Wolf's-own: Weregild Read online

  All right, so they'd rutted like minks, and she was a little embarrassed, because they'd been right there in the common room, anyone could have walked in, and she'd only known him for a couple of days, which made her just as slutty as Malick, but.... Well, Joori was adorable, and sweet to her, with a hard edge beneath it that she'd only thus far seen directed at Malick and Shig, and it never failed to make Yori quiver. And anyway, anyone who loved as hard as Joori did had to be worth a little bit of sluttiness.

  "Everything all right, Mal?” she asked as he fetched up in front of her. For some unfathomable reason, for just a slim fraction of a moment, the look he gave her made her want to pull him down and lay his head on her shoulder, stroke his hair, and... just... no. It was bloody Malick, for pity's sake. One good lay, and she was coming over all soppy. One bloody good lay, but still.

  "Everything all right, Mal?” Caidi parroted, startling Yori a little, because she'd been more or less ignoring the chatter for quite a while, and she'd almost forgotten Caidi was even there, propped against the wall, mimicking Yori's own pose with her arms crossed over her chest.

  Yori watched Malick's gaze drift down to Caidi, slide pensive, so unlike him, before he turned it back up to Yori again. For some reason, it made Yori think of the swath of power that had brushed past her the other night when Malick had barreled at the maijin. And then it all evaporated, between one breath and the next: Malick gave her a grin, tawny eyes dancing with mischief, just like always, and Yori wondered where all the strange, unfocused sympathy of a moment ago had come from.

  "Everything's fine, love, no worries.” He reached over, tugged at Caidi's pigtail, and made her giggle. “Listen, I've been thinking....” He turned back to Yori, his stance lax and lazy. Casual, perhaps too casual, all easy charm, like she'd watched him turn on potential bedmates when he was on the make. “Umeia's going on a trip day after tomorrow, and... I'm thinking you might want to go with her."

  Another time, it would thrill her. Now, she had to stop herself from slumping, though she couldn't keep her gaze from flicking toward the door of Fen's room. Malick caught her at it and gave her another grin.

  "No worries. I wouldn't interfere with Young Love. I'm not taking you away from him. You'll understand when it's time."

  Damn it, was that an actual blush creeping to her cheeks? “But what about Yakuli?” Yori couldn't help blurting, darting an uncomfortable glance down at Caidi, even as it came spewing out her mouth.

  "Yeah, what about Yakuli?” Caidi chimed, and strangely, it didn't seem like she was just repeating it this time—it looked like she was fully aware of why the Councilor was a concern, and wanted to know what they planned to do about him just as much as Yori did. What was that the laundress next door always said? Little pitchers, big ears. Yori thought perhaps they should be a little more circumspect in what they let fly when Caidi was about, and stop assuming she didn't know what they were talking about when she too obviously did.

  "Let me worry about Yakuli for now.” Malick gave Caidi's nose a tweak this time, to which she proved just as susceptible: she giggled again. Malick's gaze came back up to Yori, more intent this time. “You'll go with Umeia, yeah?"

  Yori didn't even have to think about it. This was Malick, asking her to do something for Umeia. Of course she'd do it. “Yeah,” she said, then gave him a smirk, because for some reason, it looked like he needed... something. “But you'd better make it worth my while."

  "Yeah, yeah,” Malick muttered, rolled his eyes, and then he turned for Fen's room. “Your reward will be out shortly. Preferably on his ear."

  He dropped Caidi a wink then opened the door and stepped through, shutting it behind him.

  "Why is Malick-seyh sad?” Caidi asked, her voice low in what she probably thought was a whisper.

  Yori frowned first at Caidi then at the door. “Sad?"

  Caidi didn't get a chance to answer; Joori abruptly threw the door open, slamming out into the hallway, though he stopped short of actually slamming the door. He pulled up short when he saw Yori, the dark scowl flushing his face going wobbly for a moment, like he was trying not to aim it at her, before he pointedly turned it to a smile.

  "Um... h'llo.” Joori grimaced over his shoulder, mouth tight again. “Your boss said you wanted me.” Spoken with heavy sarcasm and a healthy dose of rancor, but Yori could tell neither was for her.

  "Uh-huh.” Yori let the side of her mouth curl up in a bit of a smirk. “Are you complaining?"

