Rob Thurman - Deathwish

The glassy eyes blinked several times before he gave a slurred drawl. “You know, say it that way and it doesn’t sound so bad.” Of course it had been more than that. Two people had died—died very bloody, terrible deaths because of his massive puck ego, when he had been their “god.” He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but it had and that’s what had him in the bottle, not being worshipped and nearly killed by the last of his followers’ tribe. Speaking of bottles, he grabbed at it and missed. I’d seen Robin drink, but I’d only ever seen him drunk twice before. The first time had been when he’d met us, and the last time had been days ago. Both had been for only a few hours. This time, I would bet he’d spent every minute of these past three days like this.

“Look,” I said sharply, “we don’t care what you did back then. We only care what you do now. You’re a friend, and you were a friend to us when any person with the sense God gave a mentally challenged rock would’ve run the other way.”

He let his head flop against the back of the couch. Looking up at the ceiling, he exhaled, then reminded me with a faint note of nostalgia, “Don’t forget that you threatened to slit my throat when we first met.”

“And even that didn’t dissuade you from talking endlessly.” Niko appeared and deposited a plate on Robin’s lap. There was a sandwich on it and what looked like homemade potato salad. I tried not to think how Seraglio had no doubt made it herself. “Now eat, sober up, and face up to the fact that what you did was wrong, but not wrong enough to justify your murder as penance.”

Goodfellow remained motionless, either thinking about it or ignoring us entirely. Niko leaned in, planted a hand on each side of Robin’s head, looked down at him, and asked silkily, “Did I or did I not say ‘now’?”

Yeah, the tough love. Niko was all about it.

There was more silence, a grunt; then the puck straightened marginally and reached for the sandwich. “I hate you both.” He took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and added grudgingly, “But I’m glad the Auphe didn’t kill you. The massive hero worship you have for me brightens my day.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” I pushed a few bottles off the coffee table and spread out a little while Niko distanced himself to stand at the other end of the couch from Robin. I doubted it helped with the alcohol reek, but I gave him credit for trying.

Making his way methodically through the sandwich, Robin looked us both up and down, and then asked between bites, “The Auphe came at you and neither of you have a scratch? How did you manage that? Are you carrying nuclear armament now, Caliban? Did you give up on the pop guns?”

“Like I said, they were just playing with us. Talking shit.” I did have a few claw marks, but in our work if you could still walk and talk, that didn’t count. “They were on the roof of our apartment building when I came home, and then they traveled to the park where Nik was practicing.”

I often thought of going through the gates as traveling now. I’d been called “traveler” repeatedly by a homicidal asshole in the past two weeks. Sawney, mass murderer and one seriously crazy son of a bitch, was dead and less than ash now, but the term had stuck with me. It was as good a description as any for what the Auphe did . . . for what I could do. And as it also covered my other half—Rom—it fit.

“And you”—he grimaced—“ traveled after them?” He’d gone through a gate with me on one occasion. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation for non-Auphe; not unless you were into puking your guts out.

“No. I ran my ass off.” Traveling, once difficult, had suddenly become easy. Too easy. It put me in touch with my homicidal Auphe roots more than was good for me . . . or for anyone around me. I’d told my brother I wouldn’t do it again if I could avoid it, but if I hadn’t been in the midst of a sidewalk full of people I would’ve done it in a hot second. He was a helluva lot more important than wrestling with the wrong half of my Jekyll-and-Hyde issue. He was worth losing a piece of my soul. . . . If I had one, it was only because of him anyway.

Still, it wasn’t anything I wanted to talk about. How I felt the mental stirrings of a bloodthirsty heritage when I passed through the gray light wasn’t my favorite topic right now. The Auphe nature wasn’t mine. I wouldn’t let it be. And if I said that to myself over and over and sprinkled enough frigging fairy dust around, maybe it would be true.

Clap your hands. Clap them goddamn hard and wish like a mother.

“But why—” He stopped when he saw Niko’s eyes narrow fractionally, effectively ending the subject. When your overprotective big brother carries a sword, people tend to pay attention. “Moving on.” Robin tossed the plate onto the table’s surface, knocking over yet another bottle, and rubbed his eyes. “I need a new housekeeper.”

I didn’t say anything. He’d liked her; he’d lusted after her; he’d even respected her—a rarity for Goodfellow—and she’d tried to kill him. What was there to say in the face of that?

Actually, I did have something to say, although it was not about Seraglio. It was about what had happened in the park. I hadn’t been completely sure then. . . . No, that was a lie. I had been sure, but I didn’t know how I was sure and I didn’t want to talk about that—that the only way I could know was because of my two stolen years. The Auphe were a subject I avoided, but discussing those two years—that I avoided at all costs. I was afraid—hell, terrified—that talking about it might one day peel back the darkness that swallowed those years, which would then swallow me. And I’d lose my mind. For good this time.

“Yeah, or you could pick up after yourself,” I said distractedly, then went on before his outraged laziness hit me in the face. “Nik, Robin, in the park . . .” I ran a thumb over the smooth stone of the table’s surface and grimaced before going on. “They were all female. The Auphe.” I tended to think of the Auphe as “he” or “it,” because physically there was no difference between male and female to the eye and because I didn’t want to give them the label of actual biological organisms. They were too goddamn horrific for that. Too alien.

Niko frowned, both at the knowledge and the fact I hadn’t told him sooner, I knew. “What are they usually?” I could see he was annoyed with himself for never asking that question before. He was dedicated to knowing every fact about the Auphe that he could gather, because one day one of those facts might save me.

“I don’t know.” I gave a defensive shift of my shoulders. “I usually pay more attention to not pissing my pants and staying alive, so I guess they’ve just been a mix.”

“How do you know they were all female?” Robin asked curiously, his reddened eyes slightly more alert. “It’s not like the male Auphe keep them swinging in the breeze, and I assume they have something to swing or one couldn’t have impregnated your mother.” He considered the matter as he popped in the last bite of sandwich. “Perhaps they recede up inside the body. There are some animals—”

“Robin,” Niko said matter-of-factly, “be quiet.”

Goodfellow caught a look at my face, which, considering how much I wanted to hurl right now, probably wasn’t the best it had ever looked. “Ah yes. Well. Sorry,” he apologized sincerely before making a washing movement of his hands to scatter any remaining crumbs. “The male and female no doubt have a difference in scent.”

He was probably right, but what the hell did it mean? It didn’t do jack shit for us if we didn’t know what it meant. I said as much and changed the subject abruptly. “Where do we go from here? A rehab center for Goodfellow here?”