him, and usually he would have been chewing himself up about it, not the pseudocalm self-assurance that she was mad at him, but it would come up eventually, one way or another. Probably because he was too hyper-aware of who else he was disappointing.

It wasn’t until he’d gotten into the front seat that it had occurred to him to even wonder — but Jacob had definitely talked to Wolfie. Rook could tell, not in the same way that he knew what was on Csindra’s mind, but in the way Wolfie was resolutely glaring straight ahead as he kicked the car into gear and not looking at him.

Rook stared out of the window, head still bubbling. The laudanum was taking its time wearing off properly; there was a reason he ate light when he ate at all, because the nausea would’ve been even more overwhelming if he’d had a full stomach. “I’d rather you just got it over with.”

Wolfie sighed, pulling to a stop at the end of a road. Luckily the door between the sections was closed; still, it didn’t mean Rook didn’t flinch at bit when Wolfie replied, “Opium, Rook? Really?”

“Laudanum. We’re not exactly talking about heroin.”

“It’s the same fucking thing.”

“If it was the same thing, it’d be the same thing,” was Rook’s exhausted response. He gently bumped his head against the seat. “Jacob’s already told me off plenty.”

“Sure. Like he’s ever that hard on you.”

Great. More of this. More of Wolfie seeming fine, and then bursts of… something. Oddness, uncertainty, meanness out of nowhere, or what felt like out of nowhere. He chewed over a few possible responses, then threw them all away, retreating back into sulky silence. He didn’t want to fight with Wolfie. Not right now, not when he’d been dreading this for a long time. He expected Wolfie to put the car back into gear; instead, the silence between them grew, underscored by the gentle purr of the engine. It was late. Nobody else was out, not in this part of town. Prole territory, but upper-class proles, who went to bed at nine o’clock and walked their dogs in the mornings.

Rook glanced at Wolfie, at the words that kept half-taking shape on his lips, half-begun sentences that didn’t quite come out. Whether it was just guessing or intuition, he could almost hear some of them. If you’re in trouble, you’re supposed to come to me. Or I taught you better than that. Scripts. You picked them up after a while, even the unusual ones, when it came to the people who’d asserted certain roles in your life. Like Jacob, dutifully trying — and failing — to play at fatherhood. Scheffen, switching carelessly between a mishmash of mother and commander and owner that she probably didn’t even understand. Most people went for parental. Wolfie ended up more at attempted-sibling. It was all very sweet, Rook supposed, and it also just didn’t fucking work. When you could hear the woodenness in some of the lines, you stopped being able to take them seriously.

But instead, Wolfie tossed the scripts out entirely, sitting back with a scoff. “Figures. Whatever.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You think you’re fucking immortal.”

Rook nearly bit through his tongue to force himself not to reply. For fuck’s sake. He never should have come back at all. He could have managed it. Send the Den Arden conspirators back with Hank, and just… stay in the Zweispars. Had everything felt so bad before? It must have. Just… If I thought I was immortal, he thought viciously, so loudly he almost imagined Wolfie could hear him, I wouldn’t need it in the first place. And he tripped over the word need. He didn’t need anything. He could function through pain, when he had to, if he had to.

Wolfie put the car back into gear, and Rook found himself watching him through a thin curtain of grey hair, trying to take a guess at how Wolfie was really feeling. I’d hoped you’d gotten it out of your system. He didn’t mean to be an asshole. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said to Wolfie, before he’d left, some time in the miasma that got all wrapped up into a single chunk of time, a chunk of time that started vaguely with an engagement announcement or a night out drinking, one of the two, somewhere in there — and only really ended once he’d woken up from his first night in North Zweispar, head finally clearing enough to think in a straight line.

He hadn’t expected it to be waiting for him.

“How’s Phania?” Rook mumbled.

“Oh, so you care now.” Wolfie stopped himself, then sighed, leaning back as he drove. “She’s… fine. I’m not gonna tell her about you terrorizing her fiance again, and I’m sure he’s too much of a coward.”

“He told you.”

“More or less,” Wolfie admitted with a small smile. “Practically pissed his pants while whining about you being a demon.”

Rook nearly did bite through his tongue that time. But Wolfie just seemed to find it funny. That was the good part, he supposed; Wolfie wasn’t any more fond of Bryan than he was. “…He started it.”

“I know. You don’t start fights. You just end them. Dramatically.” Then another glance sideways at Rook. “One way or another.”

…Yeah, he wanted to be out of this conversation now. It probably wouldn’t matter, if he did try to fumble through some kind of explanation for why he’d shoved Phania away. He was starting to think he preferred the scripted responses and easy roles.

Wolfie finally brought the car to a stop in front of Rook’s apartment building. “If Lambert had it his way, I’d be taking you to the hospital.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve had worse.”

“Unfortunately, I believe you.” Wolfie grabbed Rook’s arm before he got out of the car. “Nope, nope, you’re not getting off that easy.”

“What are you doing?”

Wolfie clicked his tongue at Rook, then pushed two fingers to his neck for a moment, before checking his forehead as well. “No fever, and your heartbeat’s normal — What?” he said peevishly, and Rook realized he hadn’t managed to hide the embarrassed smile.

“…I thought you were mad at me.”

“Of course I am. I’ll be even more pissed off if you up and die during the night just to prove a point.”

“I’d never do that,” Rook said, with a little bit more sadness than he meant; Wolfie met his eyes, held the gaze for a little longer than he felt comfortable with — then leant back.

“You seem alright to me. Surprisingly so, actually, but I guess your animal buddies come in handy. Get some sleep, okay? And I better not see your ass back at the office tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah. I think Csindra might tie me to the bed or something.”

“Ah, what I wouldn’t give. Now shoo.”

Rook suppressed his snort of laughter as he climbed out of the car, and his snake stuck his tongue out at Wolfie as he closed the door. Rook gave him a stroke, wishing for all the world that he could talk. Maybe he could explain what was wrong. Why Rook couldn’t just… relax.

“So,” Csindra said after a moment, and Rook started; he’d been so lost in his own thoughts, he hadn’t even heard her get out of the car. Wolfie was long gone. He really wasn’t at his best tonight. “Who’s Phania?”

Motherf— “I thought the partition was closed,” he grumbled sulkily.

“It was. I have good hearing.”

“And you’re using it to eavesdrop.” He stepped inside, already trying to figure out how to get out of this conversation. People were exhausting. He’d nearly frozen to death, wasn’t that worth a reprieve?

“Not deliberately. I’m just curious.”

“She’s…” Rook hesitated in front of the elevator. “A friend. She was a friend.”

“Was?”

“We don’t talk anymore.”

Csindra raised an eyebrow. Rook refused to answer the question she was silently posing, because Csindra knew entirely too much about him already, and besides, she would just tell him about how he was being stupid for not fixing it, and he already knew that. “Wolfie has a thing for you, by the way,” he interjected, before she could ask anything out loud.

“Great. Another straight boy who thinks his cock is magic.”

The lift chose that moment to open. Rook tried to keep a straight face at Marcus’s shocked expression. “And now you’re corrupting the youth.”

“Me?”

“It’s alright, miss,” Marcus mumbled, face turning bright red. “I’ve heard worse.”

Csindra rolled her eyes, clasping one hand to her face. “Perfect. I’m never being vulgar in Elessan again.”

“I like that you specify.”

“Of course I did. Anyway, I figured — I caught him checking me out a few times. I suppose there’s no accounting for taste, but his hand goes anywhere it’s not meant to, I’m chopping it off.”

Rook snickered despite himself. “He’s fine, I promise. He’s flirty, but he can recognize a barbed wire fence with NO ENTRY on it when he sees one.”

“Gotta wonder if that’s a metaphor for something.”

“You tell me.”

Csindra chuckled at that, but even in her face, Rook could see the uncertainty, the upset way she wasn’t quite looking at him. He could feel it, too, and now it was bothering him. “Come on. You need sleep.”

“Like you don’t.”

She just shrugged, and walked down the hallway, leaving him lingering in the elevator a moment longer.

She knows—

About what? He mentally snapped back. A little specificity would be nice.

A second voice — Maybe that’s a sign you’re building a house of cards.

Yeah, well. What else was new. He followed her back to his flat, trying to shake the ghastly afterimage in his thoughts, a whispered taunt that nobody was particularly happy to see him after all. It wasn’t that simple.

Jacob had always had trouble sleeping. For nearly twenty-six years, he’d found himself seeing the sun rise, or missing entire nights while trying to at least get some rest. Some of it was pure stubbornness on his brain’s part; some of it was learned restlessness and vigilance. First, it’d been waiting for the creak of the floorboard that told him when his father was home; then, it’d been the jostling and movement of the mikdova, and in Alkmer, being on edge waiting for the possibility of danger. Really, these days, he was the safest he’d ever been and he couldn’t quite adapt to it.

So when he ended up on Thomas Karella’s doorstep, it wasn’t really anything new. Embarrassing, yes, but nothing new.

Tom looked him up and down, then sighed, stepping aside and jerking his head to beckon Jacob inside. “Insomnia’s bad again?”

“Yeah,” Jacob mumbled. “I take it you were spying again.”

