Free Story: Different Spheres

Hey darlins!

I put this out on FB, but figured I'd connect you all here as well. One of my early publications with "the publisher who shall not be named" is being re-released as a giveaway. It's contemporary, it's silver foxes, it's got a chronic illness, so take care if that isn't something you care to read. It's sweet, and it's for you.

Different Spheres

Gil Donaldson returned to his hometown of Boulder, Colorado, after a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis cut short his teaching career on the East Coast. Waking one morning to find that his vision has gone blurry, which makes driving himself to the hospital out of the question, Gil solicits the help of his reclusive neighbor, Warren Masters, to take him to the ER.

The two men become friends as Gil’s recovers from his latest relapse, and while Gil recognizes he’s attracted to the other man, he refuses to act on it. Gil doesn’t like relying on anyone else for his emotional or physical health, and he’s used to being alone, or at least that’s what he tells himself. Warren is a man of few words, but he’s there whenever Gil needs him, and he has only one request for them to be together. 

The Tank: Chapter Fourteen, Part Two

Notes: This chapter has it all! Confrontations between old nemeses, unfortunate revelations that could tear our hero apart, and--social isolation! So pertinent ;)

Title: The Tank: Chapter Fourteen, Part Two

***

Chapter Fourteen, Part Two

Dr. Wictoryn whirled around before Anton could say anything, one hand going to her hip. There was no weapon there at the moment, but that it was an automatic reflex told Anton that she was used to carrying a pistol. He took a moment to be grateful that she was unarmed. “You! What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice gone shrill with tension. “This is a private treatment area! Get out immediately!”

Montgomery began to laugh. “Is that what you tell other people? Private ‘treatment,’ my dear doctor, oh, what fun you must have at confession. I daresay that cardinal of yours gives you light enough penances, considering his inclinations. He wasn’t nearly so gentle with me when he tried to take my confession, but…” He shrugged. “Perhaps that’s because I have nothing to confess.”

Anton finally managed to propel himself forward. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?” he breathed, staring at his former acquaintance and nemesis with growing discomfort. “I thought you fled for one of the Baltic states.”

“I did, and well done you for being so up to date on the politics of rebellion,” Montgomery said, his grin a bit too sharp. Apart from needing a shave and having noticeably longer hair, he looked…well. There were no signs of abuse, or starvation. He was pale, but he was healthy. “I didn’t expect to be hunted down by an imperial wolf of unusual tenacity,” he went on. “The more fool me, I suppose. I should have spelled more of my guns.”

“Mr. Seiber, I must insist that you leave at once,” the doctor hissed. “It is entirely inappropriate for you to be down here right now.”

I’ll never get this chance again if I leave. Anton wasn’t even sure what kind of chance it was that he had, but he wasn’t going to give it up now. There was too much riding on getting an answer, and with the spell from the palimpsest up for grabs, he had to get an answer. “If you want me to leave, you will have to drag me,” he said flatly. “For now, I will stay and speak with Gerald.”

“I never thought I’d hear my name again from that sweet mouth of yours,” Montgomery said, his tone mocking but his eyes oddly intense. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“You should have stayed to make sure.”

Dr. Wictoryn looked between the two of them and cursed, then rushed past Anton out the door. Anton watched her go, then looked back to find Montgomery tapping the collar around his neck. “She doesn’t have to worry about me fleeing, or attacking you,” he said. “This keeps me from acting on my more pressing desires. Any hint of aggression and my reflexes go as slow as honey running uphill. It’s a brilliant bit of spellwork.”

It was, but Anton wasn’t interested in dissecting it right now. “Of the two of us, I’m more amazed that you’re alive,” he said, not bothering to soften the delivery. He loathed Gerald Montgomery, loathed him with a passion, but he was betting that the other man was more interested in talking right now than he was at taking offense. After all, he’d been down here for…it could have been months. Nearly a year, even. “How have you wrangled a continuance?”

“Would you believe it’s the benefit of my personality, my charm, my joie de vivre?” Montgomery asked, batting his eyelashes like a coquette. “I’m always the life of every party, Seiber.”

“And right now it’s a party of one,” Anton pointed out.

“On the contrary, you’re here! And I find myself desperate for news of you, so before you attempt to lambast me into answering your questions, let me make you a deal. It shall be an eye for an eye between us, a cut for a cut. One of yours answered for every one of mine.”

“You must be truly desperate for news if you’re coming to me for it,” Anton said, his heartrate quickening despite his reservations.

“Oh, I am indeed,” Montgomery murmured. “What do you say?”

They might have only minutes. They might have less than that. “Fine. How did they find you?”

