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The Talisman
The Talisman Read online
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Torquere Press
www.torquerepress.com
Copyright ©2005 by Willa Okati
First published in torquerepress.com, 2007
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Sometimes Roman curls up in the corner of the bedroom closet and weeps. Cries til his eyes burn from the salt. He bunches his hands into fists until nails puncture skin, leaving ragged half-moons. Pounds his thighs until they bruise and pulls at his hair. Like the wailing women used to do, hired mourners, only his pain's real, see? And it's good. Distracts him. Gives him something else to focus on.
Besides Christopher, his lover.
He only ever allows himself this indulgence once in a very great while. When his friend Sarah is over, because he knows she won't say anything. She'll understand. Or his young niece, Aurora. They're strong enough, those two, to keep the tears for their own private times in the arms of those they love. Never when Christopher's best friend and Sarah's lover Marie might see. She's too likely to set off in her own fit of despair, or into a black and futile rage against this thing they can't fight nor pummel nor kill.
But it's just Sarah come by to visit tonight, and he's in his hidey-hole right now, crouched low to the ground. Rocking on the balls of his bare feet, arms wrapped around his chest. Must look a right mess, but he doesn't care. He's had his cry out.
Been almost an hour, he thinks. Longest one yet. Then again, he needed it more. And he can't cry ‘round Christopher, can't upset him so much as that.
Have to take care of him. He needs it now. Now that he can't care for himself.
That's—almost—what hurts Roman most.
The worst is the fear that he'll lose his lover altogether, and no, no, hell if he'll start thinking like that because he hasn't yet and he won't now. Angry, he dashes the backs of his hands against his eyes. Enough of this soppy bawling! Get up, act like a man and go. Take. Care. Of. Fucking. Business.
That lasts about to the closet door, where he notices his hands are shaking on the knob. Stop it! he snaps at himself. Shoves the offending digits inside his pockets as he saunters out. See? Not a care in the world. Casual as he can be, except...
Oh, bloody hell, Marie's gone and stopped by while he was in there. Heard him, most like; her own eyes are puffy and swollen. Sarah's sitting by her on the couch, rubbing small circles on her back. Roman follows that motion greedily, remembering when it was his Christopher's hard palm working that little dance up and down his spine till he purred like a kitten.
He doesn't really greet them, just nods, and they nod back. They've been here too much to make a deal of it now. Still, if both are in here ... “Christopher?” he asks quietly, tilting his head toward the master bedroom door. It's been left open just a tiny crack.
"Sleeping,” Sarah replies, voice hushed. “Or just quiet."
Roman rubs his hand across his face. “I know. S'hard to tell. How long?"
"Fifteen minutes?” Sarah glances at the clock. “Maybe twenty."
He won't be out much longer, if he really is dozing. “I'll see to him, then. You birds better fly away home—be dark soon."
Sarah offers him a tiny look that speaks gentle volumes. She knows what he really wants, to be alone with Christopher, but she's so kind she doesn't say anything about it, just gives Marie's leg a gentle squeeze. “Come on, sweetie. He's right."
"His fever's down,” Marie offers with a watery smile. “I checked myself. A whole degree less than it was yesterday."
Roman knows that makes no nevermind, not when the bloody thing's so high to begin with, but then again it's something. He'll take what he can get.
"It could be that new tea we made. He did drink it, didn't he? Oh! Maybe we're on to something!” Marie clutches at him in her excitement. Makes her feel that much better to play Doctor and Patient, so he lets her do it. “Sarah, maybe if we increase the volume of—or if we let it steep longer—or even added—"
"We'll try all of those out, sweetie.” Sarah kisses Marie's cheek. “But we need to go now, okay?"
Marie sniffles. “Okay.” Tremulous, she works her way to her feet and holds her arms out to Roman. Startles the hell out of him until he realizes she means to hug him. Fuck. He doesn't want her thin little girl-arms circling him round. He wants the long, strong ones he'd gotten used to. That he loves.
