Lost at Sea Bk. 02 Ch. 30

"And the swords too?" the Angel said.

"Mhmm," Caine grunted in affirmation.

"So he anchored the binding to his body to keep his spirit from getting lost. So when I kicked his corpse over the railing, his spirit was dragged along." He could feel his Angel nodding in his head.

"Yeh. Ghost sword... too," Caine said, tapping near the wound in his chest. He coughed painfully and spat out more blood.

"Wish I'd thought to grab the other mortal sword before Anton fell. Another of these would be useful," the Angel said.

"I bet... we'll have... another chance to take it," Caine said slowly.

"This is why you should not let your enemies live," the Angel said tersely.

"Not very... merciful," Caine rasped.

"Mercy is the alleviation of suffering," his twin said flatly. "It has nothing to do with whether or not you spare a life. That is a mortal concept."

"Semantics," Caine muttered.

"Yes, your language is profoundly imprecise," the angel said. "Mercy is mine. I know exactly what it means. If you want to talk about sparing people who try to kill you, use a different word."

"Quarter," Caine suggested.

"Yes, much better," the Angel agreed. "It still has the ambiguity problem, but a far more contextually obvious one."

"Better not to kill," Caine mumbled. "When we can."

"That is most definitely not my nature," the Angel disagreed. "Today's nonsense is why. I am rather tired of old enemies coming back to haunt us."

Caine groaned and looked even more pained. "No puns."

"Fine," the angel tisked. "I suppose I'll have to annoy you in other ways while I heal us up."

"Why annoy me at all," Caine said with a painful cough. Slowly he tested his limbs, seeing if they were usable yet.

"Because it always works to occupy your mind," the Angel said. "And it's entertaining."

"You and Tonya," he muttered. "A lot alike."

"No wonder you like her so much," the angel smirked in his head.

Caine grunted, knowing better than to deny that accusation to someone who shared his thoughts. He tried to move again. Some parts felt better, which let other sources of pain make their presence known.

"Oh, that's worse than I thought,' the Angel muttered. The pain from a nasty leg cut faded abruptly. "Anyway, that madman created a ritual to disconnect his soul from his body, but keep them bound together so he wouldn't get lost in the Ways, and did the same thing to his swords."

"Mmm," Caine nodded.

"He may have gotten the fundamentals wrong, but he still managed to do an impressive job emulating the mechanics of how our own binding works," the Angel mused. "All alone though. No voice in his head besides his own. No wonder he went mad."

Caine coughed as he tried to laugh. "No jokes either."

"How did you figure it out?" the Angel asked.

"Threw the ghost sword," Caine said. Talking still hurt, but breathing was getting easier. "It came back."

"Ah, I wondered what that was about," the Angel said. "Clever. Try walking now."

Slowly he managed to stagger into the Old Man's study. Every slow step was a kaleidoscope of pain. Each thing the Angel soothed and healed straightened his gait a bit more, but drew attention to other wounds. By the time he made it to the Old Man's mantle, he could breathe shallowly with minimal pain. Beneath the empty stand where the swords had been crossed were the sheathes. He grabbed one and dragged it off the mantle as he passed.

"What was all that about the gods?" the Angel asked.

"Remember... how much he hates them?" Caine muttered. Breathing and talking was getting a little easier as the Angel worked. "Blames them. Warden mostly."

"Ah," the Angel said sadly. "Because of what the Magistrate did to the N'madi."

"Yeah," Caine grunted.

"Did you ever try to tell him?" the Angel asked.

"Tried," Caine coughed. "Didn't go well."

"Yes, I can see how being told a god is dead would raise more questions than it answered," the Angel sighed.

"He didn't believe me," Caine muttered. "Doesn't matter. Wouldn't bring his people back anyway."

"He carried around so much suffering for so long," the Angel said sadly. "So senseless. And pointless."

"You're being an asshole again," Caine muttered.

"What?" the Angel said defensively. "I simply mean that his life would have been better if he'd been able to let go of that anguish."

"People don't let go easy," Caine said.

"Yes, so I've noticed," the Angel said pointedly. Caine could feel the accusation in his mind. "This kind of thing is why mortals aren't meant to live so long. There's only so much a soul can take."

"Exactly," Caine countered. "So be nice about it."