“A devilishly clever man hunted me down and refused to take a bullet for an answer. How did you survive the fall from the tower?”

That was scarcely an answer from Gerald, but Anton would circle back. “I never fell in the first place. Did you work out the spell on the palimpsest?”

“I wouldn’t be alive if I hadn’t. How did you not fall?”

“I was rescued by a friend,” Anton replied, gathering his nerve. “Why can’t the thaumaturges of the Institute use the spell?”

Montgomery grinned. “Because it comes with a rather fiendish failsafe. How did you come to be here?”

“I came with Doctor Grable.”

“Ah, so the old man has returned.” Montgomery stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I thought they might bring him here to take his try. These fellows are brilliant at managing their spells, but they lack the cruel edge you really want in an interrogator. Grable might manage things better.”

“What is he meant to manage?” Anton shook his head. “I mean, what is the failsafe?”

Montgomery laughed. “Two questions, and I should answer neither of them since you’re breaking the rules, but this is the first fun I’ve had in ages, Seiber, so I’ll give you both of them. He’s meant to manage me, of course. I’ve been sabotaged, and not even I can tell exactly how, but damned if my keepers will believe that. And the failsafe? It’s brilliant, absolutely brilliant.” He bared his teeth again, but it wasn’t a grin this time. He was furious, it was written in every line of his body. “That targeting spell should have made my fortune. Instead, it ruined me. Casting the spell creates more than just a bullet that never misses its target, Seiber. It stitches a geas into the caster themselves. I could perform it a thousand times and never feel the effects, but to pass the spell itself on? It won’t allow it. Trying to do so damaged my mind.” He clenched his hands into fists. “I can’t cast a single spell anymore, I can’t even read them without becoming nauseous. I’ve lost my ability to be a thaumaturge, do you understand? It stripped me of everything.”

Oh God. No wonder Hrym couldn’t look at the whole spell—even if they had all the components, it would be too risky to his genius. They must have tried to get Montgomery to give it up, gotten the bit Anton had seen on Hrym’s wall, and then…it was gone.

“Gone,” Montgomery murmured, as though he’d read Anton’s mind. “All of it, gone. I’m useless now, a simpleton, normal like all the rest of those fools. Did you know this would happen to me, Seiber?” He stood up, taller than Anton by a good margin. “Did you know what that palimpsest would do to me? Because the only thing that’s given me a lick of decent sleep ever since I was captured was the thought of your pretty face smashed to bits against the cobblestones of the university, and yet here you are…whole.” His glare was so intense, Anton practically felt the flames it yearned to conjure on him.

“Do you know it?” he continued. “The spell? I hope so, Seiber, I dearly hope so. I would like nothing more than for them to try and pry it out of your head next, and for you to end up down here with me. Just the two of us, alone.” His hands clenched again. “I can’t leap at you, I can’t even walk up to you, but I bet I could crawl. Slow as honey, but I could do it, and one night when you’re asleep, I’ll crawl up beside you and bury your face in a pillow and hold it down with all my might until—”

“That’s enough from you,” a familiar voice said. Anton exhaled unsteadily—he hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath until Camille broke the spell that Montgomery’s voice wove around him.

“Ah!” Montgomery’s face brightened with murderous mischief again. “And here is my oh-so-clever wolf! Fresh from hunting new prey, I suppose?”

Anton turned slowly to face Camille, but the lumière wasn’t looking at him. “Still alive, I see,” he said calmly.

“Despite your admonishments, I’ve no doubt.” Montgomery leered. “Is little Seiber yours, then? A fine choice—he’s so soft, yet so staunch. Did you save him from the end I tried to give him?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wonder a while longer.” He finally met Anton’s eyes. “We need to go. Immediately.” Doctor Wictoryn and two guards stood back by the door, the doctor staring daggers at Anton.

“No,” Anton said, surprising himself. “No, I want you to explain this, him.”

“Not right now.” Anton opened his mouth to protest, but Camille cut him off. “Your friend, Lady Cuthbert, has just been caught stealing privileged information from Lord Atwood’s laboratory. She’s under arrest.”

Ready, Set, Pandemic.

Hey darlins,

This is an odd and unscheduled post, because life is changing rapidly right now and I don't think any of us know exactly how to respond, or what's going to happen in the coming days. Covid19 does have a presence in my state (it has a presence in all the fucking states, but Colorado is slightly better about testing than some others) and we're currently in an unprecedented state of emergency. I don't know what this is going to mean for us right now or in the near future, but for starters and just in case you're wondering--I'm fine, my kidlet is fine, my husband is fine. I have family coming back after two weeks in Europe today who will be self-isolating in their home, and more close family cutting plans to travel in order to increase their safety. My husband starts working from home next week, so there's that, too.

