J. Ward - Lover Enshrined

When Lassiter reached out and made contact, current licked into Rehv’s arm, making him gasp. As a wondrous healing started to pour into him, he shuddered and lay back in his nest of blankets. Oh, God … His exhaustion was lifting. Which meant the pain he didn’t feel was backing off.

In that gorgeous voice of his, Lassiter murmured, “You’ve got nothing to worry about. The righteous do not always do right, but their souls remain pure. You are untainted at your core. Now close your eyes, numb nuts, I’m about to light up like a bonfire.”

Rehv squinted and had to look away as a blast of pure energy slammed through his body. It was like an orgasm on steroids, a huge rush that carried him away, splintering him apart until he drifted down in a shower of stars.

When he came back into his body, he sighed long and hard.

Lassiter let go and rubbed his hand on the low-slung jeans he wore. “And now for what I need from you.”

“It’s not going to be easy to get to them.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I’m going to have to verify what you have first.”

“He’s not in his happy place.”

“Well, of course not, he’s hanging with you. But I don’t fly the flag until I see the sights.”

There was a pause. And then Lassiter inclined his head. “Fine. I’ll come back at nightfall and take you to him.”

“Fair enough, angel, fair enough.”

On the cusp of dawn, Phury went to his bedroom and packed an L.L. Bean bag with workout supplies, such as a towel, his iPod, and his water bottle… and drug paraphernalia that included a spoon, a lighter, a syringe, a belt, and his stash of red smoke.

He left his crib and headed down to the hall of statues, walking like he was all about healthy purpose. He didn’t want to be too close to Bella and Z, so he chose one of the empty guest rooms that was nearer to the grand staircase. Slipping in through the door, he almost went back out to pick another: The color of the walls was a dusty lavender, just like the roses Cormia had enjoyed.

Voices of doggen passing by outside in the hall made him stay put.

He went into the bath, shut that door as well, and dimmed the lights until they glowed like a banked fire. As the shutters came down for the day, he sat on the marble floor with his back against the Jacuzzi and got out the things he was going to use on himself.

The reality of what he was about to do didn’t seem like any big deal.

It was kind of like immersing yourself in cold water. Once the shock was over, you got used to where you were.

And he was encouraged by the quiet in his head. Since he’d started down this road, the wizard hadn’t said a goddamned thing.

Phury’s hands didn’t shake at all as he tapped out some white powder into the belly of a sterling-silver spoon and added a little water from his bottle. Flipping open the top of his lighter, he struck up a flame and brought it under the mix.

For no apparent reason, he noted that the silver spoon’s pattern was Gorham’s Lily of the Valley. From the late nineteenth century.

After the sauce had boiled, he put the spoon down on the marble floor, loaded up the syringe, and reached for his Hermès belt. Extending his left arm, he looped the leather through its shiny gold buckle, pulled the thing tight, and tucked the end under his arm so he could hold it in place.

His veins popped at the crook of his elbow and he prodded them. He chose the thickest one, then frowned.

The shit in the needle’s belly was brown.

For a moment, panic flickered. Brown was a bad color.

He shook his head to clear it, then pierced his vein with the needle and drew up the plunger to make sure he was in properly. When he saw a flash of red, he pushed his thumb down, emptied the syringe’s load, and let the belt go loose.

The effect was so much faster than he’d imagined. One second he was letting his arm fall lax, and the next he was viciously sick to his stomach and crawling for the toilet in a bizarre, rushing slow motion.

This shit was definitely not red smoke. There was no mellow easing, no polite knock on the door before the drug stepped into his brain. This was an all-guns-blazing assault with a battering ram, and as he threw up, he reminded himself that what he’d gotten was what he’d wanted.

Dimly, in the far background of his consciousness, he heard the wizard start laughing… heard his addiction’s cackling satisfaction get rolling, even as the heroin took over the rest of his mind and body.

As he passed out while throwing up, he realized he’d been cheated. Instead of killing the wizard, he was left only with the wasteland and its master.

Good job, mate… excellent job.

Shit, those bones in the wasteland were the leftovers of the addicts the wizard had worded to death. And Phury’s skull was front and center, the newest casualty. But certainly not the last.

“Of course,” the Chosen Amalya said. “Of course you may be sequestered… if you are sure that is what you wish?”

Cormia nodded, then reminded herself that, as she was in the Sanctuary, she was back in the land of the bowing. Lowering her upper body, she murmured, “Thank you.”

As she straightened, she looked around the Directrix’s private quarters. The two rooms were decorated in the tradition of the Chosen, which was to say that they had no decor at all. Everything was simple, sparse, and white, with the only difference from the other Chosen quarters being that Amalya had a seating arrangement for audiences with the sisters.

Everything was so white, Cormia thought. So… white . And the chairs they were both sitting on were stiff backed and without cushions.

“I suppose this is timely,” the Directrix said. “The last remaining sequestered scribe, Selena, stepped down with the advent of the Primale’s ascension. The Scribe Virgin was pleased to have her relinquish the duty, given our change in circumstance. No one, however, has come forward to replace her.”

“I’d like to suggest that I function as a primary recording scribe as well.”

“That would be very generous of you. It would free up the others for the Primale.” There was a stretch of silence. “Shall we proceed?”

When Cormia nodded and knelt on the floor, the Directrix lit some incense, and performed the ceremony of sequestering.

When it was through, Cormia stood and walked over on the far side to an open expanse in the wall that she would have called a window.

Across the white expanse of the Sanctuary, she saw the Temple of the Sequestered Scribes. It was annexed to the entry into the Scribe Virgin’s private quarters and had no windows. Inside its white confines, there would be no one else but herself. Herself and licks of parchment scrolls and pints of sanguinary ink and the unfolding history of the race, hers to record as a viewer, not a participant.

“I can’t do this,” she said.

“I’m sorry, what did you-”

There was a knock on the jamb. “Enter,” Amayla called out.

One of their sisters came in and bowed low. “The Chosen Layla is readied from the baths for His Majesty, the Primale.”

“Ah, good.” Amalya reached for an incense burner. “Let us install her at his temple, and then I shall summon him.”

“As you wish.” While the Chosen bowed her head and backed out of the room, Cormia caught the smile of anticipation on the female’s face.

She probably hoped to be next in line for a trip to the temple.

“Will you excuse me?” Cormia said, heart beating erratically, an instrument that couldn’t find its beat. “I’m going to retire to the Scribes’ Temple.”

“Of course.” Abruptly, Amayla’s eyes grew shrewd. “Are you sure about this, my sister?”