“It’s not spying. It’s staying informed. There’s nothing saying I can’t listen to the NatSec radio channels while on paternity leave.”

“Yeah, well…” Jacob couldn’t quite muster up the professionalism he was supposed to have, shoulders falling. “At least I only have to catch you up so much. Olive home?”

“No, she’s staying late again.” Tom took the opportunity to unbutton Jacob’s jacket for him, pulling it off his shoulders. “You look ready to fall over.”

From anybody else, Jacob would have taken practically undressing him as a cue for a different kind of intimacy. Instead, he just half-sunk, head resting on the smaller man’s shoulder. Smaller, albeit not by much; most of the size difference between them was bulk, not height, which was a nice change. “Martinadocht was telling me to sleep.”

“Without offering to stay over? How cruel.”

“Har har. Very funny,” he mumbled.

Tom practically pushed him onto the couch, where he let himself sprawl in an ungainly heap while Tom vanished into the kitchen. He liked Olive; at least as much as you could like someone who seemed to always be shaking off a vague discomfort with you. He couldn’t entirely blame her. If he’d been in her position, watching the casual intimacy between him and Tom, he’d probably come to the same conclusion. But for all that Jacob had plenty of lovers of both genders, Tom had never been one of them. Not for lack of trying, either; but that was long dead and buried. Some of it was cultural, too. Tom was Sigaro, through and through, for all that he passed for Elessan — and Sigaro men weren’t nearly as cold with each other as Elessans.

Tom reappeared, holding two glass bottles.

“…What are we drinking?”

“This mysterious substance called sarsaparilla.”

“You don’t have any beer?”

“I have a three year old, Jacob. I don’t keep beer in the house. Can you imagine if Lissa got into it?”

Jacob took the sarsaparilla with a smirk. “I’d be too busy being impressed she figured out a bottle opener — ow!” He rubbed his head in complaint from the gentle tap. “Yeah, yeah, got it, I won’t give your toddler any booze, did you need to hear it out loud?”

“No, but it’s nice to. Gwyn knows neither of us have a good base to work from.” Tom sat down next to him, and before he could get another word out, Tom’s fingers were rubbing the back of his head, twisted into his hair, and he’d forgotten how to talk. “Yeah, figured that’d shut you up. You’re like an overgrown puppy.”

“Mm. I’m ok with that.”

“I know that. I’ve seen what you wear to the club.”

Jacob felt himself turn a little pink, and he hid whatever response he was going to make by taking a drink. It wasn’t booze, but it was cold. And Tom didn’t stop, either. The stress was still there, but it was vanishing, or at least lessening. “…Still haven’t found Coben. I fucked up pretty bad.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to say that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s still not your fault. Both Palace and Centrum are supposed to check people out better than that. You aren’t the one looking bad.”

That was a good point, but it didn’t mean he felt any less stupid about it. And then there was… well…

“What do you know about Tenton?”

“Tenton, Etamara?”

“Yeah. It’s a real place, right?”

“More or less,” Tom grimaced. “One of those shantytowns that sprung up after the purges. No room in Avolara or the proper towns, so they built their own. Tenton’s one of the bigger ones.”

That fit with the little bit that Csindra had said. Avolara was one thing; the place was at least a city. The Etamara shantytowns were something else entirely. “Djaneki’s from there.”

“Djaneki? The contractor?”

“Yeah.” He chewed on his lip. “And so is the girl we’re after.”

Tom paused. Jacob watched his face, seeing the same mix of conflicted emotions cross his face that had been plaguing Jacob for hours now, dark eyes processing the information. “It’s not a big town,” he said after a few moments. “That’s a hell of a coincidence.”

“I know.” He dragged a hand over his face. “I don’t think she’s Advolk, but…”

“But nobody caught the first one, either.”

“Can you look into it for me?”

Tom frowned. “I’m on leave. And I work for Internal Affairs, not Investigations.”

“Technically the same division.”

“Technically won’t get me out of trouble if I’m caught.”

“Just some follow-up. If it’s nothing, it’s nothing.”

Tom frowned at him… then sighed. “She is a contractor. It’s within my rights and all. Other than the leave part.”

“Which is why you’re listening to military radios, obviously.”

“And you’re asking me about work stuff when I’m trying to put you to sleep.”

That was a fair point. Jacob closed his eyes. There were a lot of things bothering him, and part of the problem was that they kept getting clearer the more relaxed he got. Garrow, for one. Tiffany had said something, on the way back from the Palace — it hadn’t pinged as anything at the time, but it was nagging the hell out of him now. She’d said that she’d expected Garrow to be more upset. A reasonable enough question, when you were young and didn’t know much about Garrow.

He’s never that nice to me. Jacob hadn’t seen him in years — his business had always led him elsewhere. And he’d nearly fallen for it, too, the idea that Garrow might like him. Maybe he did.

But Garrow was also a man who had to keep his anger stifled. Jacob didn’t know the details. The revolution, well — that had happened right in the middle of his academy training. He’d only heard vague whispers of it, and a few dark jokes from Dasta, who had otherwise been respectfully silent about it. But there was a reason Garrow was so dangerous. All it was going to take, if he was masking this hard, was one stray comment from the wrong corners.

Note to self, keep Rook far, far away from him.

Rook, who had lost to a demon. Or, if you really wanted to make him look bad, had let it go.

Tom gave him a gentle thwap on the back of the head. “Stop it.”

“What?”

“You’re still worrying. I will drug you.”

Jacob snorted. “Like you would. Besides—” No, he wasn’t going to bring that up. Whatever the hell was going on with Rook, he deserved some privacy. “I’ll be alright. Just…give me a minute.”

Tom obliged, continuing to scratch Jacob’s head for a few moments before pulling him down onto his lap. It felt ridiculous. It was ridiculous. It made him feel like a child sometimes; he got around it a lot of the time with the promiscuity, although any lover he had kicking around for a while realized pretty quickly that not every night he spent with them was about sex. But sometimes he wanted Tom, specifically.

He closed his eyes again, cheek pressed to Tom’s thigh. He’d been fine for a while. Dozing off on the tram — that’d set him off all over again. But this way — here — he was fine. At least for a little while.

—

Rook had wanted a switch-up from the guilt — an emotion he wasn’t particularly used to, all things considered — but now he was regretting that wish, because the gut-wrenching, nauseating terror he felt, and accompanying humiliation, just looking at the closed door of his room was not a step up.

He was sort of over this emotions thing. What good had they done anybody, anyway? Particularly him. Every time his emotions got involved, he made stupid, stupid choices. Like the one that had turned his room into a haunted house that only Cutters could see. He’d fought demons and terrorists and wraiths; rogue Cutters and serial killers (well, killer, singular; that’d been a one off) and here he was, too scared even to touch the doorknob again.

His familiar nuzzled one of his bare feet, and he gave the snake a little nudge back. It… helped, that his familiar wasn’t mad at him. Not as much as it could, though. The drugs were all the way out of his system, now, which meant he was replaying how much he’d fucked up and suppressing the urge to throw himself out of a window.

She looked like me.

You’re imagining it.

She was the same as me.

And what is that exactly?

None of the Other voices. Just his own. Like an empty, rattling cavern. He’d gotten so used to them that he was almost lonely when they weren’t there.

Maybe he could talk to Csindra —

Don’t don’t don’t don’t she is lying like the rest of them DON’T DON’T DON’T

Right on cue. “I’m starting to think you don’t have my best interests at heart,” he mumbled.

He wanted to apologize to Jacob. Apologies didn’t come easily to him, even if he suspected it was the appropriate thing to do in this situation. If he apologized the normal way, he’d be asked to explain it, though. So — oh, who knew? He’d just go show up at Jacob’s door like he usually did and figure it out from there. Make it up to him without actually apologizing, because that would involve going into the whys and wherefores of his nasty little habits and Jacob was too good a guy to leave those alone.

Rook sighed, leaning against the opposite wall and staring down the bedroom door a little longer. At least he’d changed out of his wet and blood-stained clothes. It was a shame about the skirt, although he could probably get it fixed easily enough; his skirts looked nice, but he didn’t waste money on anything expensive. He just had normal slacks on, which felt… weird, honestly. At least his long sleeves felt familiar. He did keep men’s clothes around, despite what people thought. He wasn’t that stupid. He didn’t even really crossdress; most of what he wore were still men’s clothes, with the skirt and leggings as the main exception. He just… made some alterations here and there.

He took another glance at Csindra’s room, then closed his eyes and tested the spell. Still flexible, so that was good. He hadn’t planned on that — which was a little worrying – but there seemed to be some give in the distance they could be from each other. Being in the same building seemed good enough some of the time. At Den Riviere, he’d started feeling the tension when Csindra had tried to walk out of the gates, but not before that — here, he was pretty sure he could get all the way down to Jacob’s flat without any problems. If that changed, he’d just…. Oh, he didn’t know. Figure something out. Get around to lifting it, maybe, if he had any energy left to draw on. He hadn’t meant to tie himself down like that. Like most things, it’d seemed like a very clever idea at the time.

