The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (16 page)

Ailyssa forced her hand onto a place where she expected to find the rough fabric of a farmer’s breeches. Instead, her hand touched his bare thigh covered with a mat of thick hair. When he’d rounded the bed to sit beside her, he’d removed his clothes without her realizing. She jerked her hand away from his naked flesh, but he caught her by the wrist and returned her touch to his leg.

“That’s right,” he murmured, and she had the impression he didn’t truly mean the comment for her.

She fought against his insistence as he shifted her hand up his thigh, but his superior strength won out. The coarse fuzz grew thicker the higher he moved her touch until her fingernails caught in a forest of tangled hair.

“Yes,” he breathed.

He moved her farther, her fingertips brushing his erect manhood. She jerked her hand open, stretching away and flattening her palm. The man said nothing, but grasped her fingers with his free hands, wrapped them around his shaft. Thick, short, and hard. The tangle of hair crawled up much of its length, dissipating before reaching the end.

Ailyssa gasped. Her hands had never touched a man in this manner. During coupling ceremonies, the man put his thing where it needed to be and nowhere else.

“Oh,” the man groaned, moving her hand along his organ’s meager shaft.

The lump in Ailyssa’s throat grew larger, choking her with panic and threatening tears. She gasped shuddering breaths as the man worked her grip for her, stroking, caressing.

He let go and his hand found its way to her leg, under her smock. His fingers crawled up the inside of her thigh and she squirmed away, but he pushed her over onto the bed. In an instant, he’d climbed on top of her, his hardness pressing against her hip.

“I gave up a good goat for you,” the man whispered too loudly into her ear. “You best be doing what you’re supposed to.”

He reached down with one hand, his fingers collecting the skirt of her smock, pulling it up. Ailyssa threw her free hand up over her head, reaching desperately for the bell on a side table she had no idea where to find.

XV Horace - Britches

Horace woke gradually, a dream’s remnants clingin’ ‘round the edges—more a nightmare, really. He’d been dreamin’ he were captain o’ a ship sailin’ away from the coast, leavin’ the shore behind. Only it weren’t his boat, but one what he’d stolen from the Water Kingdom. Instruments he’d never seen crowded the rails by the big wheel, all o’ them made o’ steel with scales inscribed on them in unrecognizable characters. Peerin’ at them confused him, but he quickly forgot his bewilderment because he knew his ol’ friend, the God o’ the Deep, were lurkin’ somewhere below the hull o’ the stolen ship.

When his eyes opened facin’ toward the darkened sky, the nausea o’ seasickness he experienced in the dream the way he did in real life followed him into wakin’.

Fuck me dead. Can’t get away from the sea no matter how hard I try.

He let his lids slide closed, thinkin’ he’d aim for findin’ himself more shut-eye what didn’t involve water and waves and creakin’ boards—and gods what shit hard-workin’ sailors out on the shore. Near gettin’ his wish, a gentle rustlin’ made him open them up again. He peered at Thorn’s face hangin’ over him and did a startled jump, not rememberin’ he were keepin’ company with a gray man what came from the Green. When his heart’s frantic pumpin’ slowed, he resumed breathin’.

“Fuck me dead. You threw a scare into me.”

Thorn responded by raisin’ a finger, tellin’ Horace to hush. The ol’ sailor pressed his lips together, afraid if he didn’t, words might slip out. His eyes darted, but he saw nothin’. He didn’t hear any sounds, neither, except the wind blowin’ through the tree branches and his pulse poundin’ in his ears.

He squirmed under Thorn’s touch as the gray man looked away into the distance, an expression o’ intense listenin’ sittin’ on his brow. His skin had returned to the same gray it’d been before he healed himself. Horace presumed this its proper, healthy color, though it’d’ve looked akin to death on any other man he knew. But this Thorn feller weren’t a man, were he?

“What do you hear?” Horace asked, hissin’ the words between his teeth.

Thorn blinked at him, a smile crinklin’ up the corners o’ his mouth and shinin’ in his eyes.

“Breeches,” he said.

Horace had barely enough time to raise a questionin’ brow before the little gray feller took off into the woods. The ol’ sailor pushed himself up on creakin’ elbows and rubbed the sleep from his face with one hand, the specter o’ his nightmarish dream hangin’ o’er him the way too much ale drunk the night before has a habit o’ doin’.

After climbin’ to his feet and wipin’ dirt and rottin’ pine needles from the arse o’ his britches—still on the damp side after a washin’ in a convenient stream—he watched after Thorn, tryin’ to see where he were goin’. Turned out easier’n expected as he’d stopped a few paces into the trees, waitin’ not so patiently for Horace to drag himself after him.

