Nyx

Having gotten what she wanted, Nyx left Matthew and his little friend behind, hurrying a little more than strictly necessary. The moment they were out of sight, she pressed the bloody cloth she had just received over her ‘nose’ and ‘mouth’, breathing deep of its essence. The impression—not quite what a mortal would consider a ‘smell’, nor a ‘taste’, but something else—was staid, and sour, and pungent. It reminded her of clothes worn too long, the trapped sweat after sex, the stale leavings of a well-used ashtray.

It was, in a word, orgasmic.

Nyx had never tasted an essence so rank in her long, long life. Her own being buzzed as she continued to lap at the stinking soulstuff. She imagined that her semi-corporeal form—no longer carefully managed and manipulated just right in order to resemble human emotion—was probably making some strange faces, but she did not care how many faceless mortals saw her, as long as Matthew wasn’t one of them.

She needed more. It wasn’t enough.

No, Nyx told herself. Don’t be greedy. There was a reason why she had only asked for a single drop of Matthew’s blood, after all.

Reasserting self-control, Nyx forced her feasting to come to a premature end with a final shiver of ecstasy. As a contractual offering, she was able to swallow the handkerchief into herself, displacing it into the pocket of hyperreality that contained the true core of her being. She made certain, however, not to fully merge the offering with herself, but to leave it intact so that she could regurgitate it whenever needed.

“Am I interrupting?”

Nyx turned to face the speaker, licking her lips. She found the movement strangely natural, almost reflexive. Very odd. “Ah,” she said, “Richard. It’s been some time.”

“It has, most calamitous,” said the over-groomed, besuited businessman. The man people called ‘Dickie Rich’ sketched out a smooth, genteel bow, smiling as he straightened. “I was surprised to hear that you had returned to the fold. I was led to believe that you left everything behind to chase… humbler pursuits.”

“You have gotten better with your veiled insults, Richard. Give it another decade or two, and you might even be good enough to get a rise out of me.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Now that is an insult.”

Richard chuckled. He picked carefully across wooden duckboards, making sure not to get mud on his fine shoes, until he was by her side. “Where are you headed?” he asked. “I had hoped we might find a minute to talk.”

“I was planning to pay Hasan a visit.”

“Perfect! I was headed that way myself. Let’s go together.” He held out his folded arm for her to hook hers through, expectant.

Nyx noted the subtle, secretive smile on the Scholar’s face, and felt a twinge of ‘annoyance’. Richard had always been a clever boy. He intended to find out just how much Nyx’s self-imposed exile had weakened her, essence-starved as she had been without her network of contracts to rely on.

No doubt he would be watching her closely, checking for any sign of instability in her form as she forced herself to assume a tangible shape. Then again, if she refused, that would be an even greater sign of weakness.

Nyx made the only choice she could. She squashed her vast, formless essence into a shape dense enough to be interacted with, like a fat human woman trying desperately to squeeze into a too-small dress, and feigned nonchalance as she looped her ‘arm’ through Richard’s, hoping that the excruciating pain did not show.

She was weak—disgustingly so. Her old self would have swallowed a being of this reduced stature and hardly even noticed it.

The two of them walked arm-in-arm through the fairground, drawing attention wherever they went. She had to admit, Richard was likely the one commanding the most respect from the rabble. Nyx was just another Fallen One, so quickly forgotten in her brief absence, while he was the richest man in Sheerhome, his face known everywhere, his word carrying almost as much weight as that of the local ruler.

“My condolences, by the way,” Nyx said, looking ahead, “for your loss. Your fighter is still alive, I trust?”

“He is. Though he broke his divine vow by losing, so I don’t think I’ll be able to use him in the future. I hear his tranformation is still ongoing, and rather graphic.”

“You don’t sound particularly upset about it.”

“That’s because I’m not.” Richard still wore that subtle smile, like he knew a secret no one else was privy to.

“Regardless, I’d imagine you took a considerable loss with how the tournament ended. Not enough to shake the foundations of a man with your means, certainly, but at the very least a ‘bad day at the office’, as they say.”