He headed out of the flat and locked it behind him, to keep Csindra safe. His familiar had refused to stay put — which he supposed wasn’t the worst idea, but he would have preferred him to stay inside. Between the wraith and the odjaken, it was better safe than sorry.

(and who’s going to keep them safe from you)

Had that been his own internal voice or one of the Other voices? He wasn’t sure he could easily tell the difference anymore. For a long time, he’d thought he could; but the more of them there were, and the more tangled his own thoughts got inside of each other, the more he struggled to find the gap between the two.

Just tell Jacob—

Tell him what?

Rook curled his bare feet against the carpeted floor, trying to pretend he didn’t have a knife in his pocket just in case. Not against Jacob. No, Jacob didn’t scare him. He passed each of the other doors down to the lift, trying not to let his mind whisper to him how well do you know your neighbours and when was the last time you saw them because he had enough to worry about. The Zweispars had been fine. When everything was strange, the paranoia was reasonable. He was home. Home was supposed to be a comfort.

His own room was supposed to be a comfort.

What’d you expect, Rook? If you spent long enough away then it’d never have happened? You’ve been hurt worse than that on missions—

No. No, he hadn’t. The closest he’d ever come to death, not counting the first memories he had of waking on a sea-shore freezing and half-drowned, was because he’d lost his fucking mind and tried to slash open his wrists all the way instead of just a little cut. Over the stupidest thing in the world. How pathetic was that? He couldn’t decide whether it was more pathetic that he’d tried or that he hadn’t even done a decent job of it.

He shivered a little, then looked down at his feet with a sigh. Maybe he should have put on shoes, especially since the usual night liftboy was off sick. He’d forgotten. He was forgetting a lot, lately. Maybe he’d given himself brain damage with the cold. Or the blood loss a month ago. Or the drugs. Whatever. He had plenty to spare. Maybe being a little less smart would be a blessing in disguise.

Stop it.

Ah. That one was one of the Others. One of the nice ones; he’d forgotten he had nice ones, sometimes. “Are you going to tell me to be nicer to myself?” he murmured under his breath.

You’re punishing yourself.

“What else is new?” He took the stairs — slowly, but his knees seemed to be behaving for now. “You heard Jacob. I let her get away.” He wasn’t even sure if he was talking to the voices or to his familiar, who was following him dutifully but with his usual air of concern.

You know perfectly well he was more worried about you.

“About what, my reputation?”

About you dying.

For some reason, that hadn’t really occurred to him. Probably because he hadn’t really felt like he was that close to death. Although…

His hand paused on the stair banister, and he felt so stupid he considered — only for a brief second — throwing himself over the banister. It wasn’t a real consideration. Just one of those passing thoughts.

Jacob had found him in the water. Freezing water.

No wonder he’d been so concerned.

“Yeah, okay, I owe him an apology,” he muttered. He hated hurting Jacob. Scheffen was… whatever. He tried not to think about it.

(I do so much to protect you and you won’t even let me do that)

(what do you know)

It seemed like him just existing hurt Scheffen. Jacob was different. Jacob was…

Rook paused for a moment before leaving the stairwell, sucking in his lips and forcing himself to stop blushing. That’s enough of that, he tried to tell himself, but at least it had improved his mood, just a little. Yeah, he could pretend all he want that there were only platonic reasons he thought of them differently. Not that it mattered either way; he’d find a girl he was into, eventually, once he spent time with people who weren’t military, and she’d be nothing like Scheffen. Phania had been — a mistake. Phania didn’t count. And he’d get over the Jacob thing, eventually, maybe. It was hero worship, that was all. Hero worship that had nearly convinced him a few times that actually kissing Jacob wouldn’t be so bad, and Rook already looked like a girl, so really, it was close enough.

Yeah, and if you’re thinking about any of this when he opens the door, it will be all over your face, so shut it, he lectured himself, but it was a much nicer topic than what he’d been dwelling on. He made his way down the rest of the hallway, rolling his shoulders to try get the eerie prickle of the nighttime quiet off of his back.

He knocked lightly on the door. That was usually enough. Then he found himself rehearsing what he was going to say. I promise I’m not trying to die this time. Nope, that involved actually admitting that he’d done it before. He might as well put on a broad grin and say, “Well, THIS one wasn’t a suicide attempt!” with two big thumbs up.

Actually, that had potential. For another time, though.

Can I talk to you?

Too open. Jacob might try to steer the conversation. Although that begged the question of what Rook actually wanted the conversation to be about. If he talked about how much pain he was in, he already knew how that would go. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? One, because he wanted to keep his job, and two, because he honestly hadn’t realized it was that weird. Nobody had really given him the down low on how human bodies were supposed to work. They’d just sort of dressed him up and given him an encouraging shove. You can’t be in that much pain all the time— No, Jacob wouldn’t ask that. Scheffen might. Olive… maybe. Jacob tended to take him at his word for things like that.

God. He sounded so confident about this, but now he was realizing Jacob wasn’t answering the door.

Come on, you didn’t piss him off that much.

You sure?

Rook swallowed, forcing himself to steady his breaths. Jacob had never deliberately ignored a knock, so what was more likely, Jacob suddenly turning into a whole different person or Jacob just not hearing him?

Tough question. Jacob had really good hearing.

No, stop, think. Jacob wasn’t always home. He just wasn’t thinking clearly. Jacob was —

With one of his girlfriends? snarled one of his voices. One of his own, at that, so he didn’t have any excuse but jealousy. The Others didn’t get this thorny about petty bullshit. What if Jacob was with a girlfriend? He didn’t care. Besides, it was just as likely he was at the Karella place.

Rook sighed, leaning his forehead against the door and trying to pretend he didn’t care if Jacob was with Tom Karella, either. As far as he knew, that was a platonic relationship, but he wondered sometimes. Frankly he was starting to suspect that it was safer to assume Jacob was sleeping with someone unless explicitly told otherwise. He should have fallen for someone shorter, or uglier.

He guiltily glanced upstairs. It was one thing pulling this when he only had himself to worry about — but he doubted Csindra was too pleased with him right now, anyway. Besides, they were well within range of each other. He couldn’t feel so much as a tug on the spell.

Rook whistled a few notes and heard Jacob’s lock click open on the other side. It was a trick that only worked if you actually knew what the lock looked like — otherwise Jacob’s apartment would have been vulnerable to just any thaum — but he was still proud of it. Jacob had actually made him break in a few times over to make sure his door was otherwise secure against magic, and now he could let himself in if he needed to. He still thought giving him a key would have been easier, but there was no accounting for paranoia.

He opened the door, and even though he’d known perfectly well, he still found his heart dropping a little at the sight of the empty flat.

You really wanted to talk to him.

“You sound surprised,” he mumbled back. He didn’t really need to mumble, now that he was inside and away from anyone who might overhear, but it still felt weird.

Not surprised. Just… interested. You care for him a great deal.

Maybe it was just the conversation from earlier getting to him, but Rook found himself blinking rapidly, furiously trying to stop tears from forming. Like a stupid girl after all. He sat down on the couch, curling up on his side and trying to ignore the voice. The problem was, especially now that he was alone in an apartment that wasn’t his but was almost as familiar, the voice was nearly as audible as a real person. That was the trouble with the Others. His own internal voices, well, those were easy enough. He wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t — something, not with the way he went at himself sometimes or couldn’t make up his mind about the most infuriating things, but it wasn’t like this. Like someone standing in the room next to him and talking straight into his ear.

<This embarrasses you. Why?>

“What are you, a fuckin’ interrogator?”

<Curious.>

Rook grabbed one of the sofa cushions, clutching it over his face. That wouldn’t keep it away, though — and this was still one of the better ones. He wondered, idly, if this was the same one from his dream about the ocean, then dismissed that thought with rapid horror. That was falling into the trap of treating them like they were real. “Because I’m supposed to like girls, dipshit, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

<And you don’t.>

Rook groaned into the pillow. This was just another version of a painstaking conversation he’d already had with himself plenty of times. Most of the time he barely even acknowledged that there was such thing as a closet that he may or may not be in. It was spending time with Csindra that was making that hard. Csindra was so — casually confident in being a lesbian, even without talking about it, and Rook was jealous. Of what, he couldn’t even explain. It wasn’t like Csindra was flirting with people in front of him or showed any particular success with women. She just… didn’t bother hiding it. Like Jacob.

<Some would say that the skirt counts as not hiding it.>

Rook found himself smiling into the pillow. “You’d think,” he said, voice muffled. “People are very stupid sometimes.”

<And your own denial?>

“I’m a people, aren’t I?”

<Surprisingly accurate.>

Surprisingly. Very funny. He pulled the pillow off of his face — then stopped. He knew when he wasn’t alone. He would have felt it in the air, heard something moving on the floorboards. Something. People left imprints.

So the person hovering above him wasn’t actually there.

Besides, there was another obvious tell. The face looking down at him was his. Not just a vague resemblance, like the odjaken; no, this face had the same pallid skin, the high cheekbones, the aquiline nose and slightly crooked jaw framed by stormcloud-grey hair. And he got the same lurch of unease that he always did when looking in the mirror, the sense of something out of phase, that he was looking through a tunnel and that the other side was another universe’s stranger.