But Sarah's giving him that “she means well” look over Marie's head, so reluctantly Roman steps forward into the embrace. Thanks be to all that's holy, she keeps it short, just a squeeze and a brief rest of her cheek on his chest. Damp cheek; aching chest.
Sarah doesn't try to hold him, just runs one hand down his arm and briefly squeezes his hand. “Aurora should be by in the morning, before school,” she says quietly. “She wants to bring Christopher some fresh coffee from the Java Jump. And one of those new pumpkin muffins they have."
"You sayin’ I can't make coffee to Christopher's liking?"
There's that wicked twinkle he likes to see, a-gleaming in her eye for one brief second. “You're saying that's coffee you make?"
"Evil little wench.” He says it with love and knows she can read between his lines. Read him easy as a book, and always could. Hadn't it been her what pushed him and Christopher together in the first place? Two men alone, needing to be needed, needing to need someone ... bloody well bashed their foreheads together and told them to just duke it out or start with the kissing already because the rest of them were fucking sick of the insult war.
Such language from little Sarah had brought them all up short, and they stared at each other, caught up in shock, and locked eyes, brown to blue, for one long moment. Roman had suddenly seen the lost little child behind a blossoming bully's stare, and he thinks Christopher saw the bit of artist behind his own swagger...
He shakes himself. Too many memories—most of them good—but God, he's got no time for that now. Priority right now's getting the birds out of there and heading in to Christopher before he wakes and panics to find himself alone.
So he's heading for the door, planning to show them out all proper-like if they'll just leave, when Sarah stops him. She glances at the mantel over the fireplace, littered with keys and coins and other bits of trash ... plus, in the center, a small, tarnished bronze coin. “Roman, I know you don't—I mean, you've said—but...” She nibbles at her lip. “I really think we should try again, with the Talisman."
Fuck that! He doesn't even think on it before blurting hard and fast: “No."
Marie has to chime in then, so bleeding earnest and sincere that he grinds his teeth: “Roman, it's so important. We need to try some spells on it. See if this is really—"
"I said no, and I bloody well meant no!” Roman snaps at the pair. “What if he were to come in here and find it missing? You know what he's like when he's up and about. When he's in here. He looks for the damn thing every time I help him to the loo. If he sees it's gone, he'll snap. You want that?"
"No.” Cool gray eyes pin him in place. “But if that's what's making him sick, Roman, it needs to be gone. Even if he does get upset."
Roman shakes his head. “No. Mention it again and I'll shake you until you rattle, I'll piss in those damned awful teas you cook up—probably make them taste better—I'll drag you out by your hair and not let you in again, do you get me?” He points at the Talisman, not daring to touch it. “It makes him happier. It stays. Understand me?"
r /> "Roman, what if it's killing him?"
"And what if it's all that's keeping him alive?” Roman's irrational now, on fire with his anger. They'll not muck about, taking chances with his boy's life. And he hears—thinks he can hear—little stirrings, shiftings under the warm woolly blanket that Christopher favors. His boy's waking up, and him stuck out here with this lot! “Off with you, then.” He jerks the door open and holds it stiff-armed, waiting. “Out!"
So they go, Sarah giving him a backwards, helpless glance. He feels the slightest twinge of remorse—he knows she only means to help—but he can't take the chance, he can't.
Hating himself for doubting, even for a second, he kicks the door shut, heedless of noise, and turns to stare hatefully at the bit of glowing, glowering bronze. He wants to pick it up. Take a hammer to it. Grind it to powder underfoot. But he can't. Because of Christopher. If Christopher—
Damned fool that he is, was, is.
That night...
Strolling through the park, hand in hand against a slight autumn chill in the air, kicking up dead leaves like little kids. Sneaking behind the odd tree or two to steal quick, sweet kisses from one another, like popping chocolates in your mouth at the candy store. Flickers of tongue against lips, just enough to tease, promise that there'd be more and better waiting when they got home safe. That they'd get home safe, for each other's sake.
