The Artifact of Foex (24 page)

Once inside Chet’s room, Fenimore glanced
around with curiosity. “That’s quite a collection," he said, gazing
at the books in the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined the
walls.

Chet unbent a little. “Thank you.” As a
teenager, he’d fought with his father to have those bookshelves
installed.

Chet grabbed a change of clothes and started
into his private bathroom, then paused, eyeing Fenimore. Fenimore
seemed to be innocently studying the titles in the bookshelf. If
Chet took his eyes off of Fenimore, would he get in trouble? Or get
Chet in trouble, which was far likelier. Fenimore seemed to have a
knack for it. Chet sighed and closed the bathroom door behind of
him; he was not Fenimore’s keeper and, Pantheon curse it, he wanted
his
shower
.

Feeling almost human again, Chet emerged to
find Fenimore in the exact same position as when Chet had left,
unlikely as it seemed. “Want to shower? I’ll lend you
clothing,”

“Certainly!” Fenimore grabbed the proffered
fresh clothes and disappeared into the steaming bathroom.

Feeling obscurely that it would be bad
manners to leave his guest, Chet lay down on his bed and gazed at
his ceiling. It seemed so strange to be in his childhood home after
everything that had happened in less than a week. In that short
time he’d bonded with an ancient magical relic, been deflowered by
men and Flame, watched his ex-girlfriend disappear into thin air,
witnessed the dead body of his professor, and... everything else.
Too much, too fast. Chet turned over and pressed his face into the
pillow. It smelled nice, like lavender. One of the servants must
have changed the sheets in his absence.

Chet felt dirty and corrupted after last
night, yet he also felt strangely free. He’d survived, just as he’d
intended. Horrible things had happened to him—he’d been taken
without his consent—but he’d lived through the experience. Like...
like the Flame themselves. Even when they didn’t survive, they
ended up living again, remembering all the same. They dealt with
the hurts and moved on. Chet had survived one night, but Journey
had survived over two-thousand years. Clearly not all of that had
been pleasant.

It was like tasting a slice of eternity. Chet
wasn’t sure he liked the flavor.

What would Rory think of him now? He was warm
and tingly at the thought. He missed her. Chet felt like all his
ties to life had been cut: Professor Tibbets, his archeology
program, Steve, the university and Rory. Her common sense and self
efficacy would come in really handy about now. Too bad she wasn’t
here.

What had she said about the Raptus? That it
was more important than her degree, her own life. Chet frowned—he
could barely feel the cords anymore. How far could he travel away
from the Raptus before he’d have to return? It was unnerving that
even the Flame didn’t understand the nature of this binding. Why
had the Raptus waited until he’d grabbed it to tie them together?
He’d never heard of four being a traditional magical number; not
that there were any Magicians left to tell him, but still. Six and
twelve were numbers laden with far more ancient power, thanks to
the gods, each of whom had an extra finger on each hand.

Why, why, why? Chet glanced at the books—and
by proxy, the authors—surrounding the walls of his room. So many
secrets between those pages, hidden between the lines. He didn’t
have a key to unlock them. Yet for whatever reason, the Raptus
wanted him. Unaffiliated or not, it wanted him. Personally.

Someone jumped onto the bed beside him and
Chet yelped. Fenimore grinned at him. “Startled you, did I?” he
purred.

Chet sighed, eyes narrow. “I’m
so
not fucking you right now. You realize what an asshole you were
back on the road, right?”

Fenimore raised an eyebrow. “I believe we’ve
established that I’m here to—what’s the charming word you use? Ah,
yes—I’m here to fuck, not to
be
fucked.”

“Knife had you first thing, back in
Wetshul.”

Fenimore actually blushed and looked away.
Chet was impressed by the show of emotions and wondered whether it
was real. “Knife is... special. She knows what a predator I am. She
likes
predators, the way I like innocent young men.”

Chet raised himself on his elbow. “At this
point, I’m not innocent by any stretch of the imagination. Why are
you
still around?”

Fenimore clasped his chest. “Ah, you’ve
sliced me to the quick! Such a sharp sword you wield this morning,
Chet.”