He swallowed, mouth dry. “I haven’t uh… had these in a while.”

“No, you haven’t.”

The last time he’d had full hallucinations was… god. He wasn’t sure, actually. It’d been a mission, though. One he’d gone to alone, so not that long ago; but long enough that he’d almost forgotten.

He averted his eyes, frustrated tears coming back. Not real. That’s not real. Remember. You established that last time. If you lose your handle on that, you lose everything.

Not real. There were things that happened, and things that didn’t —

And suddenly the scream leapt to his throat, the slightest push from coming out.

Like demonbounds?

He was going to throw up.

Don’t look. Just don’t look and —

And what?

It’ll kill you. It’ll kill you because you can’t be sure anymore, you can’t trust it’s not real, you can’t, and you can’t trust your senses either which means you had the right idea before —

When he finally tore his eyes back to where the hallucination (he had to hold onto something) had been standing, there was nothing. He reached for his pocket, flipping out one of his knives – a switchblade, this time. Smaller, easier to hide. “Who are you?” he insisted. No way had it disappeared that quickly.

<Part of you. That’s all.>

“You’re still useless.”

<We mean you no harm.>

That was…

Actually, it was more comforting than it should have been. It told him a surprising amount. His heart was still hammering against his ribs, but especially in the dazed state he was in, he couldn’t quite summon up more of a response than the quiet settling that the Others were something. Maybe he was crazy. Scratch that, he was definitely crazy. Normal people didn’t have to hide this much from potential onlookers. But…

But there was some order to this. If he just figured out where to look.

“You promise?” he asked. It was the first thing that came to mind. It sounded so helplessly childish out loud.

<Promise. Would you like to sleep?>

No, part of him insisted. Yes, said another. And clearly the Others were listening to the second, because the exhaustion started to win. He put his head back down on the couch cushion. Jacob would be back in the morning.

And then what?

Your dreams are where we can speak the most freely; but that comes with a cost

              (blind deaf and dumb you are if you cannot understand the language of the clouds simple simple boy)

     but at least you can recognize our presence now. There are so many of us, bursting at the seams, trapped in too close proximity, and you wonder why you are so mercurial, so quick to temper, so full of extremes—

              (storms are made in the battles between us not in our peace treaties)

                        (izhya ethya ongye achye we call out for each other but in anger not in love)

                                  (drowning still and screaming with a mouth full of water that this is not what you wanted)

                                           (where is ongazhye — dimitri —)

I have tempered it where I can, but without help, even I am losing my grip.

I lied to you, but not out of malice.

My name is Ayakhoh.

But that means nothing to you. And so I hope it remains.

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Comments:

Whew, I’ve been looking forward to this chapter! Re: the epigraph, dementia praecox is an old term for schizophrenia (and other psychoses). And yes, if you’re plural and seeing yourself in this chapter – good. I’m plural myself and despite my best efforts, it creeps into everything!

Jacob and Tom’s relationship is one of my favourite side bits in TNB – Tom is a cis-heteromantic ace, but he and Jacob are… QPPs is probably a pretty close term. We so rarely see this kind of casual affection between men that it was sweet to write it.

Song: Sekai Wa Sude Ni Azamuki No Ue Ni (Instrumental)

Type your email…
Chapter 25: Poppy and Peridot

September 9th, 2022

CWs: drug use + related confrontation, self-harm (Bloodwork), casual racism, captivity(?), suicide attempt referenced, fantasy discrimination

BLACK GUARD: FACT OR FICTION?

The mystery prevails! Did Forrath’s special paramilitary force ever really exist? Tune in after these messages for an inside scoop with our very own Mick Abrams — where we’ll dig into the urban legend, the truth, the lies, and the juicy details. But first, a word from our sponsors over at Coca-Cola Pearl, the drink that keeps our soldiers awake, alert and ready to defend our country. Coca-Cola Pearl— for the nights you need a little something more.
Toltberg Citizen, March 1914 Broadcast

Rook had gotten, unfortunately, used to passing out. Technically, he didn’t usually faint. Fainting was a pretty specific thing; there were three kinds of syncope, more or less, including the type you read about in books where fragile maidens passed out at the sight of blood or at bad news. That he’d never gotten. There was cardiac syncope that old or sick people got, where their heart just had it out for them — then there was the one he did get here and there, where you’d just overexerted yourself. He supposed he could pass this one off as that, in a pinch.

As his blurred vision started to clear, though, he began to put the pieces together. Someone sitting on the armchair across from the couch, face still kind of obscured in the shadow and distorting, shifting light of the fireplace, and —

And his flask on the table.

Ah.

It was Jacob sitting across from him. And they were still at Den Riviere.

Well, he thought with a groan, at least I’m not dead.

Rook had gotten used to passing out, but it was another thing entirely that he hadn’t fainted. He’d fallen asleep. Adrenaline and coke only worked for so long, especially when there was opium in the mix, and the opium had won — sooner than he’d hoped, too. And now he had to figure out what the hell he was going to say.

Jacob sat back in the armchair, arms crossed. “I know you’re awake, Rook. Your breathing is different.”

I hate him so much sometimes, Rook thought with so much vehemence he thought Jacob might hear him. He opened his eyes the rest of the way, glancing around to see who else was there. Nobody in here — but he could hear voices in the other room. The tea room, he supposed. Just him and Jacob in the parlour.

“Can I pretend I’m still asleep?” he grumbled. “Everything hurts.”

“I expect it does.”

Rook tried not to wince. That wasn’t a voice that preluded praise. “I know who our killer is—”

“Do you?”

Rook fell silent. He didn’t like it when Jacob got that expression. Scheffen, he was used to pissing off. Jacob wasn’t his superior. Jacob rarely bothered telling him off seriously. A nudge here and there, sure. Friendly advice. But Jacob had only told him off seriously once or twice in his short memory, and none of them had been good. Whether or not he’d deserved them was besides the point, and he didn’t dwell on that part much. The sting of the reprimand was what stuck around.

“Well?” Jacob continued. “What’s his name? His motive? His shoe size?”

“I don’t see how the last one matters,” Rook mumbled. “But she’s a girl.”

“Oh, helpful.” Then Jacob sighed, rubbing his eyes. “No, okay, I’ll give you that. She’s a girl. What does she look like?”

And Rook hesitated. He didn’t want to. He didn’t mean to. But…

“Great.”

“Why are you so pissed at me?” Rook snapped. “Far as I can tell, I’m the only person so far to go toe to toe with her and survive.” God. He hadn’t expected to have to wake up and immediately defend himself.

“You’re lucky you did.”

“Lucky? I—”

Jacob picked up the flask.

Oh.

Shit.

Of the ‘top ten things he didn’t want to talk about’, Rook thought with a growl as he let his head fall back down onto the couch, his flask fell into about… four of them, easily. Which was bullshit, really. Csindra had already given him some trouble about the drugs he used to sleep, and Jacob wasn’t going to give him flak about weed or tobacco, not when half of the military stank of one or the other at the best of times. The fact that he used more than that, and for more things, didn’t seem like that big a deal.

Which perfectly explained why he didn’t tell anybody or felt so guilty about being caught. Obviously.

“What’s in this, Rook?” Jacob asked, in a voice that somewhat sounded like he already knew. Rook could try lying — but even if he’d thought it would work, he didn’t like lying to Jacob. He did it all the time, but actually doing it face to face over something like this — it felt different. It was a level of subterfuge that he couldn’t quite pull off.

“It’s — it’s just a bit of liquid courage.” That seemed like a safe enough half-truth.

“Liquid courage? Whiskey? So I’ll just have some, right—?”

The noise of alarm came out of Rook’s mouth before Jacob had even touched the cap. Jacob lowered his hand with a sigh, jaw set. “It was bad enough when I did think this was booze. Then Odette asked me about it. She figured you had permission. And of course she knows what laudanum smells like.”

“Great, so she ratted on me.” It was supposed to come out like a joke — and didn’t quite.

“She also doesn’t realize that it doesn’t matter if you outrank me on paper.”

“It should,” he mumbled, even more quietly.

“I don’t care. Why the hell are you carrying around a flask of laudanum? While you’re fighting demons?”

She’s not a demon, came the unbidden response, but how was he going to explain that? Instead, Rook eased himself upwards, wincing as he propped his back against the couch armrest. At least this was pain with a source, which was a nice change. “Red wine, laudanum, and Coca-Cola.”

“Coke?”

“The, uh… The Pearl stuff.” He cringed a little at the look on Jacob’s face — a steely kind of fury he’d rarely had occasion to see. Certainly this was his first taste of it being directed at him. “Give me some credit,” he added, although it rang a bit hollow. “I’m not carrying around enough laudanum to kill an elephant. There’s six drops of actual laudanum in that, max.”

“With Coke Pearl?”

The logic held up, theoretically. Coca-Cola had cocaine in it normally, but not a lot; it added a bit of zing to the caffeine, not much more than that. Coca-Cola Pearl was a military-issue variant with about three times as much coca leaf extract in it; enough to get you properly high. There was an argument somewhere in there that it was military-issue, but it was also meant for people on stakeouts and on the front-lines… and certainly not intended to be mixed.

