Chapter Twenty #2
On the small living room table in front of them, snacks filched from the pantry appeared where they’d not been before. Easy manifestations. Less so, the handful of bottles and glasses that appeared with them. Bushmills whiskey among them. A favorite wake drink of his mad lads, long dead.
It still ached, some.
“You come with perks, Murderpunk. Not just a hot piece of ass.” Careful teasing, offered with a hesitant smile.
“It can’t all be portents and clandestine meetings.”
Declan wasted no time in pouring whiskey into a set of mismatched cups.
Supposedly it was a sipping sort, but Declan had never been in a situation where there was the chance or inclination to take his time.
This, passing it to a grieving companion, then clutching his own close, was what lived in his memories.
“You wanna hear about him?” Antonio asked. He lifted his glass toward Declan’s. “Can’t go to the funeral. Too many old friends.”
“It wouldn’t be a proper wake without a story or two,” Declan replied, gently clinking their cups together. “I’d like that.”
They drank. Declan closed his eyes, just for a moment, with the slow, smooth slide over his tongue, and a familiar, comfortable heat no fae spirits could hope to recreate.
Thirty seconds left.
“I stole his car,” Antonio smiled as he said it.
“This souped-up Camaro. Cherry red. Beautiful fucking beast. Sounded like a damned dragon when he raced her. Purred like a kitten if you treated her right. Fuck, he loved that car. Nearly killed me for taking her out. But I hadn’t put a scratch on his baby, so we got drunk instead. ”
Antonio closed his eyes, head tipped back. Still that faint curl of his lips. “I was seventeen. Reece was, I don’t know, twenty? Turned out, he knew a lot more about boosting cars than I did.”
Stealing cars and racing, drunk over a joyride in a red classic. A story that failed to falter into silent stillness. Nothing cut off or stuttered, Antonio not gone rigid as he witnessed again.
It had been more than ten minutes.
Sluaghs tracked time. They knew the space between visions, once triggered. And Declan, who doubted so many things about himself, knew better than to second guess that.
“Did he race often?”
Antonio pulled him in a little tighter, tapping an irregular beat against his arm. It felt good, just sitting like this. Perhaps it shouldn’t, but it did.
“Some. His girl had the engine, but he didn’t have the head for it.
Jumpy’s not good for racing. Takes a cold bastard to win.
” Antonio let out a quiet sigh and hooked his foot around Declan’s ankle.
“He told me once he was gonna move out to the desert. Somewhere he could just go. Didn’t like being fenced in.
Same as me. Same reasons. Guess he’ll never get to it. ”
That swell of grief again. Of loss. Mourning instead of the tidal pull of a vision.
Declan hugged Antonio around the waist, swallowing hard. Seventeen. Nearly half Antonio’s life. Only a handful of years after his abandonment. Voids.
“It’s always the interesting ones that want to go to the desert and drive,” Declan said, cheek to Antonio’s chest. “You’ll never hear a boring person talk about it.”
“Interesting’s one way to put it, yeah.” Such fondness there.
Twelve minutes and nothing. Impossible. Stupid to hope, but Antonio was a Hollow. Magic acted strangely around them.
Declan licked his lips, forcing himself to not be a bloody coward. To speak up. It was either ask or risk that twisting, bracing tension snapping between them. Antonio thrummed with the same apprehension as Declan.
“I… at the risk of insensitivity, Antonio, have you seen it again? The vision.”
“Nah. Trust me, I wouldn’t be talking through that.”
Declan frowned, tapping the top of the bottle with his thumbnail.
Bonds were subject to the multiple visions if not far enough away from the sluagh. Deathsight would happen when drunk or high. Sleep was no escape, either. The visions came until the death was done or the sluagh left. Always.
“It ought to have,” Declan said, his words slow. “At least once. Perhaps more. Never longer than ten minutes.” A beat, and he twisted the bottle open, ignoring the tremble of his fingers. “Will you pour? I need another drink.”
He’d been bracing for it. They both had. Waiting for Antonio to go rigid and silent, pulled back to that desolate room and Reese with his needle.
It was unbalancing, bracing for a blow that refused to land. Deathsight affected everyone. Only sluagh saw the death but once. That was how they worked.
“I don’t know fae shit,” Antonio said, the glass still full in his hand as Declan drained his. “Is he not gonna…”
“He is,” Declan replied, as gently as he could. Curled closer to Antonio when the human sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth. “I’m sorry. Sluagh only see them once, and they’re still set. Perhaps it’s like glamour. Or Faerie’s unresponsiveness. Limitations on how you respond to magic.”