Only Marie gets into trouble with a bully-boy, and who's she calling for but Roman? Needs him to pick her up on his bike, and Christopher says go—so he goes, cell phone at the ready just in case. Leaves his boy lingering behind, sitting on a memorial plaque to Edna Robinson, 1902—1943, watching him in encouragement.
Roman's often wondered what happened.
Maybe Christopher looks down and sees something sparkle in the grass. Not thinking, just curious as a magpie, reaches down to swoop it up and take a closer look. Feels that first wave of dizziness rushing over him. Looses the choked shout.
Sparkles lighting up the night sky behind his eyelids. Losing his balance on the tombstone. Falling. Maybe hitting his head on the way down, maybe not, they don't know. Still with that damned coin clutched in his hand. They couldn't pry it loose, he held it so tight.
He only heard them calling for him after he'd gotten Marie home, and by then it was too late.
He remembers the taste of that last kiss before he followed Marie. Beery, from the drink they'd shared earlier, traces of sugar from the candy bar he'd been nibbling at, and that taste that belonged to only Christopher. And passion, that has a taste all its own, though none he can put a name to. Half-hard in his jeans, he'd thrust ever so lightly against the boy's groin. Promises to be kept.
Now instead there were tears, and hasty circles scratched in the dirt for incantations to Gaia. Bint must've been out on other business that night, because she surely didn't answer the witches’ call. Then cell phones and ambulances, and paramedics who gave Roman strange looks because of how white his skin seemed in the harsh light of the emergency wagon. He felt cold as ice and looked it, shocky with what had happened, and they wanted to give him blankets and all that rot. He shrugged them away. Wanted them to care for Christopher, not him.
And then doctors, all shaking their heads in wonder. Checking Christopher's airway on account of his raspy, laboring breathing and finding nothing to block it. Stuffing god-awful plastic tubes down into his lungs anyway. Taping electrodes on, measuring this and that and deciding no, not a heart attack, at least. Neither could it be a stroke, not by what they see on the brain scan they get by rolling him into what looks for all the world like a spinning casket while Roman's made to wait outside.
And no one manages to make him let go of that coin.
Fibromyalgia? they ask. Is he prone to panic attacks? Does he have any history of epilepsy, of seizures, did he hit his head?
And ah, there's the answer they wanted, that's what it can be pawned off as. Head trauma. Synapses misfiring. His body reacting. Should be all right in a day or so. Doesn't have insurance? Just a construction worker? That's a shame, but on reconsideration it's not necessary for him to stay the night. Take him home, make sure he's comfortable and gets some good rest. Bring him back in a couple of days if he doesn't come around.
It's the closest Roman has ever gotten to tearing out someone's throat with his bare hands.
They do take him away from there. Roman shoos them all out of the tiny curtained space and strips off that awful, thin-as-tissue hospital gown with the daft ties that make no sense. Resists running his hands over those quivering limbs—not yet, not just yet. The others are waiting. Tenderly as he might a child, dressing his lover in a set of fresh clothes that Aurora brought over (the others are wet, both muddy and bloody from his fall).
Back to the apartment, as much his home now as Christopher's. Weary beyond words and knowing there's a long fight ahead. No medical reason equals some supernatural cause, unless those damn fool doctors were right and this is just one of those things that happen, but that isn't so because Roman won't let it be so.
And there's the coin that they can't pry loose from his fingers. Peeking a bit, they can see some markings on it, bits of runes embossed around the edges. Magic, then. Has to be.
There's some as want to take him to the coven's headquarters, where all the supplies live, but Roman's set so hard against it they can't convince him otherwise. He wants to be with Christopher and back in his own territory both, where he can fight against the terror rattling his bones because his beloved still isn't waking up, isn't opening his eyes to the light nor to his own face.
Marie's all for doing a healing spell then and there, but Sarah's smarter than that; she insists they've got to research it first. She knows what's really needed right now, and she ushers them all out and away before Roman can say boo. She understands.