Jacob shook his head, and Rook stifled the urge to scream. Anger he could handle. Disappointment was so much worse. “Christ, Rook. If you wanted to kill yourself, couldn’t you pick something faster?”

Rook’s heart tried to tear itself out through his throat, and he bit it back only with a lot of effort. Don’t react, don’t react, don’t react. He’d wondered if Jacob knew — if Scheffen had said anything. Apparently not. Jacob wouldn’t have said that if — Don’t react. Don’t. “I’m not trying to kill myself,” he managed to say after a moment, and it sounded convincing enough, and it wasn’t really a lie, even if he was on the brink of hysterical laughter while saying it. “I just — I was flagging. I —”

“Flagging? Rook, I could understand these on their own, or even any other time. While on a mission? During a fight?”

“That’s exactly why I needed it.”

“Needed it? Rook —” Then Jacob rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Rook,” he said after a moment, more quietly, “how long have you been taking this kind of crap?”

In for a goose, in for a gander, Rook supposed. “Kind of depends what you mean. I don’t normally drink it before fights, no.”

“Rook —”

“Do you want me to answer or not?”

“A lot of me doesn’t want to know.”

“Says the guy who comes to work with a hangover,” Rook shot back — and Jacob’s hand hit the table with a surprisingly loud noise.

“I drink when I’m off work, Rook! I go out after I’m done, and I go to a bar, and I drink, and the next morning I sometimes have a headache, but I’m not drinking when I’m working! If I was drunk when I needed to protect someone — pissen ridder, if I was drunk when I got that radio call from Djaneki — where on earth did you get the idea this was fine?”

I don’t think it’s fine, Rook thought to himself. He just didn’t know what else to say. If he admitted that he knew it was messed up then Jacob would tell him to stop, and then he’d be in pain when he needed to not be in pain, and that seemed a whole lot worse than being high.

“Even if it was booze, I think I’d understand more,” Jacob admitted. “I mean, you’re eighteen. I’ve caught privates gettin’ up to stupid shit. But laudanum? You take too much of that and you’re dead.”

“I know,” Rook mumbled.

“If you know, then what the hell is this?”

Rook closed his eyes. Jacob didn’t say anything else for a moment, then there was the sound of his boots on the floor. Rook thought he was walking away — but then there was a hand on his head, and when he opened his eyes again, Jacob was kneeling in front of him, arm resting on the sofa next to him, whatever anger there had been giving way to what Rook didn’t want to admit looked an awful lot like fear.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Rook laughed and looked away from Jacob, because otherwise he’d be distracted reminding himself that kissing Jacob was both a terrible idea and not likely to get him out of trouble. “You’re not my dad, Jacob. I thought we’ve been over this.”

“You say that like I don’t do this for my friends.”

It was a good thing the firelight wasn’t illuminating the room that well, because Rook could feel the flush crawling across his cheeks. Give it up, he urged himself. There’s no good reason for anybody to take laudanum before a fight unless they’re an addict. Or you. “…I, um.” Shit. Where the hell did he start? “A lot, actually.”

“I figured. You keep the actual secrets well, but I know damn well you’re keeping them.”

Not for the first time, Rook wondered if he could just tell Jacob all of it. Jacob knew perfectly well that his familiar was just the one being; he could no more have kept that a secret from someone who practically lived with him than his packrat tendencies or his insomnia. But the outbursts of magic — the event that had made him leave for the Zweispars for so long — the other night with Csindra —

And then what? You see whether or not he buys into the same crap as everybody else in the military? You leave it up to chance?

Even admitting he was in pain was going to be hard to convince himself to do.

“It’s for pain relief,” he sighed… and chickened out. “I dislocated my shoulder back in Den Arden and it’s been bugging me. So the laudanum lets me fight through it and the Coke keeps me going. The wine’s mostly for taste.”

Jacob didn’t really buy it — Rook could tell that much. It wasn’t a very good lie, either. There hadn’t been anything about a dislocated shoulder in the Den Arden report, and anybody could tell from looking at his bare shoulder that there wasn’t enough bruising. Jacob had taken his jacket off, and his sleeves were full-length, but if he was getting checked out later, he’d get caught pretty quickly. Still, he seemed to accept it for now. “If you’re in that much pain, you shouldn’t be doing missions at all.”

Why do you think I don’t talk about it? Rook thought with no shortage of sarcasm. The military was the only place he was safe. Nobody looked for witches in the witch-hunter ranks. He’d suspected as much before; now he had the proof. “I know, I know. It’s not why I lost, though.”

“Can you tell that for sure?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“You can’t. I thought I taught you better than that. You cannot have an accurate judge of whether or not a situation would have gone the same way if you hadn’t been impaired. And because you were impaired, you can’t trust your judgment on your opponent either.”

“Now hold on a damn moment.” Rook sat up, swinging his legs around. “I might have been a bit high, but I know what I fucking saw, and I know this crap doesn’t fuck me up that badly—”

Shit.

Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Dislocated shoulder, huh?”

Rook hung his head, mostly just wanting to go back to sleep. “Can we focus on the part where this woman is terrifying and something to worry about? Save the lectures about my bad habits for another time?”

At first, he thought Jacob was going to say something else, keep the argument going — but then Jacob sighed, shoulders falling a little before easing himself backwards and pulling his feet out from underneath him, wrists leaning on his knees. “Okay. What is she?”

Rook chewed on the inside of his cheek. Jacob had asked what she’d looked like, and reasonably, there was no reason he couldn’t answer without implicating himself. Just… “If I don’t answer you,” he asked quietly, “you’ll understand it’s for a good reason. Right?”

Jacob had been tapping his thumb against his opposite wrist while listening— but then he stopped, listening intently. “You sound awfully confident for someone…”

He tried not to snort in derision. Jacob didn’t even want to finish the sentence. “Someone who drugged himself unconscious? I didn’t take nearly as much as you think.” That probably wasn’t entirely true, but it was close enough; he’d been getting more and more resistant to it, which was a whole other problem that he didn’t really want to get into. “I just — there’s some other stuff going on.”

“More secrets. You know you can trust me.”

“I do. Just… not enough.”

Rook hadn’t really thought about how that sounded, and to Jacob’s credit, he didn’t seem to be taking it too personally. There was a flicker of hurt on his face, but it didn’t stick around for long; his friend warring with the soldier. The two had never managed to stay particularly separate. “Sylvia wants to take you off the case.”

“Good luck with that. She’s the one who wanted me on it in the first place, and she doesn’t have any direct command over me.”

“She does, actually. Rank is rank, but she’s still your CO.”

“And this is joint with Investigations.”

“Do you really think Olive is going to go against Sylvia?”

“She might. I don’t think anybody else can handle this — What?”

Jacob was shaking his head. “Rook, I… Do you not understand what happened?”

A sudden chill ran down his spine. “I passed out. I’m injured, I can feel that much, but nothing terrible. Nothing I didn’t know about.”

“The whole estate was frozen over when Wolfie and I showed up. I don’t think you can handle this.”

Frozen over.

“Not — not just the portico?” Rook replied after a moment, voice a hoarse whisper.

Jacob shook his head. “That was clearly the epicenter, but no, there’s dead birds as far out as the orchard. Not too many, thankfully, but enough to show how far it went.”

Something rose, angry, in his chest. Something that wasn’t him —

Rook bit down on the inside of his cheek, squeezing his eyes shut at the jolt of pain. The sensation stopped, and when he opened his eyes, he did a quick once-over, tongue over his teeth, fingertips brushing over each other… No changes. The air temperature hadn’t changed. Alright.

“Talk to Sylvia. See what she says. But… I don’t know. I think —”

“Think what?”

“I think you need a break, Rook. You were supposed to be taking one in the Zweispars, and then you just kept doing missions.”

And you were supposed to be grateful! I did those missions and everybody was so thankful I did, and now what, you’re mad at me? He kept having to bite it back, because he knew Jacob was looking out for him, he knew none of it was actually condescension, but he couldn’t help but prickle at it all anyway.

“I’m going to go talk to Djaneki,” Jacob sighed. “You just… get some more rest. Wolfie should be back in here in a moment, and then we’ll bring the car closer in and get you to the hospital—”

“I don’t need the hospital, Jacob. I have a bruised nose, a couple scrapes and a puncture wound.”

“I don’t care. You’re still getting checked out.”

Rook grumbled something unpleasant under his breath, then watched Jacob walk away — with the flask in his hand, he noted with a sigh. Not that he was interested in taking any more. The headache was kicking in now, and it was — god, what time was it? Past midnight, according to the clock on the mantelpiece, but he had to squint to see it.

The odjaken.

