The Artifact of Foex (36 page)

Come through with what? And what would he do
if they didn’t? Chet chewed on his inner cheek. “If Knife can’t
destroy the Raptus, why have we been unlocking it, anyway? I wasn’t
there for that part.”

“Apart from keeping LaDaven occupied—which is
Knife's game, no one else’s—we’re trying to make it easier to
destroy the Raptus. For a goddess, Aiena is kind of ornery, you
know? She won’t do anything unless the abysmal thing is gift
wrapped.”

“But didn’t Aiena have you lock it in the
first place?”

“She did, but that doesn’t mean she can
unlock it on her own. You have to understand, Foex and his
Magicians left tens of
thousands
of items when they died.
Aiena was overwhelmed. It took her a decade to even triage the mess
and two centuries for a decent sorting. The process is still going
on, really. Aiena has been forced to work for decades to get rid of
things that Foex could have destroyed in seconds not because she’s
less powerful but because she didn’t make them herself. Different
energy and methods, you see. We—the Flame Council—took on the
Raptus as a favor. We didn’t want to hold it ourselves, though, as
reincarnation doesn’t allow one to hold onto material items. Also,
we were very clear that if it did anything wacky, to use modern
parlance, it would go right back on Aiena’s plate.”

“That’s what it’s doing now.”

“You got it. We’re not in the business of
getting Aiena’s attention, though. It might be a fatal error for us
to try. Like I said, she’s prickly.”

“So remind me again why Journey and Knife
aren’t in deep trouble?” Chet was vividly reminded of the old fable
of the farmer, the peteino feed, the peteinos and the inofe. Trying
to keep everyone from eating one another was a problem.

She snorted. “Didn’t say they weren’t. But
Aiena was very careful in setting the ritual when we locked the
Raptus. Fenimore LaDaven cannot possibly control Knife and Journey
in direct ways, though he might be influencing them in little ways
if he’s found a loophole, and I don’t doubt there is one. Aiena
tried hard to close all the loopholes, but the nature of Foex’s
magic was based on very specific wordings. Anyway, it’s my belief
that Knife and Journey are going to Allistair of their own free
will.”

“So... he’s got to trick them before he can
actually do anything.” Could Fenimore trick Journey? Maybe. She
didn’t like him and was unlikely to turn her back. Could he trick
Knife? Probably not.

Quor smiled at him. “Come on, back to bed
with you.”

“I do need to get to Allistair soon, though,”
he mumbled sleepily as she helped him up the stairs. The cords were
tightening in a slow, subtle way, pulling him west. “I wish... I
wish I had something to counteract the Raptus’s influence. I’ll
just have to sneak up on Fenimore and hope he isn’t paying
attention.”

Chet woke in the late afternoon and
stretched. Then he froze—someone was in bed with him. He glanced
over and saw the back of Quor’s bisque-colored head. She was curled
away from him, lightly snoring.
Oh, of course.
She’d said
she worked graveyard shift, so this was her sleeping time. Chet did
feel better, he had to admit. Getting to the bathroom was easier
than before, anyway. He slid back under the covers, grateful to be
warm and clean.

Pantheon, he had the biggest erection
imaginable. He felt embarrassed, though no one was around to see
it.

He regarded Quor curiously. She was less
intimidating asleep. It was funny... even Oak, perched in her
single dorm room, had a poster on the wall depicting the past.
There was nothing of the sort in this loft apartment: everything
was scrubbed and aggressively modern as if Quor preferred to forget
rather than remember. She seemed very alone. Though she’d
complained about having no money, this urban apartment had to have
cost something substantial. Chet wondered why she required so much
space for just one person. Wasn’t she lonely?

He crept closer to Quor. She was wearing a
loose cotton shirt. His breath came quicker as he wondered what she
else was wearing—or not. Would it be creepy to check? Chet’s dick
grew harder at the thought. He felt like fucking, and Quor was
Flame. There was no way she could catch any disease he might have.
She didn’t seem to be in a relationship at the moment, and she
lived alone; in fact, she was in bed with him, available. He
nuzzled the back of her neck. She snorted, still asleep.