The Angel sighed. "I suppose I still have that to practice. Mercy is my nature, but kindness often seems... counterproductive. I think... it is like empathy. I only know it exists because I can feel it through you. I was never meant to know it, and now that I can, I have to try to figure it out."

"That's all anyone can do," Caine muttered. "Important thing is, never stop trying."

"It has become a duty thanks to you," the Angel said, sounding a bit annoyed about it. "I might not fully understand it, but now I couldn't stop working for it if I tried. I hope you appreciate how difficult it is to strive to understand something completely outside your original perceptions."

"I do," Caine said. "Plenty of stuff I only know... 'cause of you. Hard to handle. So thanks for trying."

Caine wasn't splitting his focus between the Ways and the mortal realm, but he was a creature of two worlds. When the angel separated from him just enough to reach out and grab the spirit blade out of its physical host, he could still faintly see the gold and green glow. It was pretty, but gave him a headache, like crossing his eyes for too long.

In the Ways, the angel looked more closely at the spectral saber. "I wonder if he knew about our weapons before he made his."

"Maybe," Caine said. "Mary might have told him." Breathing was getting easier as his lungs and heart repaired themselves. The pain was dulled by the Angel's presence and getting better by the moment, but now it was starting to itch. That was something nobody ever mentioned about magical healing. Itchy lungs were a special kind of agony.

"I wish you'd just ask her for them back," the Angel tisked.

"She's not gonna do me any favors now," he said before coughing up a scratchy lump of something and spitting it on the ground. "B'sides, the whole kit is still trackable. That's why I gave it all to her. Ain't no one better at hiding from the church."

"I'm just pointing out that fighting angry necromancers was a lot easier before you gave all our tools to the queen of all witches," his partner said flatly. Nobody could condescend like an angel.

Caine leaned against the wall to catch his breath and slowly slid the saber into its sheath. It took him two tries. "We have this now. It'll do."

"True. It's even flaming," the Angel chuckled inside his head. "It's the wrong color, but beggars can't be choosers. I have missed the feel of a proper sword in my hands."

Caine's shoulder left a long smear of blood on the wallpaper as he forced himself to trudge towards the door again. He took a deeper breath and coughed. His lungs still itched, and there was still fluid in them, but he was pretty sure the holes in them were sealed.

"Stop that, you'll tear them," the Angel said. "I'll let you know when they're ready."

"How you holding up?" Caine asked.

"Not well," the Angel admitted. "I'm very glad you were able to convince Alexandra to let us drink from the font earlier. That reservoir is all used up now. Now I'm afraid I'm more drained than I was before. I should be able to get you back to mostly healthy, but after that you'll be healing the hard way for a while. Consider not getting stabbed so frequently."

He let out a painful laugh. "No promises."

_________________________

Bella rolled onto her back and exhaled. "This is not easy."

Next to her, Quinn had his green hand on Jack's sternum and his forehead pressed against her temple. They looked like they were sleeping, and Jack was having a bad dream.

"I'm going to give them a bit of time on their own," Bella said. "She was trying to reject me earlier. She wouldn't even let me close enough to see her, and it was destabilizing the entire ritual."

"Agreed earlier, she," Friday said. "Did she lie?'

"No," Bella said. "Like I said, she just has trouble letting herself believe she can have what she wants."

"Which this ritual depends on," Friday finished. Bella nodded.

"How can I help?" Friday asked.

"Just put your hand over ours after I go back in," Bella said. "If I've done this right, she'll think you're Will. A lot is going to hinge on whether she believes Will is going to reject her, so just reassure her."

Friday tilted her head. "My grandfather would love this, which usually means it is profoundly unethical."

Bella sighed. "I don't know any other way to break the enchantment before it changes her forever."

Friday nodded. "Think you, that William will be angry with me?'

"For impersonating him inside Jack's head?," Bella raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," Friday pushed.

"It's just a fantasy," Bella shrugged. "It's an illusion inside another illusion. I'm not sure it could get more not-real."

"It is a fantasy we are trying to make Jacqueline believe," Friday countered. "If this works, will Jaqueline not have expectations of William."

"I don't think so," Bella said. "This ritual isn't supposed to make her believe anything after it's over. It's just supposed to make her believe while it's happening. If it works, she'll wake up and know it wasn't real, just like any dream, but the enchantment will be gone."

"Ah," Friday said with a grin. "The way you explained the ritual, did not know it was onieromancy, I."

