The Artifact of Foex (33 page)

Fenimore said, “Turn around, boy. Let me see
your sausage and potatoes.”

Chet did so, trembling. Fenimore took Chet’s
dick, stroking before he hit it with the belt. It was painful and
grotesque beyond measure. Chet wanted to protest—this had to be
more than twenty one strikes! Fenimore wasn’t playing fair. Of
course, Fenimore wasn’t
playing
at all. He’d ceased
playing when he started using the Raptus.

At last, Fenimore tired of his game and sat
back down in his seat, taking a sip of his drink. “Very good.
Circle on the spot and let me see my work.”

Chet obeyed, burning with fever and
humiliation. How far would Fenimore go? He couldn’t have Chet
parade up and down the train corridors for everyone to see. Surely
Fen didn’t have
that
much control over the Raptus—did he?
Where on Uos were the Flame? Why weren’t they barging through the
door to catch Fenimore in the act? Unless... unless
they
were already under Fenimore’s control.

No!
Chet thought with a frown.
Fenimore had complained about Journey holding back her verse.
Journey wouldn’t
be
holding back if Fen were in charge.
She was still out of his reach, and Knife probably was, too, but
Chet wasn’t. Chet was squarely in his hands.

As to echo his thoughts, Fenimore glanced at
his watch, the one he’d lifted from Chet’s father’s study back in
Fengfu. “I believe we have time for a little more... enjoyment.
Down on your hands and knees, Chet.”

He obeyed, expecting Fenimore to take him.
Fenimore didn’t move from the plushy bench, instead instructing
Chet to angle himself so his ass faced the door and his face was
almost touching the wall. Fenimore ran his hand along Chet’s naked
back; Chet shivered, shrinking away.

“Ah, ah. No.” Fenimore reached over to slap
him on the ass in the exact spot where he’d been whipped. Chet
whimpered. “You are to remain perfectly still, Chet. Keep your back
flat and available to me. You are nothing but an object. Do you
understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Chet remained still—though his butt muscles
clenched and his dick quivered—as Fenimore spread the newspaper on
his back. It
tickled
. Then he gasped as Fenimore set the
drink glass upon his back. It was freezing cold and wet with
condensation. Chet wanted to do something, but the fog clamped down
upon his mind. He could do nothing but remain perfectly still.
Fenimore had exactly what he wanted: Chet was an object, a
table.

To his shame, he realized his cock was
quivering hard. It was so hard he ached.

Freezing cold wetness tricked upon his back,
and Chet mewled deep in his throat.“Whoops,” Fenimore murmured.
Chet could hear his grin—Fen had poured a dribble of water onto his
back on purpose, hadn’t he?
Asshole
.

Being an object was slow, yet elusively
sexual. He was intensely available this way. Alas, his body wasn’t
nearly as happy as his cock; Chet blushed, embarrassed when his
belly gurgled and he let out gas, his feverish system protesting
the unnatural pose. Fenimore didn’t seem to care. Chet wished he
could scratch his nose. He was hot and sweating, yet he couldn’t
do
anything. Lacking a viable alternative, Chet relaxed
into the role.

What would Rory do if she saw him now? Chet
was supremely glad she wasn’t along on this little journey. If
Fenimore could control her... he shuddered as his mind generated a
plethora of sexual images. His breathing grew ragged as he imagined
her in the same position: being forced to strip, made to act like a
table. What if Fenimore had ordered Chet to fuck her? Chet squirmed
at the fantasy.

“Mmm. I think you’re enjoying yourself a
little too much. I’d best join in, or you’ll be frolicking and
squirting without me.”

Something was jammed into Chet’s ass. The
pressure was fantastic, and he gasped, unable to swear aloud. It
had to be Fenimore’s fingers—at least two of them. Maybe three.
They were wet, and Chet remembered the bottle of lube from Wetshul
had been on the seat beside the Raptus.

“Like that, boy?”