Chet began thrusting against her just a
little bit, and reached down to feel...
oh
. She wore a
lacy thong and nothing else down there. His fingers
accidentally—almost accidentally—brushed against a tit, and his
breath caught. Would she mind? Abyss, she was Flame. They all had a
maniac sex drive. Well, all of them except Oak, but Oak was just
weird.

Quor woke with a snort. She looked over her
shoulder, eyes drooping with sleep. “Chet?”

Stop being such a pansy,
Fenimore
had told him. Everyone thought he was too shy, too reticent. Chet
firmly took hold of Quor’s shoulders and rolled her onto her back.
She blinked at him, suddenly expressionless. He kissed her on the
lips, working his way down. He couldn’t wait. He mounted her,
fingered the lacy thong aside and entered her swiftly. Her breath
caught. Chet fucked her hard, gasping as he bore down on her. She
was tight and wet as any Flame. In fact, she felt
phenomenal
.

Quor’s expression did not change. She looked
at him steadily. Then she looked away. A tear slid from her eye
down to her ear, the wet track tinged purple with ichor.

Chet paused, confused. He realized... he’d
never asked her consent. Was this rape? He wasn’t raping her, was
he? Chet remembered—with an intensity that encompassed his whole
being—lying under Rhiys while being penetrated. But this was
different! Maybe he could just finish... but she was crying. He was
causing her pain. He’d never wanted to cause anyone pain. He wasn’t
a bad person despite his past lives. Was he? Chet felt a wave of
nausea, his hands and knees aching at the memory of being
Fenimore’s table. Of being an object waiting to be fucked, unable
to change his fate. Of having no choice.

He had a choice now. Withdrawing from her
wet, tight sex was one of the toughest things he’d ever done. He
found the strength to do so.

Chet turned away, hands covering his face.
The depths of his shame scored him, sharp as a blade. Nothing he
could say would make this any better. Nothing. Pantheon, he’d
murdered girl after girl when he’d been a Magician, and now he was
a rapist.

I should just go home and dedicate my
life to Genis, like my father wants, and be my brothers’ butt boy
until the day I die,
he thought. It would be a punishing and
miserable existence exactly the way he deserved. Self flagellation
at its finest. Abyss, maybe he should just acquire a gun and end
his life swiftly, get it over with. Out of nowhere, he felt a wet
sweater gripped in his hands, the sensation of Aureate’s bubbling
skin. There had been an utter finality to it when Knife had fired
his gun, killing her. The flashback made him sway in place.

“You stopped,” Quor said as she sat up. “You
stopped before you came.”

Chet looked over his shoulder, hardly seeing
her through his misery. “Does it even matter? I thought once... I
didn’t
ask
.”

“It matters to me. I’m male, too. I know how
hard it is to stop in the middle.”

There was something about her tone that
wasn’t quite—present. The words were casual.
Almost too
casual,
he thought, frowning. Chet dared take a second look,
peeking at her like a dium about to have its elongated nose chopped
off. Quor looked...
odd
was too simple a word. She was
rocking in place in a subtle way that barely registered as
movement. Her expression was a fusion of clinical analysis and raw,
gapping vulnerability.

“For whatever it’s worth—probably nothing—I’m
sorry," he whispered, eyes closed tight.

Quor made a small noise low in her throat. He
glanced over in surprise and couldn’t look away. She was
shaping
. It wasn’t anything like Chet had seen before.
She—the pronoun didn’t quite fit—was changing her race, gender,
facial features, body type,
everything
, by the second.
Chet felt like he was going crazy, and all he was doing was
watching. What did it feel like on the inside? He suddenly
understood Quor was instinctively trying to shed her skin—to
distance herself from her own physical sensations and emotions—but
couldn’t. All she could do was
this
.

