Curse of the amber, p.7
Curse of the Amber, page 7
When he dipped his head in acknowledgment, a layer of his neck disintegrated, scattered to dust across his broadening chest. We made it out the door unseen, but still I rushed him to my car as fast as he could shuffle. When my headlights blinked on to unlock, he trembled like a pile of dead leaves.
“It’s okay,” I said, unable to think of a Latin substitute. Tutum—safe—was the best I could do as I opened the back seat and gestured for him to lie down and stay hidden. I had never driven that fast, but those fifteen minutes felt like forever. Two-thirds of the way through, he started groaning louder, and I heard an ominous wet sound. I screeched to a halt, popped the passenger door open, and helped him crane his neck to the ground. Watching him vomit up wave after wave of peat was awful. I doubted anything in the ancient world could hit ninety miles an hour in a few seconds. He emptied his guts and probably even his lungs. The muck was too black to tell if any of it was blood. He swiped at his face with his hand, and the skin covering his jaw came off, leaving a gruesome veil covering the crown of his head down to the bridge of his nose. He was not happy to take his place again in the car.
He resisted when I gestured for him to lay his head back down so I could shut the door again. I was kneeling down to talk him into it when another car zoomed by, blinding us in its headlights and filling the night air with the blare of its horn.
Anglesey Man screamed. And screamed. When it seemed like he would never stop screaming, I closed my hands over my ears to block out his wails.
“Stop!” I’ve never screamed that loudly. I scared myself, and it pulled me out of my own frenzy. Silence reigned on this corner of the road, but I could hear the distant hum of another engine just over the next hill. I put my hand firmly on the door above his head.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t stay here. A little bit more. Just a little bit more.”
He ducked back in without another sound, and I slid into the driver’s seat. I gripped the wheel more to stop my hands from shaking than to lead the way home. But I had to drive. All I could do was drive, because I had no idea what happened next, once I got to the driveway.
I closed the door to my foyer behind us with a reassuring click. It was a quiet street, and neither Anglesey Man nor I made a sound as we exited the car and climbed up the steps to the front door. He kept his head tucked all the way up the grand staircase, focusing on one step at a time. Slowly we moved down the hallway to the bathroom. I ushered him into the bathtub and ripped off the two coats—tossing them behind him in the tub to contain his chaos. I kept the light off, starting to think of all the things that would frighten him, and how to ease him out of his suffering. I lit the aromatic candles at the edge of the sink and threw a pillowcase from the adjacent closet over the lamp sconces on either side of the mirror before turning them on. At least we could see each other. When I turned the shower on, he cried out.
“It’s okay,” I said again. “Aqua.” He grimaced at the spray. I adjusted the water to just this side of lukewarm—his skin was still clammy and cold to the touch, what little I could feel of it. The bulk of him was covered in dried skin that was cracked, hanging loosely, waiting to come off. I reached into the shower, getting dizzy and nauseous as I put my hand on his matted scalp, rusted by peat acid, and slid it off his head, letting it slough onto the enamel tub with a sickeningly dull thump. The shell covering his chest followed, no longer having a claim on him. He stepped over his own corpse. I tried to guide him, to put his back to the shower. The water did little work on its own, leaving a thin film of dark, inky gunk and the smell of rotten vegetation behind. I hesitated to push the sediment collecting on the small of his back past the curve of his ass but sighed in resignation—there was nothing else for it. I chased the detritus away down past his calves, swollen in power, yet limp and shaken, like they had forgotten their own strength. I turned him again toward the stream, his face assailed by pressurized water. He didn’t know how to breathe through it and got panicky. I tried to calm him, but it was tough work, reaching in to help him. I was soaked up to my elbows, the spray reaching the floor and getting all over my shirt anyway.
“What the hell?” I muttered, pulling my shirt over my head and shrugging out of my pants and shoes. We were in this together, it was happening to both of us. Maybe this would help to mitigate his shame. His eyes widened before he shut them firmly, turning his head away from me. Seeing the water pooling in my bra, I think it was the first time he realized I was a woman.