“Come on,” Thorn said, voice filled with excitement and arm wavin’ Horace to follow.

“All right, all right,” Horace grumbled and set out after him.

Crickets continued sawin’ out their songs in the dark, but Horace caught a glimpse o’ the horizon through the branches and leaves tellin’ him sunrise weren’t so far off. An owl sittin’ on a branch somewhere high above his head hoo-hooed, but the ol’ sailor paid it no attention. Thorn’d gotten on the move again and he didn’t want to lose him amongst the trees and undergrowth.

“He hears breeches,” Horace mumbled under his breath, his eyes watchin’ the ground for roots and creepers what might want to snag his foot. “Prob’bly I broke wind in my sleep, is all. Likely reeked o’ pig leg.”

He chuckled to himself, the thought o’ the tasty meat washin’ saliva into his mouth. His belly growled.

Thorn stayed the length o’ ten horses out front o’ Horace, slowin’ sometimes so he’d catch up, stoppin’ others when he got too far ahead. Whenever he stopped to wait, he didn’t really stop; he danced back and forth as though searchin’ for a pair o’ britches for him were the best adventure anyone might think to undertake. Horace didn’t find pickin’ his way through the woods in the dark quite so excitin’.

The horizon had brightened, though not enough to coax a rooster into crowin’—just shy o’ sunrise—when Thorn halted and dropped into a crouch. Horace caught up and mimicked the pose.

“What—” the ol’ sailor began, then cut himself short.

Ahead o’ them, he spied a shack. Moss grew on its wood roof, so thick in places, one might’ve wondered if the moss were meant to be the roof. Shutters covered the windows and no lights shone through behind them. The place were either empty, or its residents didn’t believe in gettin’ themselves outta bed as early as the gray man.

Thorn raised his arm and extended a finger, so Horace obliged by lookin’ where he pointed. Turned out to be a pair o’ breeches hangin’ from a rope strung between two trees.

“Fuck me dead,” Horace murmured, eyes starin’ in disbelief.

He gaped at Thorn and Thorn looked back at him, wide mouth pullin’ up in a smile what, were it talkin’ might’ve said, “See? Told you so.” Luckily, the smile didn’t say anythin’.

The little gray feller jumped up and danced through the brush without so much as stirrin’ a leaf. Horace considered followin’, but didn’t see no way through the tangle o’ leaves and branches without causin’ a ruckus, so he stayed put, content with watchin’ Thorn cross the short clearin’ to the clothes line. He snatched them pants offa the rope, spun ‘round to face Horace, and held the pair o’ britches up by the waist, triumphant and beamin’ as the sun’s leadin’ edge peeked o’er the horizon.

A rooster crowed, just like it and the fiery orb’d got together in advance and planned it that way.

Horace jumped to his feet and waved his arms emphatically, callin’ Thorn back to the forest. With the cock signalin’ the dawn, it wouldn’t be long before whoever were asleep inside the shack got themselves up and ‘bout—and they’d likely be lookin’ to put on their britches.

Thorn looked back o’er his shoulder, his action echoin’ Horace’s thought, then he pranced across the clearin’, headed back toward the ol’ sailor. He picked his way deftly through the brush again and came to a stop beside Horace, the wide, shit-eatin’ grin still plastered across his kisser. His mouth opened to speak—prob’bly to boast, because that’s what Horace’d’ve done were it him—but the former First Man grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him away.

They hadn’t got too far when ol’, rusty hinges signaled the openin’ o’ the shack’s door, but enough trees and bushes separated them from the breeches’ owner that the feller weren’t gonna see them. They hurried away in silence but for the occasional giggle escapin’ Thorn’s lips.

The sun’d climbed a little ways into the sky by the time they stopped, its rays shinin’ through a mix o’ branches and wispy dawn mist. The clearin’ weren’t the same one where they’d spent the night, but it resembled it. Breathin’ heavy, Horace slumped onto a rock bigger’n his head, his legs tired from the jaunt through woods. Luckily, his broken rib weren’t hurtin’ him near as much as before.

Not near as much as before I met a Small God.

Thorn stood in front o’ him holdin’ the britches up by the waist. The wide, long things hid him near completely behind them, startin’ at his head like they did. The frayed hems on the legs brushed the dirt.

“They ain’t gonna fit you too well,” Horace said between labored breaths.