“What makes you say that?” Richard asked, smile widening. “Yes, I suppose it’s a little inconvenient that I’ve lost my five-under champion, but I was already considering other options. People were beginning to grow bored of Henke—a little mix-up will be good for the League, I think.

“But no, I would not consider this a ‘bad day’. In fact, I’d say I made out like a bandit. After all, I bet on your fighter to win.”

Nyx laughed at that, approaching something like genuine mirth. “How ruthless of you. Then, I take it you sabotaged Henke’s chances?”

Richard shrugged, wiping an imaginary speck of dirt off the lapel of his jacket with two fingers. “There was no need. He was already broken after his fight with the Artisan—that was one upset I hadn’t anticipated, I’ll admit—and supposedly he had an unfortunate encounter with a certain seductress that further impacted his confidence.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Unfortunate,” Nyx agreed, nodding sagely.

They walked on a while. Now that the fighting was over, the fairground was gradually emptying like an overfull bladder finally allowed release.

“Your fighter,” Richard said after some time, “was quite spectacular.”

“Yes.”

“A little unorthodox.”

Nyx ‘snorted’. “Agreed.”

“Any chance she’s looking to join the promotion on a permanent basis?”

“None at all, I’m afraid.”

“That’s a shame.”

They both pretended to enjoy the scenery—such as it was—and let an appropriate silence hang between them.

“Her name is Sam Darling, is that right?” Richard asked without looking in her direction, off-handed.

“Correct,” Nyx said. Of course, he already knew very well what her name was.

“And that’s her given name?”

“Also correct.” By now, he would likely know that as well by way of Identification, so lying would serve no purpose other than making her look foolish.

“Related to Jack Darling, by any chance?”

Nyx feigned indifference, using every bit of strength she still possessed to quell a trembling of her essence, only semi-successful. By Richard’s furtive glance, she guessed that he’d felt it.

“I’m surprised you know that name,” she said. “You are quite well-informed.”

Richard shrugged. “I know more than some, and less than others.”

“More than most, evidently. To answer your question, of course she isn’t. That would be ridiculous.”

“Of course, of course. I just had to ask.”

He didn’t believe her. If he hadn’t known before asking her, he certainly did now.

Nyx wasn’t sure if that presented a problem or not. As far as humans went, uncomplicated and ruled by their animal urges almost to a fault, Richard was a particularly difficult equation to solve. Mercurial. You could never be sure exactly where he would land.

If nothing else, she admired that about him.

“Are you back, then?” Richard prodded, still with the same indifferent intonation. He was holding nothing back, it seemed, digging for all he was worth. Clearly, his meteoric rise since Nyx’s departure from the Sheerhome power game had brought a hungry confidence with it.

“Not for now,” Nyx hedged. “I’m only conducting some minor business.”

“I see. Well, do give me a heads-up if you ever start planning something big so that I can get out of your way. I would hate to step on the toes of a friend, after all.”

“Of course,” Nyx replied, intending no such thing. How much of a fool did he take her for, exactly?

They reached the bookmaker's office of the one they called 'Golden Boy' a short while later, catching the funny little fellow coming the other way just as he was about to hurry through the tent flaps.

“Hello, Hasan,” Nyx said in a warm, companionable tone. “It’s been a while. I believe we have a trifling money-related matter to discuss, you and I.”

“As do I,” Richard added, smiling.

Hasan, the one they called Golden Boy, flitted his eyes between the two of them, looking… constipated? Angry? No, afraid.

Very afraid.

* * *

Mongrel

Somehow, some way, they managed to drag their sorry asses back to the farm. Whatever happened to the one grinner that managed to escape with his knife, it didn’t come back to bother them.

Number One met them at the edge of the property, his glasses discarded to the ground in all haste. The old chimp wore a threadbare sweater instead of his vest, flashing worried signs at them.

‘What happen?’ he asked.

“Long story,” Mongrel panted, jogging past.