Chet paused, taken aback. “I don’t believe
you’ve ever called me by name.”

Fenimore nuzzled Chet’s chest, almost as if
he were an inofe—an enormous cat that had once roamed rural Uos.
“What, must I call you by demeaning pet names all the time?”

“You tell me.” Chet frowned at Fenimore. This
behavior was very unlike him. “You want something from me, don’t
you? Not sex. You’d just take that, if that’s what you wanted. No,
you must want something else.”

Fenimore blinked up at him with his long
eyelashes and didn’t answer.
Those eyelashes ought to be
illegal,
Chet thought. But all Fenimore said was, “I think we
should go have breakfast before it is either set aside or
disappears entirely.”

No, he definitely doesn’t want sex,
Chet thought as they descended the staircase. Whatever Fenimore was
after was lost in the general uproar and chaos of Chet’s family.
Chet was alarmed to see Journey missing from the table—her plate
thoroughly emptied of breakfast—until he heard her voice from the
rumpus room. He ducked down the hall and around the corner. Sure
enough, Journey was surrounded by his nephews and nieces. Even as
an elderly Nun, she drew attention: singing and acting out the
lines to something silly and rhyming. The children were spellbound
and clearly delighted. Bemused, Chet returned to the dining room to
find that Knife, meanwhile, had struck up a conversation with his
father. They were talking about stocks and bonds on the Genis
Exchange in Allistair, a subject his father knew a lot about.

Knife seemed incongruous as a bowlegged Nun
while saying things like, “Simeon Brothers has really gone downhill
since the war. I don’t think their stock has ever topped out since
the faulty arms scandal of ’587...”

Chet snorted. All was well, apparently. He
even managed to eat something before his mother descended upon him
once again.

“Chet, the police just called. Something
about stealing a valuable artifact and some sort of other
investigation. Also, a woman from the university called last night
about your whereabouts. A Professor Clemena? Claminata? No, that’s
not right.”

The police?
Clementina?
Chet froze
instinctively. “Did you tell them I’m here?”

She managed to glare while straightening his
collar. “What do you take me for? Of course I wouldn’t tell the
authorities you’re here. When the family is in trouble with the
law, we back each other up. But I don’t know why you’d steal
anything—we give you everything you could possibly desire, and
more.”

His father, alert to the conversation, turned
to Mother and said, “You know, I wish he would steal something. Far
as I can tell, Chet's life is all about scurrying around like a
filthy dium, scrambling in the dirt for ancient trash and reading
his old books. No one should live like that. In fact, I think
prison would do him good. When I was Chet’s age, I’d already done
six months for tax evasion and bank fraud. There’s nothing like
prison to make a man of you, to focus your ambitions and help you
make connections in the business and political world.”

Chet looked at the table, feeling tears
rising to his eyes. Apparently, he couldn’t count on his father to
bail him out. His father wanted him in prison for his own reasons.
Chet's life might be dour and colorless compared to the flashy,
let-it-all-hang-out attitude his family strove for, but it was his
life. No one else’s.

“I don’t want Chet going to prison," his
mother said in a wavering voice. “He’s my baby. Men do horrible
things to boys like Chet in prison.”

Chet nearly rolled his eyes.
Too late,
mother.

Brae seemed to perk up at the subject matter.
“What, Chet’s going to prison? About time you stopped being such a
goodie-goodie, you little prick.” He leaned over and cuffed Chet on
the head. Hard. Chet breathed through his nose and tried not to
react, as usual. Brae continued, “Last season, I had to testify in
front of the magistrate for the usual litany of tax loopholes. It
would do you good to be accountable to that kind of inquiry,
doedicu. You can finally stop being such a sensitive
fruitcake.”

Chet covertly swiped tears and glanced at
Knife, who was staring at Chet’s family with disbelief. Knife
cleared her throat and said, as if she couldn’t help herself, “You
clearly care about Chet’s future prospects.”

His father slammed the table with his open
hand, making everyone jump. “What I care about is if he finally
chooses a god to affiliate himself with! Genis
told
me
he’d have you, boy, no questions asked. At least choose Philapo,
already! It’s expected for a professor, which is what you seem
bound and determined to become. Our family pride is at stake.”