  Joori turned back to her, frowning, querulous, before his eyes widened and his cheeks pinked a little. Gah, he was adorable. And he wouldn't stand for someone bleeding another for their magic. And he was polite to Shig—well, acidly polite, but still polite, and Yori knew he didn't much care for her, nor could she really blame him, considering. And he was really good in bed. Well, it had actually been on the couch, but still—really good. He was fairly close to perfect.

  "Oh!” Joori said—finally. Close to perfect, maybe, but a little on the slow side, apparently. “No, of course not, I....” He waved at the door behind him, paused for a moment, the silence awkward and uncomfortable, then he dropped his arm and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You look pretty today,” he offered.

  Yori rolled her eyes—like she'd washed and twisted up her hair just for him, or something—though she couldn't stop the grin, and bloody hell, was she blushing again? Shig would laugh for days. And as long as Yori got a whole lot more of what she'd had last night, she really didn't care.

  Caidi was looking between them, eyebrow lifted in an expression entirely too knowing and cheeky. “Samin-seyh was right,” she groaned. “Too bloody precious."

  Yori watched her flounce away, still smirking, and peered up at Joori through her lashes. Joori was still staring down the hallway after his sister, shaking his head. “Somebody needs to put a bell on her,” he muttered then turned to Yori again. “You wanted me?"

  Oh, yeah. But first: “How's your brother?"

  Joori shrugged with a tired sigh. “Better, I think. Quieter. Malick says he's healing a lot faster than he thought was possible, and the wounds have just about closed over, so....” Another shrug. “He'll make it."

  "Of course he will,” Yori agreed. “He's too stubborn not to.” Joori didn't look quite convinced, and Yori knew he'd brood and stew unless he was... distracted. Not that she had any selfish motives, of course. “I, um....” She hesitated, waved her hand toward the door of the room she shared with her sister. “Shig's down in the baths. She usually takes all morning."

  Hint, hint.

  Joori's eyebrow lifted, gaze going down the hall where Caidi had disappeared into the common room. “My sister...."

  That had been halfhearted enough to make Yori grin. “Your sister's got Samin wrapped around her tiny little finger, and Morin's not too far behind. Samin's down in the common room, showing Morin how to properly wrap a sword hilt in wire in between bites of sugar dumplings."

  "I... hm.” Joori frowned, eyes drifting down the hallway again. “I'm not quite certain I like that."

  Yori shrugged, pushed away from the wall, and started to step slowly toward her room. “Would it make you feel any better if I told you it'll keep them all busy for at least another twenty minutes?"

  Joori stared at Fen's door for half a second, then up the hall to the common room for another. Gnawing on his bottom lip, his gaze finally landed on Yori as she sauntered away, and after a brief, obvious struggle, settled on her ass. He pushed away from the wall and followed.

  Apparently, it made him feel much better.

  * * * *

  It was nearly nightfall when Fen's fever finally broke. Malick could tell because the sluggish thrashing finally stopped, and the room fell silent—no more disconnected ramblings that still made too much sense. No more pain-filled groans and tears that came from inside the agony of near-madness. Malick hadn't liked all the mutterings about cherry blossoms—he knew the symbolism the Jin placed on the petals—but Fen was rather morbid
by nature, so Malick chose to write it off to that. Besides, Fen was healing fast enough that Malick had to wonder if a bit of Umeia's magic wasn't leaking through, or if Fen really was that stubborn and dogged that he could heal himself at will.

  Malick didn't suppose it mattered much—the worst seemed to be over. He'd thought perhaps he should go and tell Fen's siblings that the danger had passed, but he didn't think laying eyes on Joori was a good idea at the moment, and anyway, he was exhausted. After what had happened with Umeia this morning... well. It had rather drained him, made him angry and profoundly sad at the same time, and being with Fen had somehow eased him, even if—perhaps because—Fen didn't even know Malick was there.

  He'd lain himself down with Fen instead of announcing the news to his siblings, and dropped into the first real sleep he'd had in two days. Perhaps more, he couldn't remember. Things had been a little hectic lately.