He didn’t want to tell anyone about her. Which was ridiculous. She was a killer; that much was obvious. But…

Rook closed his eyes, throwing his arm over his face and making himself more comfortable on the couch. It wasn’t the hair, it wasn’t the eyes — although he hadn’t so much as seen her eyes, so who knew? It was the skin, and the face. Maybe Jacob was right and he was recalling things through too much of a haze to be accurate, but asking Csindra would clear that up pretty quickly. Plus… well, he had taken this enough to know. He might remember some things differently, or blank out some details, but he wouldn’t forget something like that, or make it up out of whole cloth. Besides, if he was going to conjure up someone like him, he’d go for something more obvious. White hair, white eyes. Not someone who just… had that tiniest amount of resemblance. Enough to frighten him. Enough to make the paranoia that already dogged his steps a little bit more unpleasant.

Where was his familiar? He raised his arm and glanced around — There he was, curled up next to the fire. God. For a moment, Rook had panicked, wondered if he’d died during the cold snap.

And the cold wasn’t from the odjaken, Rook. You know that.

No, he didn’t. There was no reason to think otherwise. None, except that the odjaken’s magic was hot and humid and salty when it wasn’t foetid and full of the smell of algae. But the cold and killing dark, the frost that had closed over him? The same frost that had came so close to his heart when he’d almost let the wraith kiss him?

Nobody looks for witches in the ranks of the witch-hunters.

How long was that going to protect him for?

Rook swallowed, his mouth dry as he forced himself to look the possibility in the eye. If — if — he was the same thing as the girl he’d fought, an odjaken, a demonbound, whatever word you wanted to use… wouldn’t he know? Demonbounds — well, they weren’t supposed to be real anyway, but he’d always had his doubts, especially with how the Advolk seemed to work. But in everything about them, they were products of deals with the devil. You had to become a demonbound. Csindra hadn’t said anything particularly different about odjakens, except that she seemed annoyed by the ‘devil’ side of it. Of course she was. She was clan. They worshipped the damn things.

You’re just lashing out at this point, the small, rational part of him said. Rational. That seemed like a stretch.

Rook glanced at the other room. Csindra wasn’t in there, but the Pawn spell meant he knew exactly where she was; outside, around the fountain. God. Had he really cast that many Grand Arcanum spells in short succession? He hadn’t been wrong when he’d told Jacob that the drugs weren’t the problem. He just… lost track, sometimes. No, the other room was just — Wolfie, Miss Odette and some of the staff. He was, for the most part, being left alone.

Carefully, he reached into his bag and pulled out the small, soft-leather pouch of his stones. Not everybody used them; some thaumatists got more out of them than others, and usually Sparks only used the ones that made crystal or glass, potential types of reflection and diffraction. Their other purpose was half-superstition; focus and concentration. For him, that seemed to be true, in part just because of how they felt. It didn’t work if he had gloves on or had tumbled all the texture out of whatever stone he had. The edges, the roughness, the little pieces of smooth in a shard — that was what helped, especially when he closed his eyes. This one was peridot.

Once more, just to be sure, he tried to check who was around, counting bodies without entirely turning his head. He was being silly. He was deliberately avoiding all of his structured magic, so when he tried to do something that required magic, nothing would happen. He knew how not to do Bloodwork — he wasn’t that far gone — and besides, he didn’t hurt too badly right now, not with the last remnants of opium still lingering in his system.

The question that came to his lips, very suddenly, was why he’d never done this before.

Don’t do it, came the sudden, warning voice that wasn’t his.

Why not? And he wasn’t going to listen to his own damn hallucinations about something like this.

I warned you.

He clasped the stone to his chest, heart pounding through his fingers and into the piece of peridot. And forming the thought in his head, like a single word, like a feeling, like four things at once, he thought — Freeze.

It happened so much faster than he thought it would. The stone turned into a chunk of ice in hand, and he opened his hand in alarm as the ice burned at his palms. Something blew at the fire in the hearth; the flames flickered, danced, began to die down as the temperature plummeted —

Stop it stop it stop it —

“Stop!” he shouted before he thought it through.

The wind vanished. The peridot, still cold, began to rise back to the temperature of his skin. He exhaled, trying to only allow himself to feel the relief that it had at least stopped, before feeling anything else. Then there was the sound of footsteps on the hardwood.

“What was that?” Wolfie’s voice came next. Better than Csindra’s or Jacob’s — but not by much.

Rook turned just enough to see Wolfie’s face. A year or two ago, Wolfie would have been able to see Rook’s lie a mile away. Now, it seemed, the tense smile that Rook managed was enough. “Oh, Bitey was getting nippy again.”

The Lieutenant didn’t seem entirely convinced, to be fair — but he seemed more annoyed than anything. “Keep it down, will you? The whole house is rattled as it is.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to trouble the princess after saving her life.”

Wolfie didn’t manage to suppress the roll of his eyes. “And you’re back to being a twat. I hoped you’d gotten it out of your system.”

“It’s called a sense of humour.”

“It’s called you having a fit of adolescence. It was tiring when Phania did it, and it’s tiring from you too.”

Rook actually snickered at that despite himself. “…Okay, by the time you’re comparing me to a teenage girl, you might have a point. I think I need sleep.”

Wolfie glared at him for a moment, but then the stare cracked into a helpless grin, and he gave Rook a (very light, Rook noted with appreciation) smack on the back of the shoulder. “Next one to bite you will be me when you get snarly,” he added before leaving Rook alone.

Oh, why did he have to say that? Well, Rook contemplated while managing to keep his face straight, now he could worry about his other secret instead. He tucked the slowly-warming peridot into his pocket, and tried to ignore the scratching at his temple, like someone — or something — trying to get his attention.

The fountain on the front lawn of the Riviere estate was of the Drowned Bard. Csindra knew this story, at least; not that it was particularly easy to avoid at least the vague outlines of the Nine Heroes anywhere in Elessa. Considering how much work the Elessan government put into swearing it was secular and hated gods, it sure treated its folkloric heroes like deities. She could count on one hand the number of paintings of Kesh’lashe she’d seen in her lifetime, and this was the fourth sculpture of Proteus she’d seen just in Den Elessa.

She was tempted to break the damn thing.

Not because of Proteus, no. The legend itself was — well, she didn’t like it, but it depended who you asked. In most versions, Proteus was the rightful king of Elessa — or Torya, or Bjornelend, or sometimes even Avalon, but the actual names didn’t matter, it was all Elessa in the end — and in all of them, he was thrown into the ocean by usurpers. Usually, the Fisher King, who was either his uncle or his brother — and just as often, the Fisher King was talked into it by some strong-minded witch. The Thistle Queen, and the demons through her; or Grendel herself, or — Csindra’s mouth really turned sour at this one — Yasaralan, another of Grendel’s names. So either uppity women, clansfolk or both were responsible.

It said a lot about the Rivieres, she thought with a bitter kick at the fountain’s edge, that their statue of Proteus had a woman’s hands pulling him down into the water.

That wasn’t even what she was angry about. It just made for a convenient distraction so that she could stay in the realm of Irritable, Cranky and Tired instead of the deeper, much scarier rage tempting her underneath.

Rook had cast something on her.

She hadn’t noticed it before — Navónez knew why, but the scariest possible answer was that he was just that good. He hadn’t seemed like such hot shit back in Den Arden. Talented, sure. Caught her off guard with the Bloodwork. There was a difference between that and casting a Smoke enchantment on her, a lasting one, without her even knowing. She knew Smokes were capable of that, theoretically. She also knew her wards were usually good enough to stop it.

She sat down on the edge of the fountain, pressing a finger into one of her new wounds and making it bleed again. Everybody experienced magic differently; for her, it was a mix between different types of senses, none quite clear enough to put a finger on, blending in a way that was impossible to describe to others. It made it nearly impossible for her to collaborate with other magic-users, but that was fine by her — she didn’t really need to, or want to. Her wards were like… rough stone brick. She’d found the texture worked with her the best. Too smooth and her fingers slipped right off the textures in the air again, too irregular or thin and she could never quite make them fit together.

The wards, though, looked fine. Of course they were. If they’d actually broken, she would have felt it — mostly because, she admitted with a rueful note, one of her veins would have blown out. There were worse ways to reinforce a Cutter ward. Not… many, but there were. No, everything looked intact, so he’d just… gotten past them somehow. And she could find the crack, sure, but first she had to stop being so fucking angry.

She closed her eyes, trying to control her temper. Trying to feel less like an animal on a chain. That was what it looked like, tied to her shoulder like a golden thread, the nature of the spell or its ingredients hidden to her but woven somewhere into the thread itself for those who had the knowledge to understand it.

She’d known they weren’t friends. Not really. Not when she’d practically threatened him into helping her with the odjaken on the down-low. And he wasn’t the friends type; that much was obvious from the state of his apartment. But the part of her that always struggled with the concept had still — kind of hoped for some trust, or at least that the chains she could see were the only ones she had to worry about. And after the word bondsman had come up —

She waved the wards away with a lump in her throat. She’d probably be able to find a way to break it, given enough time. It was already an odd enough spell; she knew binding spells well enough, but this one had stopped her just before reaching the gate like hitting an invisible wall, and for the life of her, she couldn’t remember hitting that wall before. She’d definitely been farther away from him even upstairs. That wasn’t how these spells usually worked, but then again, Rook wasn’t your everyday thaumatist. And what wasn’t strange about casting what was essentially a magic fucking ball and chain on somebody who’d already promised to work with you?

“Want a smoke?”

