Wolf's-own: Koan (14 page)

Bloody hell, she sounded just like Imara. And had just as much faith in him.

"And hating himself is exactly the thing you can't understand,” Malick grated, because he was
this close
to decking her, and it was getting harder and harder for him to remember why he hadn't killed her yet. “He was already blaming himself for Caidi. Now he thinks he's been handed proof. For Caidi
and
his mother, and Yori, while he's at it. That's what you'll never understand, Shig, because you don't have that in you, you don't hate yourself enough that you could make yourself believe Yori was your fault, and you also don't have the new burden of knowing you might be halfway right.” He leaned in close and dropped his voice. “You
really
want to tell me that it's a good idea to tell Fen he's right? You want me to tell him that he wanted his vengeance so badly that he accidentally sacrificed Caidi for it, when he didn't even know it was a trade to begin with? Because no matter how I say it, that's how he's going to hear it."

Shig looked away. “He's not stupid.” She turned back to Malick. “If you tell him—"

"I already told him none of it was his fault, and do you know what he heard? That he could have prevented what happened. He can't hear that Fate made the decision for him, he can't hear that Caidi was the other end of the Balance that Fate demanded in exchange for the Jin. He can't hear that he couldn't have known to look for the snare in the bargain he didn't even know he was making.” Malick didn't avert his gaze or soften his voice, because Shig needed to understand this, and she wasn't listening to logic. “Would you have traded Yori?” He blocked the punch easily, then took hold of Shig's arm and yanked her in close. He shook her clenched fist between them. “
There
,” he said, through his teeth, and he clapped his larger hand over her smaller one. “Now take this and put a knife in it.” He jabbed a finger at her breastbone. “Take this and add in your father and the man you love telling you that you're nothing your whole life, that you have nothing to give them that they might want and that what you are repulses them. Add in self-hate, and getting set up for failure, and the Ancestors screaming at you for—"

"All
right
!” Shig jerked her hand away. Malick let her. “All right.” Not happy, but not ready to kill him anymore, either. “You're wrong, Mal, but I can't make you see it. And I can't fight with you anymore.” She shrugged wearily then shook her head. “I'll keep an eye on Joori and Morin. But if someone ends up having to explain to them why their brother put a knife through his own eye, it's not going to be me."

Malick didn't let himself flinch. If he did, this argument would never be over. And he really needed for it to be over.

"It's not going to be anyone, because it's not going to happen,” was all he was willing to say.

Shig was quiet for a moment, staring down at her fingers, fiddling with the fringes on the tunic that Malick was pretty sure used to be Yori's. “How is he?” she asked quietly.

People had been asking Malick that question a lot lately. Fen hadn't emerged from their room or let anyone in but Malick since the other night. Malick had managed a little hope this afternoon when Fen actually got dressed and made vague noises about joining them for tea, but he'd never shown up. They were all starting to worry.

"He'll be all right. We'll all be all right. You have to trust me, love—I know what I'm doing, all right?” Malick gripped Shig's shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. “I wouldn't take chances. Not with this. Not with any of you."

Well....

No, all right, not even with Joori. Fen would kill him.

Shig bobbed a heavy nod and pushed out a long sigh. “Yeah,” she said and peered up at Malick out the corner of her eye. “Yeah, fine. Just... you have to make sure he comes back, is all.” She snorted; a dry, somewhat sad thing. “And you should probably watch your own back too. It'd kinda suck if he killed you now."

And just like that, they were all right again.

Malick gave Shig a smirk, and then, because he couldn't help himself and he adored her, he swooped her into a hug, said, “It'll work out, I promise,” into her hair and then he set her down. He kept the smile until he was out her door and through his own. Until he looked automatically at the bed, and found Fen still there, right where Malick had left him after allowing himself to be dragged into another bout of
fuck-me-until-I-can't-think-anymore
when he'd come back from arguing with Joori. Malick had obliged. Malick always obliged. He couldn't help himself.

It's your job, Kamen. By all means, you should do it.

Malick strangled the growl.

"H'llo, love,” he said. He wasn't expecting an answer, and he didn't get one. Fen actually scowled at him, though, met his eyes, so Malick took it as progress.