“Y-yes, sir.” It hurt, but that was beside
the point. Chet was an object. The fog insisted as much.

“I’m so glad we’ve come to an
understanding.”

Fenimore set aside his newspaper and the
glass disappeared from Chet’s back. He moved behind Chet, and Chet
braced, waiting. He didn’t wait long. Fenimore grabbed his thighs,
rammed his dick inside. He fucked Chet with the indifferent,
unemotional fervor of a hammer pounding nails. A subject fucking an
object. Chet took it, his eyes watering, guts protesting, whole
body aching. But he took it. Fenimore slowed down and sped up
again, not once but several times. The sound of their silent
fucking filled the cabin. Chet’s dick was full to bursting.

“You’re nothing. Say it, boy.”

“I’m nothing, sir.”

“You’re a hole for me to fuck. Say it.”

“I’m a hole for you to fuck. Sir.”

Pantheon, Chet was hard. He’d never been so
hard; not even while cross dressing, not even with Aureate riding
him like a ceros. He wanted to come yet hated how much he yearned
for it. His cock seemed to love the attention Fenimore was paying
him. Fenimore knew it, too.

“Sit up, boy. Let me look at your knob.”

Chet pushed upright, hands loose at his side
while his body shuddered with Fenimore’s every thrust. His dick was
sticking upright at a forty-five degree angle, dripping with
pre-come. Fenimore gazed at it from over his shoulder, and Chet
could almost feel his smirk. He ceased thrusting, pushing all the
way into Chet’s ass. They were conjoined like animals on the floor
of the train.

“Here,” Fenimore murmured, pulling something
off his wrist.

It was the watch Fen had stolen from Chet’s
father. Fenimore flung it around Chet’s penis as if he were playing
the carnival game involving throwing a ring around a milk bottle.
Chet gasped. It had been warmed by Fenimore’s body heat, but it was
also heavy and metallic. Fenimore rubbed the watch up and down
Chet’s dick, and Chet squirmed, horribly aroused by his father’s
possession.

“Now you’re abusing time with your carnal
urges,” Fenimore said in his ear. “To use your singular word,
fuck
time, boy. Fuck it.”

Abyss, how had Fenimore figured this out? How
had he
known
that Chet had always had a love affair with
time itself, with the past? He was too good a listener. Chet
couldn’t help it. Aroused beyond reason, he let loose a wordless
yowl as he came, squirting like a fire hose, pumping his juices at
the cabin wall. It took a surprisingly long time to empty out as
Fenimore milked him for everything he had. Then Fenimore sped his
own pace and came deep in Chet’s ass.

“Look what you’ve done, boy. At least I am
circumspect as to where I deposit my seed, whereas you have sown it
far and wide.” Fenimore slapped his belly in mild reprove. “Is that
something an object would do?”

“N-no sir.”

“Clean it up. With your tongue.”

Chet knelt over and lapped up his semen. With
it came grime, sand and dust. Tears slid down his cheeks as he
followed orders without recourse, the fog thick within his head.
Forcing him.

Chet was permitted to visit the bathroom and
clean up before returning to the passenger cabin. In fact, he was
compelled to return to the passenger cabin. There was no choice in
the matter.

The Flame were back from wherever they’d
been; the dining car by the conversation they were having. They
were clearly in a cheerful mood, relaxed, their footwear off.
Journey was reading a book she’d picked up at the train station
while simultaneously shaping her fingers and toes. It seemed like
some kind of exercise: she shaped long, short, long, short. Knife
was painting his toenails—his toenails!—dark green. It was the
color of mourning in Tache, Chet recalled. A tribute to Aureate?
Fenimore was still reading the paper, clearly for show.

He beckoned to Chet and whispered in his ear,
“You are to be silent about what has happened, my flaxen catamite.”
Chet nodded glumly and sat beside Journey.

“Secrets with Fenimore?” she asked lightly.
“Chet, you’re still not looking well.”

“You’re telling me.”