The waistband drooped far enough for Thorn to peek o’er the top at his companion and shrug. Horace raised his brow—a habit he’d never possessed until this curious feller came into his life—as Thorn lowered the pants and stepped into them. The ol’ sailor’d been doin’ his best not to look, but now he had little choice, and he were glad to see no pine needles stuck to the gray man’s trouser snake.

Thorn pulled the breeches up and buttoned them at his waist. Sure enough, they was big enough ‘round his middle Thorn could’ve fit another o’ his Small God friends in with him, and long enough for a second pair o’ legs set end to end with his.

“Told you they wouldn’t fit,” Horace said, shakin’ his head and feelin’ satisfied at bein’ right.

The little feller raised a finger, gesturin’ for Horace to wait, then smiled and closed his eyes. The tendons in his neck went taut, a vein stood out on his forehead. His skin faded to a lighter shade o’ gray and the air became palpable enough to make Horace shiver and glance ‘round to be sure no one were creepin’ up behind him. When he returned his gaze to Thorn, he gasped a surprised breath and nearly took a fall offa his rock.

The pants was shrinkin’. The waist, which Thorn gripped in one fist to keep the britches from fallin’ down, drew in and the legs snaked their way back toward the gray man’s feet. Shocked despite havin’ seen how Thorn healed the hole the branch’d poked in his side, Horace got to his feet. He took two paces toward the spectacle, part o’ him wantin’ to touch the breeches and see if a pulse o’ energy flowed through them, but the other part o’ him were smart enough not to do somethin’ he’d have to be simple as Dunal to’ve done.

A moment later, the britches fit perfect and Thorn opened his peepers. Horace stared, his mouth agape; the gray man spied Horace lookin’ at him and smiled, but this one didn’t glow like the last one—this one sagged wearily.

“How do you—,” Horace began, but Thorn’s knees wavered beneath him and the ol’ sailor jumped forward, catchin’ the gray man by the arm to keep him from hittin’ the ground.

Thorn’s skin were cold and covered in a sheen o’ what Horace would’ve called sweat if his fingers grasped a man’s arm and not that o’ a Small God from outta the Green. The little feller’s eyes slid back closed for an instant and he rested his hand on Horace’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Are you all right?”

Thorn nodded with an effort. “Thorn needs to rest.”

Horace gulped a mouthful o’ spit what carried the now-familiar bitter tang o’ fearfulness, then stepped in closer to put his arm ‘round Thorn’s waist. The gray man draped his over Horace, allowin’ him to help him o’er to the rock seat. The ol’ sailor lowered his unusual companion onto it and moved to take his arm away, but Thorn held on ‘round his neck, refusin’ to let go. Horace cranked his head toward him and their gazes met; fear-tastin’ saliva flooded back into Horace’s mouth.

“He is in good health,” Thorn said.

Horace stared, his face creased up in a frown to hide the fact he were afraid o’ what the gray man might do to him if he wanted. “Who’s in good health? Thorn?”

The little feller shook his head, a portion o’ the gleam returnin’ to his eyes.”

“Rilum,” he said. “Rilum Seaman.”

Horace’s mouth dropped open like the muscles in his jaw had forgot how to keep it closed. Somewhere, rattlin’ ‘round in his head, he figured he should say somethin’ in response, but only one thought occurred to him:

I didn’t tell him ‘bout my son.

“Horace hasn’t heard from Rilum in a long time,” Thorn said.

Horace’s head moved minutely—not enough to deserve the title o’ nod, but Thorn rightly took it as such and continued.

“He is fine. He thinks of you, too.” The gray man looked at him intently; his eyes narrowed, one lid quiverin’, then they opened again. “And he misses his mother.”

A breeze rustled through the trees. Tiny feet scampered in the long grass. A cricket chirruped, a fly buzzed. The world kept makin’ its sounds, carryin’ on like everythin’ were normal, but silence nestled in between Horace and Thorn for a while. The ol’ sailor’s breath were so shallow, it didn’t make a sound slidin’ in and out between his lips.

“What happened to her?” Thorn asked finally, his voice soundin’ loud even though he whispered.

Horace swallowed a lump too big to fit down his throat and started lookin’ at his boots, head shakin’ to let the gray man know it weren’t no topic for discussion. Thorn understood and released his hold on the ol’ sailor. The little feller got to his feet.

“Thorn is sorry for bringing you sadness,” he said.

“It’s all right,” Horace said. He cleared his throat, chokin’ back the urge to tell Thorn everythin’, then stood. “You couldn’t’ve known.”