He didn't exactly ignore Fen as he made his preparations for tonight's business; he just tried not to feel the intensity of the stare. Fen was silent still, closed off, only acknowledging Malick enough to glare at him once in a while. He hadn't come to tea or supper, but he'd apparently eaten, at least; the bowl Malick had left on the cupboard beside the bed was empty. Definitely progress. Now, with a wary look at Malick as Malick started pulling on his mail vest and digging out his leathers, Fen limped from the sheets long enough to wash and sneer at his own reflection in the brass plate above the press for a while.

The scars seemed to fascinate him these days, like he'd never noticed them before. Malick had himself a good look, too, but likely for different reasons than Fen was looking. All that bare skin—Malick kind of had to look, he couldn't help it. Heavy, silver-white bands on thigh and upper-arm, and streaks of puckered rose and almost-pearl on back and chest. The lumpy twist of muscle and missing muscle on the back of Fen's calf that left him with what was looking to be a permanent limp as legacy; the twisted divots on his forearm—both acquired from a pack of maijin pretending at wolf. As always, Malick's gaze found and caught on the scar set just beneath Fen's breastbone, the one Malick had given him. The one Fen had given himself when he'd gotten in the way of Malick's sword. Saved his soul.

Still redder and fresher than all the others. Still looking like it might open up again if given the wrong jostle. Still just as raw as Fen was.

Fen had himself a good, long look, plainly not seeing the beauty of it all like Malick was, the tale of endurance and unwilling survival it told. Fen merely sneered again then limped back and burrowed back into bed. Clearly intent on staying there for a while longer.

Malick couldn't help the frown, the ripple of disappointment that stuttered in his chest at the closed-off demeanor and the continued hush. But once he dragged his weapons out of the chest and carelessly flicked the key to the bed, he noticed something else creeping beneath the silence. He just wasn't sure what it was yet. Fen merely cut the key a glance and then pointedly pretended he hadn't.

Give him a target. That was the intention, anyway. And if Malick worked this situation just right, however tonight ended, he'd have a better measure of Fen's equilibrium than Fen did. Which wasn't exactly a new thing, but at least this time it would be useful.

"
Banpair
,” Malick explained, though Fen hadn't asked, “are....” He paused. He'd almost said “vermin” but it wasn't exactly true. “They're godless maijin. Xari was... you remember Xari, right?” Malick waited for Fen to nod, as much to see if Fen would as to check to see if he actually did remember. Malick still didn't know how much of his surroundings Fen had been taking in back then, between the time Subie had eaten itself and the moment he'd more or less come back to himself in the middle of the ocean on the way to Tambalon.

Fen did nod; Malick tried not to grin smugly. If Fen was still

in his
I-don't-want-to-think-about-it-and-you-can't-make-me
mindset, Malick would've gotten nothing more than a blank stare, or a
fuck-me-now
look, and he wasn't up to forcing another subject just yet. Fen could be damned immovable sometimes, and right now, he was just too... brittle.

"Xari was
banpair
. She'd lost the favor of her god when she....” Malick trailed off again, and covered the pause by pretending his sword belt was giving him trouble. This might get sticky. Then again, it might not. You just never knew with Fen these days. Malick cut a quick look to where Fen lay on his side on the bed, his head propped up on his hand, watching Malick with... it looked like grudging interest. Malick was pretty sure it was interest. It was grudging something, anyway. “Xari had seen that Asai would betray Skel. She'd read it in Skel's cards. She didn't know how, and she didn't guess about the amulets. She did try to stop him, or at least she says so, but she kept the knowledge from Dragon. I can't say if Dragon would have done anything about it, but she did not appreciate the oversight."

Malick was watching Fen closely, not even trying to pretend he wasn't. Fen would know anyway. He seemed to be used to it.

Fen was silent for a long moment, just watching Malick fiddle with the belt's buckle until Malick finally gave it up for too obvious and slipped it home. Malick had looped the garrote around his forearm and pulled his sleeve over it before Fen finally ventured, “So, these
banpair
—they've all done something to piss off their gods. They've been stripped of their powers, and you're meant to hunt them?” He paused, peering down at his fingers on the linens for a long moment before lifting a hooded gaze back up to Malick. “Don't you ever get tired of doing Wolf's wet work for him?"