Calmer, he let me slide the muck off his shoulders, his hips, his face. He slowly participated, running his hands through his hair. At last, he was clean. He was whole. And he was magnificent. His eyes spoke volumes of pain, fear, and a humbled pride. They met mine again, the intensity of his stare at turns awesome and frightening. He lurched forward, not finding a steady grip on the slick tiles. I pressed my back against the wall, trying to give him space, but he leaned ever closer, on the verge of collapse. My breath came rapid and shallow, and I couldn’t think. He stopped just short of crashing into me. Our foreheads touched, and we were surrounded by the hissing of the shower. He felt so weak, as if I might blow him over if I weren’t careful. I inhaled sharply at his touch as he slid closer, the skins of our abdomens touching. My fear melted away under his anguished expression, replaced by an overwhelming compassion. I ran my hand tentatively through his dark hair as the water sluiced through it. He put his head on my shoulder and sobbed.
I stopped the shower in time with his tears. The steam quickly left us, and I reached behind me for a towel. I ran it over his head, his shoulders, and finally, keeping my gaze level with his eyes, wrapped the soft white linen around his waist. I stepped out after him, grabbing a second towel for myself, wrapping it under my armpits and squeezing my hair out at the nape of my neck. I gestured for him to sit and put my hands in front of me. I raced to my room, threw on a dry tank top and pajama pants, and padded barefoot to my parents’ room. I danced awkwardly in front of the door for a minute, before remembering that they would be helping him themselves if they could.
“Sorry,” I said under my breath as I burst into the room. Anglesey Man wasn’t going to fit into any of my clothes. With his size, I’d be lucky to find anything of Dad’s that fit. I absently looked for an oversized college shirt with Arkham’s griffin mascot on it, for when he played touch football with the other faculty, or when he was being lazy and just looking to put his feet up with a cold beer in front of the TV.
This was the first time I’d been away from Anglesey Man. As I rummaged for clothes, shutting out the millions of memories carved into every corner, my mind raced to process the miracle. Suddenly all the things flying in my head organized themselves into unending lists—of what I’d have to buy (underwear, toothbrush, shoes), what I’d have to explain (airplanes, TV, computers, atomic bombs), how we would communicate…how I would explain what had happened to him. How he would explain it to me. For the thing that Alex and I had brought back from Britain was certainly dead. Yet the thing sitting patiently in my bathroom was not.
He had begged for my help, and I intended with all my soul to give it. Once he was settled for the night, I resolved to head out to the store for essentials, and to poke around a bit between here and the lab, make sure there wasn’t a neat pile of peat moss pointing straight at my door.
I found what I wanted. The beaten pullover sweater rested in my limp fingers as my thoughts arrested my speed. I could smell my dad, a forgotten scent trapped in the fabric that rushed back to me in all its vividness, of days watching him play intramurals. I used it to wipe my tears. Instilled with a new sense of urgent worry, I hurried back to the bathroom. There he sat, exactly how I’d left him, poised like a marble statue with his hands on his knees, set apart enough to create a dark shadow between his legs that my eyesight thankfully could not penetrate.
He remained silent as I approached him, and I wondered how much of that was an effect of the condition of his throat—burnt by peat acid, or simply sore from disuse? He did not attempt to speak, though I was sure he had understood my sketchy, academic Latin. I was willing to be patient. Our nonverbal communication was all either of us required, for now.
He took the sweater from me warily, turning it over in his hands and inspecting it from each angle to which it turned. Of course. I clicked my tongue and mumbled an apology in English as I took it again from him, righted it, and pulled his head through the hole meant for his neck. Understanding came over his face, and both arms followed suit on their own.
