A Tree of Bones (Hexslinger 3) - Page 59

And here, inevitably, memory finally welled up, just as Ixchel had mocked him it would. A scene from two scant years previous, when he and young Mister Pargeter were still poisonously entangled as heartworm through a dog’s ticker — baking in bed together, holed up near the Border in some whorehouse whose accoutrements seemed to make Chess comfortable and uncomfortable in equal measure, and Rook itchy to amuse him out of his mulishness.

The details popped up in a glittering cloud, criminally fresh as ever. He saw them sharing tequila by the mouthful, saw himself dip to lap a bit more from the hollow of Chess’s throat before turning him over and licking a careful trail down his sweat-shiny spine, then bury himself face-first at the musky source. Kissing him wetly open enough so’s he could hook in a pair of fingers and scissor them half-viciously inside, preparing the way, while Chess just hiked his hips and purred out loud into the verminous pillows.

Moaning, as he did: Oh Ash, Jesus fuck, enough with the niceties, already — have at it, make me Goddamn scream! Best be ready to do me through this damn mattress, you know what’s good for you, ’cause I ain’t fit to wait one minute more —

You’re what’s good for me, you awful object.

Yeah? Then hurry up and get goin’, you sumbitch, ’fore I just pop off entire and leave you to ride your hand alone, for once.

Why, Chess Pargeter! You been cheatin’ on me, with yourself? A rap to the back of his skull, sharp enough to make his fist spark pleasantly. Impatient little bastard.

Three fingers now, well below both knuckles; Rook dipped his thumb lower, ran it quick ’cross Chess’s swollen, gilt-furred balls, laughed out loud to see him pant and snarl. And felt that very noise jerk him up in turn, poking his own sensitive head out past the foreskin’s tip like it was a gun and Chess’s yearning hole the target, an inescapable challenge, near-impossible not to thrust himself inside. . . .

He set teeth on Chess’s nape, nipping hard — made him gasp and squeal, then hump back, hump up, strong as some untamed bronco bent on stage-managing his own breaking. While Rook, in turn, found it was all he could do to just grab hold of either hip and enjoy the ride: deep-set, tall in the saddle but wholly at Chess’s mercy, rather than the other way ’round. And well content to be so.

Hit it, Christ! Yes, there, riiiight fuckin’ there, oh Lord Lord Lord —

He was touching himself now, in time to it, shamelessly — dipping low and then dragging up high once more, sweat-greasing his palm to pump out a bead or two of dew, then use that in turn to dig himself yet deeper. Yet feeling something crack wide inside him, as he did — dead flesh maggoted away to expose abraded tissue, exquisite as probing any unhealed wound.

One thing only you ever asked of me, darlin’, he thought, and I went on ahead and did different ’cause I knew better, like I always thought I did. Left you behind, then was surprised when you really couldn’t be held responsible. And look at me now . . .

Trapped between two gods, neither of ’em offering any sort of salvation worth the sacrifice. What he wouldn’t do for just a hint of that still, small voice he’d once glimpsed inside Mesach Love’s mind, or Sophy’s bountiful Saviour! But such never had seen fit to show itself to faithless Asher Rook, no matter how long he prayed, or how hard. Chess, I am . . . sorry, damnit, like I’ve never been. So sorry.

Which is how, with one last, half-despairing grasp, he eventually found himself touching a whole new set of fingers entirely — five cold little digits, each tipped with an obsidian-flake nail, seemingly sprouting up through the tangle of his own belly-fur. Which knit irreparably with his while their owner murmured to him, gently, from somewhere over Rook’s suddenly stiff shoulder: “Oh, how I know he would appreciate that apology, mi conquistador, were your red boy here to hear it! Though he would pretend otherwise, probably, and act accordingly.”

The Rev turned his head just one tiny bit more, straining his neck muscles to their limits, and found himself eye to poison-green eye with the same thing that’d taken his measure at Bewelcome. There, however, it’d been far enough away to deny; here it was closer, very much so, flesh firm as Chess’s own.

“You,” he named it. “Enemy of All, right? We Are Your Slaves?”

“So I have been called, yes. And in my sweet sister’s time I was K’awil, God K, who is also known as Bolon Dzacab, Serpent-legged and Powerful, He of the Nine Innumerable Maternal Generations.” The creature smiled at him, showing those shiny black teeth. “But really, does it matter? Do you wish to be enslaved to me, Asher Rook? Or . . . to him whose meat I come wrapped in?”

Rook swallowed, dryly; felt his blood beat still all through the tenderest parts of him, every pulse a scrape, an implicit skinning.

“One thing you’re not, though, is Chess — at all. Are you?”

“Not entirely. But thinking you might be able to swap me for him is as good a reason as any to want to see us all back underground, is it not? I offer you a chance here, priest-king — only be ready to rise and I will lift you up further, if you swear to give me what I want.”

“Which’d be?”

“Words with my sister, face to face. Time to put my argument.”

“She don’t respond too well to arguin’, from my experience.”

“Ah, but I have known her the longer, by far. Trust me in this. . . .”

“If nothing else?”

“I see we understand each other.”

Rook pulled himself upright, pushing the Enemy’s hand away, and tried to position his bedding so’s to hide his only slightly flagging proof of interest — a move the thing all but snickered at. Still, it shifted back, crossing its legs like an Injun; folded palm against palm, primly, and allowed him time to collect himself.

“No offence,” he said, “but I thought I was alone. How’d you get in here, anyhow?”

A shrug. “In your position, you are never alone, truly — here, most especially. As to the other, how can I be kept out? Like my sister, I came in through your dreams . . . an easy entrance, especially when you are hurt and disconsolate, reaching out for any shred of comfort your mind can conjure.”

“That’s all it took, huh?” Rook shook his head. “Best to keep my hands out of my pants from now on, then.”

“Desire is a spell in itself, ‘Reverend’ — all wants are. But you cannot stop yourself from wanting, any more than you may choose to swear off breathing.”

Tags: Gemma Files Hexslinger Fantasy
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