Csindra started, then scowled at the figure coming out of the darkness, the lights on the fountain throwing Lambert’s face into relief as he got closer. “Not the person I want to see.”

Jacob blinked, cigarette halfway to his mouth. “What’d I do?”

“Convinced me to fucking stay is what.”

Jacob didn’t have the speedy or witty answer that she’d hoped — and it was embarrassing realizing she’d wanted him to convince her back into staying, too. At least into feeling good about it. “Teach me to assume he’ll do the smart thing, I guess. Sorry,” he added, leaning on the fountain-edge next to her.

“Fucking — He told you?”

He hesitated a little too long before saying yes, and the dark temper that had been so hard to suppress already finally burst out. She slammed her fist down on the fountain brick — and involuntarily, a pulse of flame shot out towards Jacob. He dodged just in time, which was good. She had enough to worry about without someone else’s injuries on her conscience. Still… “You knew, didn’t you?” she seethed. “You pulled that whole routine—”

“What? Ridder, no, I —” He sighed, looking guilty again. “I’m a dick, I’m not that much of a dick. I never would’ve signed off on that. Officially or otherwise.”

“Makes me wonder what you do sign off on,” she grumbled, in part to hide her embarrassment as she tried to coax her nerves back down from flaring. She hadn’t missed how buddy-buddy he was with the Rivieres that he was supposed to be so scared of. Then as she flexed her hand, rubbing her thumb over the lines, it occurred to her — had he started moving before the flames burst out? Before or after? “…You were looking,” she said after a moment, voice quieting. She glanced up through her hair to see if she was right.

Jacob shrugged, giving her a small and sheepish smile as he sat back down and handed her a cigarette. “I’m sure you’ll claim you don’t smoke, but your coat smells of bac and unless you sell it on the side…” He let it hang there with a knowing raise of his eyebrows, and she just chuckled and accepted it. She’d been trying to stop. Probably hadn’t helped with the nerves, and maybe if she’d been dealing with less, she would actually have said no.

“Bac,” she repeated, trying not to sound too entertained. “First I find out you’re a thaumatist, and now that you’re from Alkmer.”

“Born Red River, but that’s practically the same thing.”

“Does Rook know you’re a thaumatist? I thought it’d have come up.”

Jacob wiggled his hand. “I’m not, actually. I just, uh —” He pulled a face. “Uh, I don’t go spreadin’ it around.”

“Why not? Seems like they get plenty of respect.”

“Yeah, I would, if I could use it. I can’t. I can just see it fine.”

Csindra blinked. “What, just… on your own?”

“Most of the time, yeah.” He gave a nonchalant gesture. “S’just how it worked out.”

She sincerely doubted it was just how it happened to work — but there was probably a story behind it, and frankly, she was intrigued enough by the details alone. “So you didn’t know about Rook casting something on me until just now.”

“Pretty much. I thought I saw something earlier but you know how it is with magic. There’s always a lot floating around people who use it a lot.”

“Is there?” She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice — or the little note of wonder. It was a little embarrassing, especially when Jacob couldn’t hide the small, equally embarrassed grin. He clearly didn’t get to talk about it much.

“Yeah. Strongest with Bloodwork, obviously. You guys carry it around with you like — well, like the smell of bac, honestly.”

“So you know who the secret Cutters are,” she drawled.

He flinched a little at that. “Unfortunately. Kinda have to keep my mouth shut, though.”

“You don’t arrest them, get your quotas up?” She was mostly joking, but she was still a little surprised at the grimace on his face.

“Be a little hard, given how many of them outrank me. The only one I could say anything to safely would be Rook, and let’s — you know, qualify safely there a little,” he added with a snort.

Csindra was pretty sure he was joking about Rook’s temper, but it still switched something over in her brain.

Jacob could see magic.

The thing that she’d had to actively look for, the thing that had taken her Bloodwork to see —

She was still stinging, so all she had to do was flick up one of her fingers and let a small flame dance on it, a tiny amount of fury concentrated into a spark. She held it to the end of the borrowed cigarette, taking a long drag – but then she flicked the spark outwards. “Zhìh’te vol.” She said it with such quiet confidence that it took Lambert longer than it might have to realize she’d cast a silence ward; both very quickly, and very smoothly.

“Bloody hell, you’re scary,” he muttered, tensing up noticeably. She was starting to think he didn’t like Cutters — although plenty of people didn’t, so that didn’t make him special.

“Never met a quiet Cutter before?”

“No, never met a Cutter who can do wards that fucking fast. Rook downplayed how good you are.”

“Rook doesn’t know how good I am. Neither do you.”

Lambert took that for the warning it was intended as, it seemed, although there was still a bit of a playful sparkle in his eye when he finally answered. “So you’re interrogating me, is that what’s happening?”

“Sort of.” She blew out a puff of smoke. “Were you ever planning on fucking telling Rook?”

“Telling him wh—” This time, he did stop himself upon seeing her face. “Ah. Let me rephrase. What is it you think I should be telling him?”

“If I knew the details, Lambert, I wouldn’t be here. But he’s a — what do you call it — a demonbound, or something close to it, isn’t he?”

He paused, watching her for a moment. “Ah.” Then Jacob took off his sunglasses, toying with them in his hand and exhaling. “I… I have no fucking clue.”

That —

That wasn’t what she’d expected.

“But you can see it.”

“I can now.” He gave her a wry look. “I couldn’t before he left. Not consistently, anyway.”

“Before he left?”

“Before he went down south.”

Before he’d come to the Zweispars.

Csindra lowered the cigarette, frowning. This wasn’t the first, or even the second time she’d run into the shadow of something — something she was missing, or had missed. The idea that the Rook she’d met wasn’t entirely the same person who everyone else had grown up with. “Nothing before that?”

“Wouldn’t say nothing. Not consistently. But you fish a kid from the ocean, you expect a bit of oddity. Sylvia kept her mouth shut, but I ain’t stupid. One of the reasons she was so quick to teach him magic was so he’d have an excuse — he’d be good at that instead of whatever else it is that comes naturally to him.”

“This is all, what, conjuncture?”

“Con —” He hid his smile. “Conjecture. Pretty much. He never did anything obvious.” The smile vanished. “Except you’re bringing it up.”

“Don’t ask if you don’t want to know.”

“Was this him?”

“Depends what part you’re askin’ about. What happened a month ago?”

Jacob looked more than a little irritated about the fact that she hadn’t answered him, but he was smart enough not to push, and she wasn’t in the mood to rat out just how out of control Rook’s magic was. “Before he left?”

“Yeah. His birthday, right?”

“Nothing as far as I know, but his actual birthday was while he was down south. Pissed me and Tom off something grand, mind you.”

“What? Why?”

“Why do you think? It’s his eighteenth birthday. And we’ve been too damn busy ever since he got back—” He stopped himself. “What are you smiling at?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, not even bothering to hide her expression. Jacob had gotten almost entirely distracted from any actual anger at the kid into being disappointed that he couldn’t spoil him. No wonder Rook had it bad. And this idiot’s clueless, huh? “Just… Don’t worry about it.” But then it occurred to her exactly why Rook might have fled the city. His room.

Did Jacob know? No, he didn’t seem to. It was possible he just wasn’t saying anything, but her bet was that if Jacob had any idea that Rook had tried to kill himself, he wouldn’t have let him out of arm’s reach.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Me? I don’t fuck with this stuff. I have no clue what to do. Never have.”

“You can see it—”

“Yeah, a bunch of pretty colours. Don’t ask me for answers. That’s —” He exhaled. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

“Hmph. So you put that together.”

“Rook doesn’t work with partners.”

“Right. About that — what does consistently mean? When you say you didn’t see it consistently.”

“You really are interrogating me.”

“It’s why he hired me, bizakh’, so work with me here.”

“I know what that one means,” Jacob grumbled back at her, but shifted his stance slightly, his discomfort showing. She wondered where it was coming from, although she had a few guesses. She gave the silence ward a quick test, just to check; but between how vague they were keeping most of it and the fact that anybody actually important was inside, the only person Jacob had to worry about was — well, her.

Csindra supposed that was fair, honestly. Especially since, thinking about it, from Jacob’s perspective, Rook had probably come back ten times more unstable with her in tow. Didn’t help the whole trust angle.

Yeah, and he’s fucking military. Don’t forget that. Just because he’s not consciously treating you like scum—

Csindra batted it away. She wasn’t going to get anywhere, with anybody, if she was falling back on that every two seconds.

“You know that if this gets out,” he said after a moment, “there’s not a damn thing I can do for him.”

“Yeah. You saw what I was reading on the bus.”

“Leshin shar, I was hoping that wasn’t why.” He ran a hand through his hair, and Csindra tried not to notice the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the stress building in the way he was sitting. Even little details that she wasn’t supposed to notice, even by the standards of a merc; leshin shar wasn’t standard even for Alkmeri dialect, as far as she knew, and he hadn’t said anything like leshin shar or bac before. She wasn’t sure when she’d started picking up so much about people. It wasn’t the kind of ridiculous hyperobservance that detective novels liked to play up. She couldn’t immediately intuit what it meant. But it was information, and information she would keep, whether she meant to or not. “Nah, before he left, it was all — glimmers. Nothing ever actually happened. I’d just see it in the background.”