  He was woken not by animal-like whimpering or too much heat baking off sweated skin, or even a hard shove off the bed and an indignant, How dare you, get the fuck off me. He was woken by dry lips set lightly on his own, a shaky fingertip sliding along his jaw. He dragged his eyes open, blinked slowly into somber gilt-gray, the soft light of the lamp wicked low dropping ashed-gold shadow over Fen's angular face, his bare shoulder and chest. Fen's straight nose was only inches from Malick's, his head sunk low on the pillow they shared.

  Malick reached up and gently fingered strands of matted chestnut out of Fen's eyes. Almost enspelled. Malick wanted to say something, but nothing would come. He merely stared, allowed the silence to continue, held Fen's solemn gaze, and let Fen's fingertips explore the stubble on his jaw, press delicately to the bruise that still bloomed along the left side of it, slide up and set themselves lightly to his lips. Chaste. Intimate. Meaningful, somehow, but Malick couldn't guess at the meaning inside it all. Didn't want to. He didn't move when Fen leaned in again, slowly closed his eyes, slid his hand up to cup Malick's cheek and replaced his fingertips with his lips again—light and sweet and warm, and so... private. Profound, maybe.

  People's mouths didn't have their own special taste, not like sentimental saps would wax. People tended to taste like what they'd last consumed. Fen tasted medicinal, like the cherry liquor laced with poppy and myrrh and cloves that Malick had last coaxed him to drink through semiconsciousness, and yet still....

  It did things inside Malick's chest, took hold and turned everything on its head. Nothing sexual about it, no heavy, panting breaths or rise in libido. Only the soft intimacy, the warmth, the strange comfort, when he hadn't even suspected he needed comforting.

  He didn't protest when Fen pulled back, only opened his eyes, kept his foot wedged beneath Fen's calf, ignored Joori's voice in his head that wanted to know if he really had to, and kept looking. Waited.

  "My mother wasn't here,” Fen finally whispered, gaze a little sad, perhaps, but clear enough, considering, and steady. “Was she?"

  It should have sounded a little bit insane, or at least strangely random, but Malick had been privy to quite a lot of things he perhaps shouldn't have been. He knew what Fen was talking about. He'd known what Fen was talking about since the first spate of vitriol and madness had come spiking from his tongue as he'd thrown himself at Shig.

  Malick gave his head a minute shake, reached up and took hold of Fen's hand against his cheek, lightly kissed his palm, and set it to the mattress between them. “No. I'm sorry."

  Fen sighed a little, nodded, and looked down. His fingers twitched against Malick's palm, but he didn't pull his hand away.

  "How are you feeling?” Malick ventured. He was acting... odd. Too calm, too willing to accept Malick's touch, no snark and no scowls. Kissing him as a greeting, rather than punching him in the jaw for daring to take the liberty of sleeping beside him.

  A small shrug was all Fen deigned to answer.

  "D'you want something to drink?” Umeia had told Malick that Fen needed to drink a lot, to rebuild and to flush the rest of the infection out of his system. Even that small reminder made Malick's heart clench a little, and he put Umeia and her cruel betrayal firmly out of his mind.

  But Fen shook his head, stared at his fingers, Malick's wrapped around them. Smiled. A tiny, reclusive thing, a wary animal poking its head out from its safe little den. Not the bit of a flicker he'd given Samin that first day, not the sly thing he'd trotted out of some half-assed seduction down in the baths—a real smile, a Fen-smile: a tiny, warm curve of the mouth, and a small lightening of the gray eyes that nonetheless seemed staggering in its hints at brilliance, and with no real prompting or work on Malick's part. It should have elated Malick. Instead, it made him uncomfortable. Still too quiet, too... off. Fen wasn't himself, and Malick needed him to be. Wanted him to be.

  The poppy in that last elixir, Malick realized with a jolt that shouldn't have stung, but did. He should have twigged first thing, once he'd had a look at Fen's eyes—pupils blown wide inside a circle of indigo-banded gray. None of this was real, and it likely wouldn't stick, once the effects wore off. Good and bad both, Malick supposed. The absurdly alluring vulnerability was like some kind of drug, going straight to Malick's head and blurring thought and sense, but it wasn't what he needed from Fen. Wanted, certainly, but not needed.

  He looked so young, when he was all soft and drowsy like this, defenseless without his shield of anger and caged violence about him. Lives uncounted, Umeia had told Malick, but to look at Fen now... fuck, Malick felt absurdly ancient. Unconsciously, his fingers found Fen's braid, wrapped around it loosely.