If you live in a place affected by this virus right now, my thoughts are with you. I'm not a praying woman, but I wish all the best for you and your loved ones, and hope you have the capacity to keep yourselves safe.

If you're American, please consider this as a wake-up call when it comes to the state of our union. Formal response to diagnosing, tracking, and curtailing this illness by our government has been offensively bad. A lack of paid sick leave for workers will only exacerbate it for everyone. Consider calling, emailing, texting etc. your political representatives to let them know how you feel about this, because how awful that it might take a life-changing event like this to make them see past their own self-interest. Yet, here we are. Please take every chance to be safe, and to keep your community safe. We're literally all in this together.

I plan to continue posting and business as usual online as best I can. I love you guys. Be well, darlins.

Cari

The Tank: Chapter Fourteen, Part One

Notes: If this chapter had a different title, it might be something like "new enemies and old friends." Hint enough for you? ;)

Title: The Tank: Chapter Fourteen, Part One

***

Chapter Fourteen, Part One

 

Anton was, quite frankly, expecting to confront something of a fuss when he emerged onto the lawn where the tanks were firing from. The new viscount had given every indication of being on the verge of attack if he didn’t get the tanks immediately, and Lord Jourdain hadn’t looked like he was in the mood to suffer being threatened. Would there be fighting amongst the guests and the guards, screaming matches over jurisdiction, threats of future violence promised if conditions weren’t immediately met?

Instead, Anton stepped out beneath a rainbow-colored sky and wondered if, between this and Hrym’s strangely beautiful laboratory, he’d somehow walked into a dream. The tanks were firing, but whatever it was they were shooting wasn’t shells. How could it be, he chided himself as he slowly crossed the lawn to stand beside Dr. Grable’s chair. He didn’t see Camille, or Caroline, oddly enough—but then she never cared much for loud noises, and this was about as loud as it could get without being in the middle of a genuine firefight. Dr. Wictoryn was also there, standing behind the wheelchair with her arms crossed, looking highly displeased.

“This display is hardly conducive to healing,” she shouted to Dr. Grable over the noise. “I must insist you return to the infirmary at once!”

“I will be damned to the far corner of hell before I enter that whitewashed prison again!” he shouted back, clearly enjoying himself.

“It has sound-dampening glyphs on it, you won’t hear a thing there!”

“Exactly!”

“You ignorant, foolhardy, reckless son of a—”

“I’ll bring him back inside as soon as possible,” Anton said, stepping in before the good doctor lost her voice screaming at his mentor. “It’s quite important that we witness this, however.”

“Oh, is it?” she said scathingly. “More important than delivering his pain medication on time in a safe and sterile environment?”

 “I’m afraid it is. We’ll come along as soon as possible, though.”

She looked at him long and hard, then turned on her heel and stalked off, presumably to the nice, quiet infirmary where Anton would rather be himself, frankly.

“Well done, man,” Dr. Grable congratulated him. “You’ve a way of getting people to bend to your will that I simply don’t understand.”

“It’s called courtesy,” Anton replied. Dr. Grable pretended not to hear him.

“What do you think of all this?” he asked, pitching his voice low enough that it wouldn’t be heard by the other onlookers, not that that would be hard with all the noise. Cardinal Proulx and Monsieur Deschamps were both present, part of the larger group of the Viscount’s entourage and Lord Jourdain and his assistants. The tanks rolled back and forth on the grass twenty yards distant, pausing to adjust their guns and fire every twenty seconds or so, then rolling a bit farther before repeating the feat. For only three tanks, the cacophony was impressively regularly spaced.

“What are they firing?” Anton asked.

“Dummy rounds filled with flammable salts and colorful chalks. Basically nothing more than big fireworks, lad. It’s an interesting play on Jourdain’s part.”

Anton didn’t see it. “How so?”

“It’s a display both of strength and of weakness. Strength because it validates what the tanks should be able to do, which is fling big projectiles long distances with accuracy. Weakness because those projectiles haven’t actually been developed yet.”

Wait a minute. “I thought they were just modified cannons.”

“Heavily modified. Solid shot won’t work, not if the tank wants to be able to maintain its momentum over any sort of challenging terrain—it’s just too heavy, and the engines aren’t good enough to get over that challenge yet. All the new ones being built will do better, but even there, the shells have to be custom. It hasn’t been a priority for the Institute.” Dr. Grable’s smile held a hint of satisfaction. “And I believe I see why, now.”

