A Book Of Tongues by Files Gemma

Author:Files, Gemma
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
Publisher: ChiZine Publications
Published: 2010-03-08T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Things went quicker, after that — like every other foregone conclusion.

Rook returned to find Chess still waiting for him in Bewelcome’s frozen ruins, even more parched and sunburnt than he otherwise might have been, due to the salt’s coruscating glare. Hardly the best place for any redhead to linger, let alone one who’d apparently fallen asleep — or lightly comatose, perhaps, after what Rook later worked out had been near two weeks of dehydration — with his shirt spread out under him, to keep the ground from rubbing his back raw.

Two days, from Rook’s point of view. One less fourteen, for everybody else. But that was magic for you, he thought, idly — ten pounds of trouble in a five-pound sack.

Rook drew a stream up from beneath the lumpy white crust, cracking it open ’til the fresh water bubbled free, and fed it to Chess a fingertip at a time, for fear he’d puke and die. Then hoisted his slack weight high, carried him over to the same hill they’d once stood on and kicked it open, creating a cave. Since the trip hadn’t drained him overmuch, Rook was still so stuffed-full of stolen power he felt bloated as a tick — like he just had to use it, or pop.

Inside the cave, he nursed Chess through a day and night more of fever, flensing his lover’s burnt skin away gently throughout, onion-careful. Beneath the worst of it a fine new layer of skin had already re-grown, bright pink, painfully smooth and sensitive to the touch.

Ignoring its delicacy, Rook folded Chess close and refused to let go, even when he cursed and kicked and bit — dripped the run-off from Grandma’s legacy into Chess’s mouth along with their kisses ’til the energy he was giving out began to return to him, as Chess’s fierceness rekindled. Eventually, the blaze of him rose to such an intoxicating level that Rook had to rein in hard, pry free of Chess’s grip and leave him sleeping, lest hex-hunger tempt him to push the little pistoleer back over the edge and suck him dry once more . . . permanently, this time.

When the sun set, the cave stayed warm — an oven-stone cut to just fit two, so long as they lay close. Chess’s skin had firmed to the point of cooling, his sweat no longer smelling of anything but itself. So it came as no grand surprise that when — as though to celebrate his escape from death — Chess curled a bit further into Rook’s chest, slid one hand down the front of Rook’s flies, and commenced digging for treasure.

At the cusp, however, he suddenly opened his green eyes wide, staring at Rook as though he were a dream conjured to offputting life. Like he’d never thought to see him again outside of sleep, and wasn’t too sure how he felt about finding himself proved wrong, even under such delirious circumstances. And the next morning, while Rook was pissing in the scrub,

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