This inspired a whole chorus of agreement and
the endless questions. Chet hunkered down and weathered the storm,
as usual. He didn’t want to be an affiliate for Genis—the god who
specialized in commerce—any more than the rest of them. Less, all
things considered. Fenimore, gulping breakfast rabidly, nudged Chet
with his foot, as if to remind him why they were here.

Chet took a deep breath. “Actually, Father, I
was wondering if I could possibly float a loan.”

His father glared. A long pause went by, then
he said, “You can have all the money you want... once you become a
god affiliate. I don’t care if you jump in a fireplace and become a
stinking pervert of a Flame, so long as you make up your abysmal
mind. Though I’d obviously prefer if you took up with Genis.”

Chet felt something inside of him snap. “No.
You can’t have that,” he muttered toward the floor.

“What?”

He looked up into his father’s face and
yelled, “I said,
you can’t have that.
I’d rather peddle my
ass on the streets of Door before becoming a god affiliate. My life
and my, my
soul
are my own! I will not declare myself in a
god’s camp until I’m ready. And I never will be.”

Chet was almost too angry to watch for
reactions around the table, though his heart twinged when his
mother put her hands over her mouth and turned away. His father, on
the other hand, seemed unmoved. “So be it. I’m putting my foot down
and pulling your tuition for fall term. You can go join the ranks
of unaffiliated and work for a living, far as I care, though I’d
prefer if you didn’t throw it all away. I’ve paid too much for your
private schools to squander an investment like that.”

“Fine,” Chet growled. He could almost feel
the last tie from his old life give an audible
ping
as it
was cut from him. “I can find work in a library or as a research
assistant. Pull my way through and earn the degree on my own.”

“Not at Semaphore, you won’t. You’d never
make tuition.”

“Then I’ll go to an independent city-state
university! I’ll make my own way in life. You can’t make my choices
for me, do you hear?”

What was he doing? He’d never intended to
yell, not at his family. They may be messed up, but he loved them
and disliked them so much. Why did they make everything more
difficult? Yet he felt a glimmer of satisfaction because he'd stood
up for himself at last. Chet’s face was hot and his whole body
tingled with rage.

At that moment, the backdoor opened and all
six of Chet’s sisters piled inside, one after the other. They wore
their Nun’s habits though only two wore headdresses; the others had
their hair down. All were chattering away. The tension broke in the
room as the noise increased six fold. Chet’s anger began fading
abruptly, giving way to fear. Sisters hugged and carried on with
the family already present, drawing a crowd from sisters-in-law and
various children trickling in from other parts of the house.

That does it,
Chet thought. It was
clear they weren’t getting any money from his father—thanks to his
outburst—and the game had changed with his sisters home. Though he
liked some of his sisters more than other members of his family, he
and the others couldn’t stay. Chet glanced at Knife nervously, and
Knife returned a wide-eyed look. Definitely time to go.

Chet nudged his head to the left, indicating
the escape route, then murmured in Fenimore’s ear, “Come on.”

Getting up from the table, Chet spotted
Brae’s car keys on a side table. He quietly pocketed them, feeling
a twinge of satisfaction course through him. Was being a criminal
getting easier, or was it just because it was Brae? Knife was
already ahead of him, retrieving Journey from the rumpus room.

They’d almost made it to the garage when
Chet’s second-youngest sister, Silvie, popped out of a side
corridor, cutting them off. “Hi, Chet. I didn’t know you were
coming home. My, this is different company for you, isn’t it. Who
are these strange Nuns?”

Chet gulped. His favorite sibling wasn’t a
dummy. “Um, Silvie, could you let mother and father know I’ve
gone?”

Silvie squinted at the two Flame, frowning.
“This doesn’t seem right, Chet. Excuse me, but what convent do you
two come from?”

Journey smiled, watery and vague to the
extreme. “It’s a tiny one west of the Monastery Mountains, a little
south of Highway 1. I doubt you’ve heard of it...”

“Oh, the Arch Convent? The thing is I’ve
visited that convent a number of times. I’ve never seen either of
you there. Could you describe your mother superior, please?”