“Rook said something about — someone getting hurt.”

“That wasn’t fe— that wasn’t whatever this is.”

Csindra noted, with a sigh of frustration, that apparently Rook’s aversion to calling whatever he was doing feral magic, let alone its real name, came from somewhere. “You’re sure?”

“Very sure.” Then Jacob gave her a serious, searching look. “You seem… less concerned about this than I thought you’d be.”

“Benefits of being Kanet’, I guess.”

“So it’s true, huh?”

He hadn’t said it unkindly — if anything, with a hint of amusement — but she felt her hackles rising anyway. “What, that we’re demon-worshippers?”

“Not what I meant,” he sighed. “I’ve met enough Dani’it to know what you actually think about demons. Generally speakin’, anyway.”

“They’re not demons.”

“No, but I can’t pronounce the other word for love nor fuckin’ money and I’d rather not give you another reason to laugh at me.”

“O—” She suppressed the urge to groan. Loudly. “Odjanin. Od-ya-nin. It’s not hard.”

“I’m Alkmeri. I specialize in butcherin’ language.” He was grinning at her. The bastard.

Especially because she was, despite everything, feeling better.

She hated him a little.

She crossed her arms, glaring at him and refusing to show the smile on her face like she wanted to. “I’m concerned plenty. I’m tied at the hip to someone with temper issues and the ability to use magic that could eat me for dinner. Unlike you, I know that the magic isn’t gonna go out of its way to do it.”

“If I thought that, I wouldn’t be protecting him, you know.”

That was… a very good point. “Not just because you like him?”

Jacob shrugged, lips lifting in a warm smile as his eyes wandered off a bit. “I mean, that too. But I dunno if they’re that different.” He moved on from that before she could react to what was a much, much bigger thing to say than he seemed to realize. “Satisfied now?”

“Not even remotely. I can’t quite wrap my head around you just sitting around and letting a demonbound — vol I hate that word — work for the military.”

“I don’t know why Sylvia does half of what she does, but I’m not out to rat on people. Certainly when he’s never done anything wrong.”

Csindra nearly asked about whoever had gotten hurt — then closed her mouth.

Jacob was very, very insistent that it hadn’t been feral magic. That was, she realized, a good thing. He couldn’t claim Rook wasn’t dangerous — because soldiers were dangerous, because the record showed differently, because that was a lie. But she could appreciate the difference between a dangerous thaumatist and a dangerous witch, and apparently, so could he.

Jacob was watching her again. Not just watching; examining. She could see it in his face — and even as she thought it, he stood up and slid his sunglasses back on. She wasn’t sure why he wore them, even at night, but it was particularly noticeable now. “I gotta ask,” he admitted. “I like selfless people as much as the next guy. But I really don’t understand what you’re getting out of this.”

“Don’t call me selfless,” she groaned, taking another drag on the cigarette and appreciating that the nicotine was taking the edges off her temper. She didn’t want to snap Rook’s neck anymore, at least. “I’m getting paid and you’re the one who talked me into staying. Didn’t think he’d put a chain on me.”

He winced in sympathy. “I’m not sure he meant well covers that, huh?”

“Not even slightly, but you get points for effort. I’ll kick his ass until he takes it off, it’s fine.” It wasn’t, but what else was new? It wasn’t like she and Rook’s working relationship had been founded on love and trust to begin with. “You seem surprised.”

“I keep thinking you’re gonna run for the hills or slit his throat.”

“What, ‘cause I’m a criminal?”

“It’s what I would’ve done. First one more than the second.” He scratched at his cheek. “But you’re right. And besides, you don’t seem in a huge rush to get back to… where was it? Tenton?”

“Yeah. Middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”

She couldn’t read his expression, and that was setting her back on edge all over again. She dispelled the ward, trying to brush off the uncertainty, the sense that she was missing something. She kept getting… relaxed. Thinking he was just another guy, another person she could hang out with.

“Oh, by the way, real quick.”

“What?” She stirred herself out of it. Jacob was grinning again.

“Can you do me a favour?”

“Uh. Maybe.”

“Don’t tell Rook I can see magic, yeah? I’ve been keeping that one under my hat for a while.”

She narrowed her eyes. “…Why?”

“Cause as far as he’s concerned I just have a sixth sense for whenever he’s doing shit he shouldn’t be.”

She groaned, shoulders falling. “That’s — You’re not serious.”

“I might not be his dad, but I am the… Okay, both responsible and adult are complete lies. If I was, I wouldn’t enjoy making him blush so much.”

One day, I’m going to have to kick you, and you’ll have to trust me that you deserve it, Csindra thought with a quiet, pitying snort.

Jacob’s radio flickered to life with a burst of static. “Center Lead, this is Red Team. We’ve got activity at the docks, over.”

He picked up the radio. “This is Center Lead Lambert. What kind of activity?”

“We’ve been approached directly by somebody offering information, sir.”

Jacob scowled. “Most obvious trap I’ve ever heard of,” he grumbled, then pressed the talk button. “Description?”

“Clansman, late teens-early twenties. Further information may put him at risk, sir.”

“That’s true,” he grumbled, mood visibly sinking. “Hold your position, Red Team, and keep him in custody. I’m on my way. Over.”

“Sir, have you slept?”

“…Of course I have,” Jacob mumbled into the radio. Unconvincingly. “That’s not the point, Ma— Marti—” He paused, collecting himself for a moment. “My sleep habits are not your problem.”

“Go to bed, Jacob. I’m perfectly capable of keeping things under control for a few hours.”

Even in the dim light, Csindra could see the flush on Jacob’s cheeks, and she couldn’t quite repress her chuckle. Jacob flipped the bird at her before sighing, and pressing the button one last time. “Fine. But I should write you up for breaking radio protocol.”

“You?”

“I said I should. Not that I will. Over and out.” Then he glared at her. “What?”

Csindra shrugged, arms loosely crossed. “So how long have you been sleeping with her?”

“…Month or two, on and off. Nothing serious.” Then Jacob swatted her lightly on the back of the head. “Not your business, Djaneki.”

“Not my — You have the subtlety of a brick!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, still blushing a little. “Wolfie’ll take both of you home, okay? He doesn’t want to go to a hospital, I won’t make him, but keep an eye on him. And please don’t kill him.”

“No promises.”

She stayed outside while he walked back down the path to the house, watching him with a growing sense of unease. Not over Lambert — no, he seemed like a good guy, and even though he was still keeping some cards close to his chest, that was only to be expected. Plus, he didn’t have the skills to run the kind of experiment she’d suspected. She wouldn’t put it past the military — but it was above his pay-grade. Whether it was above Scheffen’s… she’d have to find out.

The part that was bothering her the most was the timeline. Bullying from another soldier, the start of his flare-ups, and then… something had happened. She was pretty sure she knew what.

Rook hadn’t killed or hurt anybody else in that room, the room he still wouldn’t go back into. He’d tried to kill himself. And Jacob didn’t know.

“My question,” she murmured to no one in particular, “is why didn’t it work? You’re a soldier, Rook. You kill people for a living.” If Rook wanted to die so badly, and she felt awful for thinking it, but it was true — he had no real shortage of options. He’d taken something, before fighting the odjaken; and now that she was thinking about it, it would be so easy for him to take too much, wouldn’t it? A gun, a knife, drugs, train tracks, even a short drop and a sudden stop.

Thinking about it was making her kind of queasy. Especially because he’d been down in the Zweispars for a month before running into her. There was every chance even he didn’t know why he hadn’t tried again. Kesh’lashe knew she wondered the same for herself, from time to time. The truth was that even trying to die took more energy than just…existing.

She pushed, experimentally, against the spell one last time. Not really to break it, this time. Just to feel the threads winding around her arm again, get a sense for its rules; it got looser and faded as two figures came out of the front door. She was still pissed. She was still going to deeply consider beating the shit out of him. Mostly, though, she wanted to know what scared him so badly about just asking someone not to leave.

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This is another portion that got rewritten a number of times – Csindra and Jacob’s chemistry is important to me, but so is the hesitation from both of them. Even more so, the reveal about Rook’s spell took some work! Cause I doubt most people would react well to that, let alone someone like Csindra.

Sorry about all the late updates recently! We’re shifting to a weekly schedule and that has obvious consequences for my organization – so hold tight as I get used to it.

Song: Like People Like Plastic – AWOLNation

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Little Free Archive: Introduction

The Gremlin’s Library: The Death of Jane Lawrence

First Chapter Thoughts: One Hundred Years Of Solitude

Chapter 26: Penumbral Whispers

CWs: unreality, suicide attempt trauma, mental illness/PTSD (SO MUCH), paranoia, drug discussion, closet anxiety/internalized homophobia

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Song: Sekai Wa Sude Ni Azamuki No Ue Ni (Instrumental)

Chapter 25: Poppy and Peridot

CWs: drug use + related confrontation, self-harm (Bloodwork), casual racism, captivity(?), suicide attempt referenced, fantasy discrimination

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