“Do you think Lord Jourdain saw this coming?”

“If not this, then something like it.” Dr. Grable settled back into his chair, completely unbothered by the booms overhead. It probably didn’t really compare to the clamor of war, but it was beginning to get to Anton—he flinched every time another blast went off. “Humanity is always looking for an edge in conflict. These tanks are an excellent start, but until they’re ready to be put into the emperor’s service, with trained troops to operate them and loyal commanders to lead those troops, they’re almost as much of a danger as they could be a benefit. Delay makes many things possible.”

Right now, delay was giving Anton a headache. “Have you seen enough?” he asked.

“I’ve seen plenty, but I have to stay, for the sake of putting on a show of my own.” Dr. Grable looked at Anton, probably reading entire volumes from the paleness of his face and the pinch of his mouth. “Why don’t you go see if you can wrangle that pain potion out of Dr. Wictoryn for me? It comes in liquid form, so you could bring it out like you were carrying an innocent cup of tea.”

“You want me to fetch you tea.”

“With a biscuit on the side, if you please.”

It wasn’t quite a dignified request, but another crack went off and Anton decided he’d rather lose some dignity than his composure, not to mention his hearing. He walked back into the Institute and headed straight for the infirmary. When he got there, though, there was no one in the main room. He checked the doctor’s office—also empty.

There was, however, an open door to the right of her desk that led directly into a set of wide, dimly lit stairs. Anton stepped up to it, acutely aware that he was trespassing but just as disturbed by what he saw. If the clinic was muted with sound-deadening glyphs, then whatever was down that staircase had to be louder than the Devil himself, if the number of glyphs painted across the interior of the door were anything to go by. Equations for diminishing strong scents were there as well, glyphs that pulsed with magical suffusion. What the hell was down there?

Another crack trickled in through the open infirmary door, and Anton, slowly filling up with dread, began to step down the stairs. He’d only ever seen glyphs like those once before, on a tour of the Tower of London when he was a boy. It wasn’t used as a prison these days, of course, but the keepers of the place maintained all the old magic for the sake of history, and Anton vividly remembered the glyphs on each of the tower’s interior doors: for silence, for deadening scent, for dimming the mind, for diminishing hunger. It was magic that turned prisoners into thoughtless, desireless bodies, only people because they were still drawing breath.

Anton reached the bottom of the stairs, where the miniscule natural light gave way to a freshly-lit row of torches. He followed them down a short, stone-walled hall, then cautiously poked his head around the corner at the end of it, toward where the voices were. What he saw was both anticlimactic and devastating at the same time.

Dr. Wictoryn was tending to a man sitting on a bed. He had a collar around his neck, unattached to anything, but Anton could tell there was magic in it. He looked comfortable enough—the room was clean, he was fully clothed, and there was a rough toilet in one corner and a stand covered in books beside the bed. As prisons went, it was quite nice. That was not the surprise.

The surprise—and it shouldn’t have been, Anton felt that to his bones—was that the man being tended to was Gerard Montgomery, lately of the University of Zurich, who had tried and almost succeeded in murdering Anton a year ago.

It was an even greater surprise when he looked up, saw Anton, and grinned with caustic recognition. “Look what the maelstrom has dragged to the bottom of the sea with us, good doctor! Seiber, old chap, get in here.”

Oh, hell and damnation.

The Tank: Chapter Thirteen, Part Two

Notes: Yay, posting on time today! New discoveries, old--friends?--and irresponsible use of tanks.

Title: The Tank: Chapter Thirteen, Part Two

***

Chapter Thirteen, Part Two

It was as good as any time to visit with Hrym again. There were levels of political maneuvering going on that Anton had no need or desire to be a part of, and he still had a job to do for Dr. Grable. Let Lord Jourdain and Camille handle unstable, shouty aristocrats—they had literally been born for the work. Anton, however, felt more now than ever that he was unsuited to a life in the vast public eye. He didn’t have the instincts for it—he never automatically assumed the worst about someone, and because of that he continually failed to see when they were being their worst. He’d done it over and over again, especially at school, and been burned anew every time.

He didn’t want a sinecure, like so many of his fellows had, or a place in Parliament or at court, just…an honest job where he could use his talents to make the world a slightly better place. That seemed like the most he could hope for at this point, and perhaps was more than he had a right to expect given the company he kept. Imperial bastards, genteel ladies who were also spies…

To Anton’s surprise, he saw Hrym coming out of the small chapel that sat between the engineering and thaumaturgical wings before he even got to his laboratory. Fortuitous. “Hrym,” Anton called out, and the young, stoop-shouldered man obediently stopped and waited for him to catch up. “Thank you. Was there a morning service?” he asked as they fell into step together.