Knows Roman's got to touch his lover all over, make his own examination. Make his own peace with the way things are changed somehow.
And he does, he goes over every inch of Christopher, that body he knows so well—the long, lean legs, narrowed flanks, trembling forearms and strong, wide hands. Takes that face between his own palms and kisses it, from forehead to chin, chaste little kisses with his eyes closed tight in worry and fear. Whispering: “Wake up, you dozy sod. I'll kill you for scaring us like this. D'you hear me, Christopher? Wake the fuck up! Hell, sweetheart, come on, open your eyes for Roman..."
He shuts his own eyes now, rocking back on his heels in the misery of the memory. Remembering how they'd finally dislodged the coin with tongs and how Christopher's eyes opened. The fit he threw, worse than a madwoman in an hysterical rage, until he was shown that the thing was safe, see? Protected on the mantelpiece. Guarded roundabout by his wallet and a gum wrapper. Out of his hands, but not going anywhere—and it satisfied him. He settled down, fixing uncanny dark eyes on the coin, and said not a word.
He's not spoken since that night. When his eyes open, sometimes he can see what's going on about him. He follows whoever happens to be about around his room, tracks them walking to and fro. Smiles at them, even laughed once when Aurora brought him homemade triple-fudge brownies with “get well” written on top in shaky icing letters.
Other times, he stares into the distance. Gone somewhere they can't follow. And they can never tell where he'll be, when he wakes, if he sleeps.
Not so plump to begin with, he's growing thinner by the day. He'll only eat when he's lucid and begs off sooner and sooner from each meal every time. Only Roman, and on a rare occasion Aurora, can coax a bite between those pale lips. Aurora tries with sweets, Roman has better luck with soups and pudding. Between them, they see to it he swallows his water or juice, even if they've literally got to pour it down his throat.
As he gets thinner, he's getting weaker, too. Those handsome hands don't lift without quavering like an old man's, and he's not been out of bed on his own in a week, maybe more. It takes an arm that Roman arranges around his own shoulders, a lift out of the bed, and carry
ing more than walking with him just to reach the loo.
Every time they pass by the mantelpiece, Christopher's eyes go dark or briefly darker, and Roman would swear that sometimes he can hear the nasty little Talisman hum, that he can see it glow faintly in the dim. That it sends out a small, unique chill putting him off down to the very marrow. But not enough to prove it. Not even to himself.
He won't believe that Christopher's dying. That the coin's not getting larger, millimeter by millimeter, by the day. It's a trick of the light. His imagination. Not a sorcerer's trap.
But enough time for that later. Right now he can definitely hear it—his boy's waking up, and he has to be there. If there's no familiar face about, Christopher will get frightened. Or maybe Roman will. Doesn't matter. He moves toward the bedroom, hurrying his steps, and swings the door open careful-like just as Christopher's eyes open.
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"Hello, love,” he says softly. “You know me?"
Christopher's lips turn up in a sweet smile, and he nods. Roman tries not to sag in relief, ‘cause this means it's really him in there just now. He got lucky. “Feeling any better?” he asks, moving toward the bed.
There's thought to consider that, then another pretty grin. “Much better, I take it.” Roman keeps his voice light, but in truth he couldn't be more delighted. He's not seen Christopher this much himself in ages. He gestures at the bed. Sometimes he minds ... “Care if I have a sit-down, do you?"
Shake of the head. Christopher lifts one arm and beckons him closer.
Well, that doesn't deserve to be ignored, so instead of sitting at his feet, Roman makes a slow, cautious dive for his side of the bed and snuggles underneath the open arm, glorying in Christopher's warmth. Not heat—hell, that fever's gone down more than a degree; he feels nearly normal. He'd had barely a sip of the witches’ vile tea. Did it truly work?
Balls to it. He'll think on that later. Right now, he's got the weight of Christopher's arm draped around his shoulders and that rising chest next to his own, and all he cares about is that he's safe again, cuddled close as can be in the arms of the man he loves.