Will allowed the two chimps to take Sam off his trembling, sweat-soaked shoulders while he went to fetch supplies from his workshop. The chimps brought her inside, where Mongrel instructed them to lay her out on the kitchen table.

‘Dead?’ Number One asked with one hand, touching the side of Sam’s neck with the other.

“Not dead,” Mongrel replied.

‘Lose money?’

“Nah, we won. This is just the fallout.”

‘Other apes?’

Mongrel gave a sheepish shrug, let his shoulders fall with a deflating sigh. “Things got messy.”

Number One gave no reply, but the shake of his head as he turned back to the girl said plenty. How was he getting lectured by his own familiars? He was too soft on them. No sane man would put up with treatment like this. But then, he'd always been too kind for his own good.

Will was loading himself up as he got in, tossing vials back one after another and letting the empty glassware fall where it may.

Mongrel took three quick steps over to him, caught his wrist while he had another thing of clear liquid half-raised to bluish lips. “Relax, kid,” he said. “We’re home now. We’re safe. There’s no need for you to go all stumpy on us.”

Will laughed in his face, breath smelling like the strong alcohol base he used for some of his potions. “That’s what you think?” he asked. “We can’t stay here, Matt. We’ll look over Sam, gather some supplies, then get the fuck out.”

“But…”

Will let the undrunk bottle go, its contents glugging out into the floorboards, and grasped either side of Mongrel’s head. He brought them close until their foreheads touched, Will’s all clammy and cold. His one eye bored in deep, his other dead and sagging.

“Listen to me, Matt,” he said. “I’m angry with you. I’m furious. But none of that matters now. If we don’t work together, we’re all going to end up dead very soon. Do you understand?”

“Sure, I guess.” Held firmly in place by Will’s clamping down around his ears with feverish strength, he could only shuffle awkwardly on the spot. “But if we can’t stay here, where do we go?”

“Anywhere outside Brimstone’s reach. Anywhere he won’t find us. I’m thinking Millstone.”

Will let him go and staggered over to Sam’s side, displacing Number One as he caught himself against the table.

“Millstone?” Mongrel asked, rubbing one aching ear as he followed the kid into the kitchen. “But Brimstone already knows about that place.”

“Of course he does. He knows about every abandoned town from here to Stormfront. That doesn’t mean he’ll know to check there. It’s not a sure thing he’ll send people after us, but we have to act as though he will.”

“Why are you sure he’ll be so upset, anyway? I mean, we haven’t done anything. We killed some folk, sure, but that was self-defense. He won’t be looking to wring the neck of his pet killer for doing what he does best.”

“Four reasons,” Will said, taking potion bottles out of an overstuffed bag and slamming them down on the table one at a time. “One; he’ll know I’ve been raising a Laborer in secret, which will be hard to find an innocent explanation for. Two; he’ll probably be able to riddle out the fact that I was responsible for what happened down at that slave-catcher tower, where a freshly caught female Laborer went missing. Three; based on her performance in the tournament, he’ll know she’s not just some Laborer, but a uniquely talented one, which is bound to tickle his paranoid streak. And four; her name. You threw her name out for the whole city to hear.”

“Her name?” Mongrel asked, frowning. “What about her name?”

“I…” Will worked his lips in a silent grimace, then shook his head. “Nevermind. Don’t worry about that. Someone as untrusting as Brimstone won’t possibly overlook this, that’s all I’m saying. We’re on the hook, and we have to get ourselves off it double-quick.”

“Right. I get it, kid. I think I do, anyway.”

Mongrel had a bad feeling in his gut, which was mixing badly with the elation of winning all that money—he wasn’t actually sure how much he’d won, exactly. He was too old for this kind of emotional whiplash. Bad for the heart; had to be.

All that pent-up affect expressed itself in the sudden and urgent need to void his bowels. “Well, before we go,” he said, already headed for the door, “I’m going to take a shit.”

Will offered no objection, absorbed in fussing over his sleeping sweetheart.