I knelt in front of him, fixating my eyes on his feet, and only his feet, as I pushed his ankles through sweatpants. I wasn’t giving him my dad’s underwear. That I didn’t have the courage to clear out my parents’ things was bad enough. Being more used to a toga or a leather skirt, I didn’t think he’d mind. That would have to wait. I kept my fingers at the waistband as I stood up. He stood with me and held my stare as I slipped the waistband under the towel until it rested comfortably on his hips. He removed the towel himself and presented it to me, his eyes soft and appreciative, but still wide from the shock. There were times when I observed his interest shooting quickly around the room, attempting to survey his surroundings, but each time his brow furrowed deeper, and his face returned to gaze intensely at me. Perhaps another human face was the only thing he could make sense of.
When I took the towel from him, I saw that the skin surrounding his knuckles was red, and cracking. The skin was new and needed all the moisture it could get. I motioned for him to sit again at the chair facing the marble vanity, and pumped lotion from a container on the edge of the sink into my hand. I looked at him for some expression as I worked the lotion into his fingers and palms, but he sat docile and patient. Intimidated by a blank stare, even one as peaceful as his, I kept my face to my work. That’s when I noticed that his fingernails were still entrenched with peat, packed stubbornly underneath. I clicked my tongue again, reached into the cabinet above my head to the left, and pulled out a pair of nail clippers. I knelt in front of him again and shortened the nails enough to clean out the beds. As my task neared its end, I was consumed with worry. His stoicism might be shock, and I wouldn’t know how to treat him by myself. As if in response to my thoughts, he squeezed my fingers tightly. I looked up to see him regarding me, his eyes shining again. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and my heart quickened with anticipation. He shuddered as he inhaled, choked with emotion. He closed his lips again with a smile and brought my hand to them, kissing my fingers in gratitude.
I pressed my open palm to his cheek, and he pulled me closer, tucking me between his legs and embracing me again. I rested my chin on his shoulder as he squeezed, surrounding me by his size even in his weakness. I pulled away, leaning on his forearms as I stood. I took him by the hand and led him out of the bathroom and down the darkened hallway to my bedroom. It would do until I could figure out where to keep him. All the spare bedrooms were booked up, and I wasn’t going to sleep in my easy chair forever. I couldn’t expect him to, either. I left his side to dim the light bulb next to my bed with a shirt, then led him in. His steps faltered as he neared the bed, and I knew he would not resist being put to sleep. I offered him a glass of water, which he took readily. He settled in quickly enough, and I bade him goodnight.
“Tomorrow,” I whispered, grabbing my boots on my way out the door.
9
QUINTUS
Sunlight sneaking into the room woke me. Everything was sore, my mouth most of all, and my chest felt like a dead weight imposing itself atop an empty stomach. My limbs screamed as I stretched, lifting my head to sit up. I rubbed my eyes, dizzied by the sense that, though I had slept soundly, for how long I knew not, it was nothing compared to the cold grip of death that had until then ensnared me.
I took in the room, but my gaze informed me of little as to where I was, only that I had not dreamed my waking out of that senseless deep. A blanket rustled and moaned to the right of me. I turned my head to see the face of my rescuer, that angel who had secreted me away to safety and made me whole again. I was surprised to find her there and took in my resting place more carefully. After all she had done to give me back a sense of my humanity, she had given me her bed. Her features scrunched in dismay as Helios heralded the morning across her eyelids, and she slunk behind the shadowy comfort of her blanket, tucking her knees even closer to her chest.
I rose slowly, letting my bare feet gain firm purchase on the rug. I gripped the arms of the chair in which my savior slept to steady myself and roused her gently with a soft tap on the shoulder. Her slumbering mind must have forgotten, for she flinched at the sight of me. Her quick fright was contagious, and I jumped back. It lasted only a moment, and she just as quickly collected herself, shaking herself awake.