Words. Actual
words
. Put together into cohesive sentences. Thank all the gods. Malick was so pleased that he completely ignored the inherent insult.

"It's a purpose, Fen."

And we both know you've been flailing around, waiting to figure out your own. You've got one now. All you have to do is choose what you want to do with it.

Easier said than done, but then that could be said for everything about Fen. He had far more needs than wants. Mostly because he didn't dare to admit that he wanted at all. The man had made denial an actual art form. Drunks and poppy addicts the world over could build monuments to Fen's capacity for self-delusion.

A faint smile ticced at the corner of Malick's mouth as he made a show of looking for his boot knife. Actual conversation with Fen was a thing to savor—at least the ones where Fen was a willing participant—and the fact that Fen was participating
now
, after everything.... Malick was beginning to think he might be able to nudge this one where he needed it to go, without actually pushing this time. He didn't want to get dressed too quickly and make the fact that they were verging on an actual dialogue too obvious, or Fen might shut down again.

"Anyway, they're not really stripped of their powers,” Malick said, rooting around through the clutter on top of the press, where he knew bloody well the knife wasn't. “They're not defenseless, so don't look at me like it's not a fair fight or something. Stripped of their god's blessing, which means they can't get power from their god. They can, however, sort of absorb it from the energies around them."

He stopped there, busying himself with his pseudo-search, and waiting. It could end here, which would mean Malick had said the wrong thing somewhere back there and Fen was retreating again, or Fen would ask another question, and Malick could acknowledge another tiny step forward. With any luck, Malick would have a better idea about Fen's state of mind by the end of this... was it a conversation? Maybe not yet. Malick liked to think it might get there, though. Because this was an opportunity he couldn't let slip past, and he'd told Shig only bald truth about his intentions—putting Fen into a position where he had to fight to survive should very handily answer the question as to whether or not he
would
. And better to do it while Malick would be there, watching.

Tell him what you must, give him what you must....

Yeah. Fuck you, Imara.

"Meaning?” Fen finally asked.

Malick very nearly didn't control the sigh. Fen was interested. Fen was participating. Fen was instigating. Which should be a good thing. Except that it made Malick feel like complete and utter shit. And yet he was still doing it, wasn't he?

He really hated being a minion sometimes.

If you'd like to maintain your hold on him....

Have I said “fuck you"?

"Meaning,” Malick said, “that they sort of live off of the passions of others.” He gave up pretending to look for the knife. With a shrug, he turned to face Fen and leaned back into the cupboard. “Mostly mortals,” he went on, “because mortals actually have passion. And the strongest are those that are the baser emotions. Anger, hatred, fear, and so on. You've got love, of course, which is also fairly strong, but it's one of those things that flares very brightly at the beginning and then settles down to a slow, steady flame. Well, if it lasts."

"And the others don't?"

Bloody damn, Fen looked so good like that, tangled in messy linens with the lamplight scudding over the angles of his face, the dark, wispy growth on chin and upper-lip accentuating the sharpness of his features. Wrinkled sheets with those pretty bare feet poking out the ends, chiseled bare chest with its intriguing map of scars, and dark silky hair slightly mussed, the perpetual raggedy fringe only obscuring the prickly gray gaze enough to make it look sexy and not contrived. And that voice. Malick would never say so, because the circumstances that had wrought it had been... rather terrible, but Fen's rough-raspy voice really did things for him.
Really
did things for him. It kind of made up for the missing braid. Which he also wouldn't say out loud.

Malick cleared his throat. “Others?"

"The other passions."

"Oh."

Right. There'd been a kind-of-conversation going on a few seconds ago. Sort of funny that Malick was the one who'd lost the thread this time and not Fen.

"For the most part, no, not when you think about it. Anger, sure, when it's over something one can't necessarily fix right away.” Damn. He probably shouldn't have started with that one. Fen, after all, would know all about that, and Malick didn't necessarily want to remind him. He decided to skip right over hatred. “Fear is the easiest, though, which is where the problem comes in. Because it's the easiest emotion to create, y'see."