  "They're here?” Fen whispered.

  Considering all of the phantoms with whom Fen had been conversing for the past day and a half, Malick should have been unsure about whom he was asking now. And again, he wasn't.

  "They're here,” he told Fen quietly. “Safe. They're all asleep now, but they've been wanting to see you."

  Fen's eyelids lifted slowly, gaze somber now, the strange little smile gone altogether, and the way he peered at Malick was entirely too intense. He shook his head. “No."

  Malick should let it go. He should let Fen hold onto whatever safety to which he thought he was clinging. He should let Fen keep whatever illusions he'd invented in his delirium and break them gently when Fen himself was less breakable.

  He should do a lot of things he had no intention of doing. Surrender without fracture—Malick needed it, had to have it.

  "Yes,” he whispered, watching as Fen looked down to keep the pain concealed behind his eyes. He squeezed Fen's fingers. “They need to see you. They need to know you're all right.” And they needed to know it before they were carted off to Heldesan, or Malick would never get Joori in the bloody wagon.

  "Am I?” Fen snorted, then he shut his eyes with a sigh, lashes like soot fanned out over high cheekbones.

  For one reason or another—Malick had stopped trying to rationalize the conflicting emotions Fen's mere presence rose in him—the sight touched a nerve, set it humming. Lashes thick and dark and longer than they needed to be, veiling Fen's eyes, like his scowls and glares tried to veil everything else.

  "You won't see them?” Malick kept his voice mild, slightly accusing. “They're your family. All you've got. You're all they've got.” He paused, dropped his voice just a little. “Have you no feelings, Fen?” Pushing. Poking and prodding, stirring embers and hoping to fan them into flames.

  Fen was quiet for a long time, mouth set tight and lashes battering against his cheekbones. “Too damned many,” he finally said. Soft. Detached. Fen's eyes opened, piercing. “I wasn't always like this, you know. I was a boy once. I wanted things.” He shut his eyes again. Went silent. Like that said everything.

  There was a heavy twist in Malick's chest. He swallowed against it, listened to the rain for a little while and watched Fen's eyelashes flicker minutely as he half dozed. It was strange to imagine Fen as a child, strange to imagine him playing, laughing, hugging his mother, maybe, or even... no, not his father. Malick could im
agine Joori doing all of those things, somehow, but not Fen—Malick just couldn't see the residual innocence required to imagine such a thing. Had there ever been innocence for Fen?

  "You need to talk to Joori,” Malick told him, almost an order, really, but he shied from it at the last second.

  Actually, Malick should talk to Fen first, put his own spin on everything before Joori got his nose wedged in, but.... He wasn't going to. Some games Malick didn't play, wouldn't play, and he'd be damned if he was going to allow that jealous twat to manipulate him. He'd told Joori as much, and Joori had smirked, pushed back the sweaty fringe from Fen's brow while he kept a slant-eyed stare on Malick. Malick rather looked forward to seeing the look on Joori's face when he found out he'd be leaving and losing his intended stranglehold on his brother the day after tomorrow.

  "I don't want to see any of them,” Fen whispered, though he managed to push force into it, even for its softness.

  Malick imagined he didn't, imagined Fen wouldn't want to see anyone, not for a long time. He'd remember what he'd likely looked like to them the last time they'd seen him, and then he'd double and treble it until he couldn't face them. But Fen needed poking and prodding sometimes, and he needed something to fight for, something to live for.

  Malick only hesitated for a second then he leaned in, laid a soft kiss to Fen's brow. “They love you."

  Fen didn't open his eyes, didn't flinch or shake his head or clench his teeth. And still, Malick felt like he'd just kicked him when he was down. Too easy to see, now that he knew what he was looking at. Damn Shig, anyway.

  "It hurts.” Malick kept his voice soft, but his tone demanding. “Doesn't it?"

  "You knew it would,” Fen whispered, his own voice hoarse, shaky.

  Malick did, but he was a little surprised to hear Fen admit it.

  "It's too heavy,” Fen breathed, almost no sound at all, laced with pain and shame and more guilt than could belong to any one person.

  Admittance—I can't do this—and one that Malick never thought he'd hear, never thought Fen was capable of knowing, acknowledging, permitting. And once again, it made everything in his chest tighten and twist.