I backed away, giving her space to rise. She gestured to a sitting area by the window and quit the room, looking at me in a way that I had come to recognize last night, that she would be returning presently. She came carrying plates full of bread, cheese, and fruit, some of which I’d never seen the likes of before. There were grapes, apples, and oranges, but nothing to help me place myself. I had seen enough only to know that I was not very near my cohort. After breaking my fast with my caretaker, I would have to bid her farewell and seek the direction back to my encampment, to tell, at last, what I had seen, to stir the men to action, and pull the others from the predicament from which I had been so recently extracted. She offered a warm, unfermented beverage. Though it did slide down my throat with ease, it left a bitter taste in my mouth that only many mouthfuls of clean water could wash away. When my lips puckered despite my attempt at gracious acceptance of all my hostess offered, she, ever with her gaze fixated on me, added a fine white powder to my drink, which made it infinitely more palatable. I smiled and nodded in consideration. She smiled in return, but I could see that our lack of conversation was vexing her. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap as we dined, as though she were impatient to get on with whatever exchange we were to have before I took my leave of her. Maybe, when the score against me was settled, I could come back. If I was welcome.
I felt guilty, having foisted my own horror upon her, sentencing her to a night full of dreadful, painstaking care of my person. It had uplifted my spirit out of the dank prison which had held me, yet I could see that the same event grated on her, the wariness in her eye a signal that her trouble, perhaps for harboring me, was just beginning.
There was a curious fruit on the end of the table, a slender yellow thing plump in its curvature. I inspected it and put it to my mouth. The outer skin was tough and unwieldy. Unsure of the rules of decorum in such a circumstance, I paused to consider whether to place it uneaten on my plate or simply bite harder. Before my opinion on the matter was fully formed, she grabbed it from me, and dug the nail of her thumb into the curve at its neck. From then she peeled away the outer layer, to reveal more tender flesh beneath.
I observed her carefully as she handed it back to me. Her cheeks had reddened, as though she felt it a mistake to serve me it in the first place. I tried to assuage the flush under her porcelain skin by partaking again, this time with greater success and a rewarding sweetness. As I downed the feast laid out for me, I considered my company with the utmost compassion, rising to meet her inquisitive, unrelenting stare.
She was no Briton; of that I was sure. Her finely sculpted features were unlike any of those who had surrounded me in those last moments, their leering, howling faces forever burned in my mind. I would not believe her to be even a rogue member of the vicious band who had shown its rebellion in such heinous fashion against Rome—against me. Her glossy, raven hair was cut short like a man’s, yet it suited her, framing her slender chin. Only the longest, well-tended tresses dared to bounce at her shoulders. Against her creamy skin, her eyes were a deliciously warm, reassuring brown. She dug her teeth into the right corner of her lip repeatedly, and seemed almost skittish, nervous of me, perhaps of being alone with me.
I tried to restrain my observation of her to what lay above her neck, though her choice of clothing was airy and light, giving my eyes free rein of her generous curves. That her body was that of a woman’s and not a girl’s I knew very well. She had bared nearly all of her splendidness in that overflowing fountain, yet her clean, sweetly scented skin and fresh, young face were not those of a woman overly or ill-used. Her abode was clean, well-appointed, though strange, from what little I could discern in the dim sunlight. She carried herself as one well-bred. I cleared my throat, ready to make my introduction.
“I am Quintus.”
She let out a sigh of great relief as I spoke. She placed her hand on her lovely throat as she replied, oddly unsure of how to identify herself.
“Azi. Asenath,” she corrected. Then, with a confident finality, “Azi.”
I followed the thin line of gold down her neck, daring a glance between the mounds of Venus and pointed to the charm she wore.
“Ra,” I said, pointing at the talisman shaped as the eye of the deity.
“Hmm?” she questioned. Looking down, she clasped the eye in her hand, and understood.
“You’re from the land of the pharaohs?” I asked.
She waggled her head. “By birth, not blood.”
I nodded. “Azi,” I repeated, putting my hand over my chest and bowing my head low in deep gratitude. “Thank you.”
She became uneasy as I spoke. It perplexed me, and I inclined my head to her. It was plain she had something to say and was very anxious to say it. I pulled at the fabric covering my chest.
“Thank your—husband?” I ventured.
Azi shook her head. “Father,” she corrected. Listening to her curt answer was a strain on my ears. Her words grated like broken glass. They had all the necessary components, but the cadence and emphasis were all wrong.