Fenimore caught his eye and smiled, then went
back to his paper.

By the next morning, when they arrived in Saene, Chet was
delirious. He only knew they’d left the train because he had to
walk. Journey was guiding him... or possibly half carrying him, he
didn’t know which. He thought it was Journey but couldn’t quite
make out faces. Everything was blurry and words flew over his head
like anuros. Thoughts flickered through him, never-ending and
incomplete. Chet found himself squashed with the others in a taxi,
uncertain how they’d gotten there. Was Fenimore still controlling
him? Chet couldn’t tell.

Someone placed a hand on his forehead.

“Think we’ll have to leave him in Saene? What
about the Raptus?”

“The connections are pretty loose by now. We
may be able to go halfway around the world and not inadvertently
pull him behind.”

In his fuzzy suffering, Chet sunk into a more
reasonable reality. Escape seemed vital, and he did not struggle
against it. Better than existing in this world. Flickering
hallucinations around him resolved into a more stable form.

Chet—only he wasn’t Chet anymore, he had
another name—smelled smoke and mushroom porridge. He opened his
eyes. He was surrounded by a hand-hewn wooden building with opaque
windows. They were opaque because they’d been covered with rice
paper. He wasn’t sure how he knew that. Chet touched the rice
paper; it was thin and delicate, dry under his hand.

Someone was speaking to him. “...in charge of
the ritual killing.”

“What?” Chet turned and looked at the
person.

It was an elderly man with an elaborate
combed and plated beard. He was flaxen and had honey-colored eyes.
He seemed oddly familiar. Chet realized that he knew him... but the
man was speaking, looking rather peeved. “I
said,
we must
finish the ninth prong tonight, so you’re in charge of the ritual
killing. Another girl.”

Caught in the mechanics of the dream, Chet
felt no horror at the idea of a ritual killing. He only felt weary.
There was something tiresome about the situation as if he’d done
this too often and the man was asking for more of the same. More
blood. Always blood and viscera. Drugged drinks lessened the
screaming and carrying on, but the blood was vital to their
operation.

He slid into the conversation as if on oiled
wheels. “How old?” There seemed to be an internal logic behind his
words, contextual and aligned with the reality around him.

“Three and a half. Not one of Foex’s, I’m
afraid. This one was bought from poor charcoal burners.”

Chet felt himself sighing. “I’ll be glad when
this is over and we can go back to peteinos and palaeoth. I’m tired
of slaughtering children.”

“Yes, well, magic propels us forward, not
back.” The phrase seemed a pithy truth, repeated a thousand times
without communicating anything.

Chet made a face. He knew perfectly well the
man was his superior, that the work they did would make the world
a—different place. Not a better place. But progress, progress.
Always progress. The Metacors smashed and destroyed; they were
enormous and far too intelligent. Aerora sheltered the monsters
she’d borne from her womb, while Foex—her second born, always
striving to be first—challenged their right to exist. Terrifying
creatures. Somehow Chet knew he’d seen Metacors, that he’d been
killed several times by them, mauled by their tusks and flung about
like a sack of rice flour.

Endless war raged on between the Metacors and
gods while humans—affiliate and unaffiliated alike—were trapped in
the middle. There was only one best way to fight: create magical
weapons like the one they were currently laboring upon.

The war was a distant reality in this time
and place, though. Chet watched from the back of his head, bemused,
as he went about his day. He spoke to a servant, checked ongoing
magical workings, and stirred something foul and herbal in a pot
over a fire. Chet felt awed at the sight of wild othnielia at the
gate, though his dream doppelganger apparently saw them daily. He
always fed the othnielia—upright reptiles, standing only a few feet
higher than men with intelligent eyes, their babies clinging to
their backs—this time of year during their migration across the
continent.

Everything was vivid under his hands, his
eyes. Chet sank deeper into the reality, comforted. He was deeply
in love with this. It felt so
right
.

Then... he laid a little girl on a stone
slab.