“Oh no, not today,” Hrym said. “Cardinal Proulx always cancels services when someone with a title comes here. It gives the rest of us a chance to…” His voice trailed off for a moment.

“Keep to yourselves?” Anton suggested delicately. He could see why the people in charge of this place wouldn’t want their staff to be seen by many members of the aristocracy—this was meant to be a sanctuary for their castoffs, after all.

“I was going to say hide,” Hrym replied, all bluntness but with a tiny smile on his wide, pale face. “But I had not been to confession in over a week, so he made time for me today.”

“That was kind of him,” Anton said. Cardinal Proulx seemed like a man who paid close attention to the needs of his flock, tiny though it might be here.

“He’s kinder than most,” Hrym agreed. They walked down the long hall of the thaumaturgical building, the board on one side still touched with Caroline’s own handwriting, then stopped outside of Hrym’s laboratory.

“I’d be pleased to wait, if you care to—” Anton began, but Hrym cut him off.

“You can come in, if you would like to.” He blushed slightly. “Lord Atwood says I should work at being more outgoing, and it was a good excuse to finish up some of my simpler experiments and make room on my tables. You’ll be perfectly all right, as long as you don’t touch anything. If you do, though, you shall get quite a shock.”

Well, he was kinder than most to be warning Anton in advance. “Thank you,” Anton said, and Hrym blushed further. “Please, lead the way.” Hrym unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped inside. Anton followed, and—

It was as if he’d stepped into an underwater cave. Anton had seen bioluminescence before, on a trip with his parents to Norfolk. It hadn’t lasted long, just a brief, bright blue glow along the edge of the water where it hit the beach, but Anton had been mesmerized. He’d asked his father if there were thaumaturges nearby who put on the show, and ended up getting a lesson in biology. This room was filled with a similar sense of light pouring out of the darkness. There were sconces, here and there, but no internal windows, and every thaumaturgical symbol in the place glowed blue. Anton turned to Hrym, speechless.

“I make my own chalks,” Hrym said. “And blue is my favorite color. I find it soothing.”

And so you made it glow. Anton didn’t know why he was surprised. “May I…” He indicated the room. “Look around?”

“Oh, yes. Yes.” Hrym pointed to a two-meter table along the wall closest to the door. “I’ve got some symbology to balance over here, but yes, please look.”

It was like being invited to take anything he wanted from the candy store as a child. Anton made his way through the room, careful where he was stepping—it was still quite cluttered, every flat surface and some vertical ones covered with experiments or notations, but that was fascinating in its own way. He recognized all the basic symbols, and some of the spells were familiar as well, but others were completely novel. One in particular, in the far corner of the room, worried at his brain the moment he set eyes on it. That circular pattern, the way the symbol for fire seemed to twist again and again and—

Anton’s lungs seemed to freeze. He didn’t breathe as he leaned in closer, stretching his trembling fingertips out toward the symbols even though he knew it would be foolish to touch them, he’d been warned, but how could it…where had they…who…

“Hrym,” he finally managed to croak. “Where did you get this spell from?”

“That one?” Hrym looked over. “Oh no, don’t look at that, it isn’t finished. Lord Atwood would like me to focus on it more, but I don’t really like it.” He sounded a bit wistful. “He used to bring me new pieces of it almost every day, but he hasn’t given me anything else for weeks now, and I have so many other, better spells to be working on.” He pointed at the one at the table in front of him. “This one magnifies sound. I think I might be able to make it split rock, eventually.”

Of course you could. But Anton was far from done with his interrogation. “Do you know what this spell is meant to do?” Anton pressed.

“It’s clear enough from the symbols, isn’t it? It will create a weapon that never misses its target.” Hrym looked back down at his table. “It seems like a good idea. Isn’t it better to succeed with only one shot?”

Anton reflexively touched the middle of his chest, where another man had taken a bullet intended for him once. It depends entirely on what you’re shooting at, and who’s taking the shot. Where had he gotten this? Had someone recovered the palimpsest from Montgomery? Was it being translated? Or was Montgomery…here?

Anton rounded toward Hrym again, determined to get to the bottom of this, but then the thundering echo of a cannon’s blast reverberated through the building. Anton nearly grabbed a table to stabilize himself. “What the hell is that?” he demanded.

“Oh.” Hrym didn’t look bothered at all. “It’s nothing. Just the tanks firing.”

Just the… Anton headed for the door. He could question Hrym more later—right now he had to be sure that the damn building wasn’t about to come down around their heads.