"I don't even know what that means,' Bella laughed.

Friday tilted her head. "So skilled at what you do. Makes it easy to forget you are a hedge witch."

"What? No, I'm a terrible herbalist. I can't even grow weeds," Bella admitted.

Friday laughed. "Hedge Witch is what my people call a spell worker who is largely self taught," Friday explained.

"Oh," Bella said, trying not to feel judged. A pang of heartache flowed through her, but she pushed it out of her mind. Now wasn't the time. "Yeah, my lessons were... interrupted."

"Come very far in spite of such a setback, you. Would love to hear about that later, I," Friday said with a friendly smile. "Might be, could fill in some gaps, I."

"I don't get many opportunities to discuss the craft. I'd like that," Bella said with a nod. "Ready to go in?"

Friday scootched a bit closer. The two witches ended up needing to spoon to be able to stack their painted hands over each other. Bella wiggled a bit, enjoying the soft warmth of Friday's breasts on her back.

Friday giggled. "Need to focus, you. No distractions."

"It isn't my fault you're distracting!" Bella protested.

Friday kissed her softly behind the ear, causing a shiver to run down Bella's spine. "Thought I, that turning these sorts of distractions into magic was your specialty. Only doing what I'm told, I."

"Yes you are," Bella breathed. The feel of Friday's body and her breath on Bella's neck created a new bloom of warmth between her legs.

With a practiced redirection of her will, that energy drained into the runic pattern to join what Friday's blood-sacrifice had already provided. It wasn't a large addition, but every bit helped. The energy tried to ground itself. The ward kept it contained. It tried to change into other, more stable energies. Light. Sound. Heat. The runic circle inside the ward forced the energy to remain in flux, full of endless potential. The focusing runes on their bodies were a path of least resistance.Through them, the energy had something to turn into. The spell Bella and Friday had built was a set of instructions that diverted a natural energy, reduced it the raw formless stuff of creation, and gave it somewhere else to go. From a singular purpose, to infinite, and back to singular.

Bella entwined her fingers with Friday's and together they reached for Quinn's hand. The world faded.

______________________________

"Mistress," Quinn's voice echoed from somewhere in the darkness.

Jack's heart clenched for a moment, then relaxed. Quinn would accept this. He always accepted her.

She opened her eyes. "Quinn."

"Mistress, what is this?" he asked. "I cannot see. I feel... ropes."

"It's... what I want," Jack said. "It feels good."

"How so?" Quinn asked.

"They keep me from falling," Jack explained. "They keep me safe. They keep other people safe from me."

"Do they keep you prisoner?" Quinn asked.

"It's what I deserve," Jack said sadly.

"Then I will join you," Quinn said. "Will you show me?"

"No," the velvet voice said. "He should not be here."

"I should be where my mistress is," Quinn countered.

"Your mistress serves me now," the voice said in a soothing tone. "She no longer wants the responsibility. I am the mistress now."

"No," Quinn said fiercely. "You are a lie."

"Let him go," the voice urged.

A tear ran down Jack's face. "She's right. You shouldn't have to be the enabler of my mistakes, Quinn."

"That you think so is how I know your heart," Quinn said gently. "You have never felt entitled to me."

"Because I don't deserve you," Jack shook her head.

"Let him go," the soft voice purred.

"She cannot," Quinn said. "We are bound."

"I could..." Jack said. "I only need to ask, right? You would be free of me."

"Please," Quinn said, stroking her face lightly. "I do not want to go back. I would miss you. I would not be here to protect you. I would be alone, until my next master, and they would not, could not, deserve me as much as you."

"I don't want to lose you," Jack whispered.

"Nor I you," Quinn said. "Let me cut you free."

"No," Jack said. "I won't send you away, but I am still better off like this. Everyone is better of with me like this. Even you."

"Then I will stay," Quinn said.

She felt Quinn touching her head. His voice had gotten closer as they spoke, but his caress still startled her. She kissed his hand and suddenly she could see him. It was as though he'd taken a blindfold off of her, or maybe she'd just opened her eyes. He had a small, sad smile on his face. They were floating in a foggy void that faded to impenetrable darkness. Slowly the blackness and fog pulled back. She saw the ropes first. She knew they were there. She felt them. She'd helped tie them, but it was the first time she could remember seeing them. The long translucent silk strands branched out all around her. They tied and wrapped around her, supporting her torso and holding her limbs spread, suspending her far above the floor.