“Unmapped road,” Antonio said, voice distant and thoughtful. “It’ll happen again or it won’t, and then we’ll know something new. Be nice to get something out of being Hollow for a change.” He turned, pressing a kiss to Declan’s hair. “‘Course, I get to see you. Can’t argue with that.”
They lapsed into silence, the quiet of grief mingled with anticipatory dread. Declan counted the minutes, until he didn’t. Until he dared to let himself hope.
And Antonio, he didn’t let go.
Declan enjoyed being wrapped in iron exactly as much as he had the last time he’d tried it.
The metal burned the back of Declan’s eyes and teeth before he’d even clipped the seatbelt in place. By the time the door closed and the car started, the pressure had built to a steady pounding horrible, and Declan without the alcohol in his system he usually did when in an automobile.
Six in the morning was a little early to imbibe, and they were to meet with Antonio’s parole officer at noon. Not the best time to have liquor on his breath.
Declan had his head tipped back against the seat, eyes slitted to watch the scenery pass. Talking helped, some. Keeping his eyes open, even more so, save for when the burn built to the point he needed to blink.
“Why silver?” Declan asked once they were well and truly on the road. “I’m curious to see which of my guesses is correct.”
“As close to iron as you can get and not look like shit,” Antonio answered with a shrug.
Declan laughed, strained. “Got it in one.”
“She was baby blue when I got her. Classic, but not really my style.” Antonio said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You tell me if you want a break, alright?”
“It’s just a headache. Besides, I’m enjoying the scenery.” Declan smirked, his slow once over of Antonio pointed.
“Calloway said iron made him feel like his skull was full of angry wasps.” Antonio countered, meeting Declan’s smirk with the faintest tilt of his lips. “I mean it. We’re not in a rush. We could still…”
“I want to be here.”
They’d been bickering on and off about it for most the previous day.
Well, after Antonio recovered from his hangover.
Declan wanted to ride shotgun, be with Antonio at the garage, and see the road through his eyes.
Antonio needed to be at the garage but wanted to stay where Declan was.
Hated the idea–that’s how he put it, hated it–of Declan suffering.
He’d been halfway to blowing off his parole officer before Declan finally talked him down.
“Yeah, I want you here, too.”
“Distractions help. Tell me about your girl.” Declan stroked his fingers over the dashboard, tapping himself. It felt so odd, being glamoured in Antonio’s presence. “Does she have a name?”
“Babydoll,” Antonio replied. He managed to keep a straight face for a second, then started to snicker. “Nah. I’m not a car namer. Mara takes it personally. I tell her that when she’s old enough to drive, we’ll fix something up together and she can call it whatever she likes.”
Declan hummed his understanding. Antonio, taking that as a cue, kept talking. He’d had his nameless beauty for four years and his shop for just as long. It kept his hands busy. He hated jeeps the way Declan did liquid eyeliner.
When the words ran out, his fingers found a faster rhythm on the steering wheel. Usually, silences were comfortable between them. Now, worry built, louder for the absence of words.
“Would you be open to seeing what happens if I explore our bond?” Declan asked, eyes closed again. Having them open no longer helped. Ants bloody everywhere again. “The sum of our parts, so to speak.”
“You’re not making sense, Murderpunk. Please tell me the sum of our parts isn’t some euphemism for getting Faerie involved.”
Declan snickered. “Voids, no. More bicarb soda and distilled vinegar. Mix them, and you suddenly have a fizzy mess everywhere. It would be useful to know what happens if I draw on you.”
“Can’t fuel a car with water,” Antonio said after a moment. “But we can try if you want. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
“Just be your usual charming self,” Declan answered. Grinned, with Antonio’s snort in reply. “If you feel anything off, tell me.”
Declan opened an eye just long enough to wink and caught the tail end of Antonio’s quick grin.
Focus.
He focused. Breathed. Reached for their bond as he might for Faerie. Tracked the edges of his magic, death and rot comfortable in their familiarity, followed the thread of their emotions where their bond thrummed bright and the vastness of Antonio began.
No pool of magic laid in wait. But the threads of Declan’s soul weren’t frayed. He wasn’t cut off. Something in Antonio needed to exist in order to repel, there in the bright expanse of seemingly empty space.
Declan sank into that place as he had for all of their other connections. Settled into the part of them that felt like nothingness.
White space followed by white noise. Then: nothing.