“Quor, stop.”

“You... don’t get... to tell me what to do!”
she hissed. Pantheon, her voice had gone from bass to soprano in a
single breath. Didn’t it hurt?

He didn’t know how to react, except to walk
out of the apartment with his metaphorical tail between his legs.
Then what? Take a vow to a god he disliked? Buy a gun? Who knew?
Chet began sliding to the edge of the bed and was stopped by a hand
clasping his wrist. Tight. Chet looked at Quor. She’d gone back to
her bisque-skinned beauty, yet there was something sharp and
pinched about her face, or maybe it was just her expression.

“Oh, no, you don’t get off that easy.”

What did she want with him? Revenge? Chet
hung his head. “Go on. I deserve whatever you do to me.”

She snorted. “You’re a self absorbed
twit.”

He could hear the amusement in her voice,
though he honestly didn’t know what was so funny. What could he
possibly say to tell her how bad he felt? Words clotted in his
mouth.“I don’t disagree. It’s just whatever you do
can’t
be worse than what I’m feeling now, even if you did horrible,
unspeakable things to me.” Like a Flame villain in a melodrama? Her
rapid shapeshifting had looked unhinged, scary.

Was she going crazy? And would she take him
down with her?

Quor paused. To Chet’s surprise and
discomfort, she put her arms around him and drew him downward, so
they lay together on the bed. Her other hand traveled down his body
until it was just above his cock. He jerked away, wanting to fight,
wanting to protest—this was getting creepy—but he was breathless
with anticipation. A beautiful Flame held her hand right above his
penis. Chet grew hard as if his dick wanted to meet her
halfway.

In a sudden movement, she grabbed his scrotum
with the accuracy and speed of a rhamph—a large, flying mammal that
hung around the seashore—picking a snail out of its shell. Was she
going to castrate him with her bare hands, the way Journey had
threatened Fenimore? Quor gripped the base of his ball sack firmly,
but her touch was light and lacked a crushing, squeezing quality.
Yet.

“What are you doing?” His voice squeaked up
at the end.

“Is it not obvious?” Quor’s voice
dropped—though it was still feminine—to a low purr. “My bed, my
apartment. My rules.”

Chet’s heart pounded in his ears. He’d
invited her to do whatever she wanted to him, but he wasn’t so sure
that had been a good idea in retrospect. Yet the part of him that
still shuddered in horror and despair at his own actions was
mollified. “I guess that’s better than my plan.”

“Which was what, exactly?”

“Um.” Now that she’d invited him to say it
out loud, Chet realized how stupid it sounded. “To go shoot myself
in the head. Or dedicate myself to Genis and live out a miserable
existence just like my father wants. Either way.”

Quor chuckled low in her throat and patted
him on the chest with her other hand. “Yep. I called it all right.
You’re a self-absorbed doedicu.”

“Hey!” Chet glared at her. “If I’m an idiot,
how about you? You could have slept—elsewhere. Or turned male, or
something.”

She gazed at him so long he looked away,
uncomfortable. “Chet, are
you
blaming
me
for your
lack of judgment?”

“I’m just saying the lack of judgment wasn’t
mine alone. I mean, you should know I’m dangerous.”

"Is that how you see yourself? Point of fact,
I did think about the couch, and I considered turning male. But the
first is very hard and modern, plus it smells like ass when you put
your nose right on it. The couch came with this apartment. As for
the second... by all accounts, it wouldn’t have made a difference
to you. Would it.”

“I—no.”

“There you go. Chet, have you thought this
through? You were raped several times in rapid succession this
week. You’re attempting to compensate, re-learning your boundaries,
probably trying to sort out the negative messages from the positive
ones. Trust me, I know the feeling. On top of everything, you’ve
suddenly discovered your past. Not just any past, either, but
blood-soaked lifetimes serving a drunken, abusive asshole of a
god.”

Chet stared at her. “You make it sound
like... Quor, did you know him? Foex, I mean?”