She was in the Red Door tavern. Shae's parlor. From where she hung between the two grand staircases, she could see that everything was slightly askew. Mist clung to the edges of the room and flowed in from the open door. People moved through the room, but they were indistinct. She could make out no faces. The noise of the carousers seemed muted, like it was under water. The only person she could clearly see was Quinn.

A velvet hand traced down the back of her neck. "This place isn't for him," her mistress cooed gently.

"He won't leave me," Jack said. "And I will not send him away."

Below, Quinn began to climb. She didn't understand how he was below her now. He'd been in front of her a moment ago. When had she moved? Something felt... wrong.

"Why do you want him to be punished with you?" the voice asked.

"That is not what I said," Jack shook her head.

"I cannot give you what you need with him here. It would be unkind to make him watch. He will never understand," her mistress said sadly.

"I know," Jack said. She felt like she was being pulled apart.

"So why not let him go?" the voice asked. "You could. You said so. Say the words."

Jack nodded and swallowed. She was right. "Quinn, I... I w-"

Quinn put a finger against her lips. He was so fast. One moment he'd been near the ground, the next he was clinging to the ropes she was bound in, pressing his body against her.

"I cannot obey, Mistress," he said sadly. "No matter what you say. Not while you are bound this way."

Jack pulled her face back from his finger and shook her head. "I don't want to trap you here!"

"I am already trapped here. I became trapped the moment you did. If you want me gone, you'll have to come down first. Anything you say while you are not free, I will disregard," Quinn said. "If you come down and send me away, I will listen.Then, if you choose, you can climb back into this web and remain as long as you like."

"Could I?" Jack asked the voice behind her.

"No." There was an edge of venom in the throaty whisper.

Jack hung her head. "I need this."

"Who are you talking to?" Quinn asked.

"My..." Jack furrowed her brow. "I forgot. You weren't there. You've not met her."

"I would like to," Quinn said.

Jack nodded, and turned her head as far as she could. Where her gaze went, the darkness peeled back revealing thick white fog. Without the dark, the fog settled, flowing downward and away, revealing more of the room.

Jack was suspended in front of a second story balcony full of old finery. Brik-a-brak. Things that had once held value, but had been poorly cared for, or deliberately damaged. Every chair, every painting, every cup and curtain, all husks of what they'd once been. In the center of it all sat a woman.

She was dressed in resplendent white, smiling larger than life. She held a goblet of glass and gold in her hand. It had a long crack down one side, and dark red wine seeped from it, staining her white-gloved hands red. Her long legs were crossed, and her eyes were cold and black. She sat in a huge throne of black chains, wrapped through with iridescent webbing that looked like woven threads of crystal.

The throne sat on the back of a massive black spider.

The darkened parlor made it indistinct. It seemed made of the shadows it blended into. Its huge bloated abdomen rose behind the throne, setting the woman and her chair against a circle of darkness. The spider's legs stretched and vanished in the dark, only to reemerge elsewhere at impossible angles. Every leg had far too many joints. They worked tirelessly, pulling thick gossamer thread from beneath its bloated body, connecting it to more and more threads. It barely moved, but its legs were everywhere, slowly widening its web, working to cover the faded paintings and old furniture. Next to its glistening fangs, its red-tipped mandibles rubbed together and stroked the threads in front of it, pulling them to tighten and adjust every time Jack moved. Somehow as it worked, the mandibles mirrored the woman's bright red lips. It was impossible to tell if the sensual voice came from the woman, or the spider.

Quinn did not often feel fear. He was ageless. Very difficult to hurt. Skilled, quick, strong, and possessed of a singular purpose given to his kind by the gods themselves. He had seen the rise of humanity, and all the horrors it had wrought, and long since accepted what they truly were.

Still, in spite of all he'd seen, sometimes humanity still surprised him. Their capacity to invent new ways to make each other suffer seemed boundless.

A cold rage welled up behind his dread. He reached over his shoulder, but his swords were not there. He looked down at himself. He wore only his sarong. This place made no sense. He ignored the questions of why he was dressed that way, and took one of the robes of webbing in his hands. With a savage twist, he snapped it.

He and Jack lurched and swayed as the web lost a bit of integrity. Jack cried out as the threads binding her tightened unexpectedly. "Quinn, no!" she begged.