The Artifact of Foex (40 page)

The stairs ended in a tunnel. It was lined
with locked wooden drawers, built directly into the walls. It
looked as if Knife were in the process of installing electricity:
there were industrial rods and cords piled to one side of the
tunnel. A folding table held a brand-new circuit box and a series
of wrenches, tri-squares and nut drivers. A long-term project, Chet
suspected.

An arched door gaped open at the end of the
hall. By all signs, the old-fashioned door had been recently kicked
in. The floor began winding downwards, broadening and curving.
There were square nooks carved into the walls. Tombs. Chet caught
his breath. Skeletal remains lay within the nooks, whole and
carefully laid out, their hands folded neatly over their chests.
Knife hadn’t touched them, it seemed.

Chet paused beside one, curious despite their
hurry—the archeologist part of him couldn’t help it. The
consistency of the arrangements was troubling, especially since
there was a decided lack of identity markers. Despite this, the
bones had been laid out in careful, ritualistic manner. There were
no visible artifacts left for the dead soul; no metal items,
ceramics or stone markers that might yield clues as to the person’s
station in life. Had the bones belonged to peasants? They didn’t
show signs of having been malnourished in life, nor were there the
usual markers of poverty. No pitting, no missing or ground-down
teeth. All the skeletons were faintly purple in color, but that was
probably just a trick of the light.

“I wonder... I wonder if these are Knife’s
bodies," Rory's voice whispered in his ear. “Not people she’s
killed, but her own bodies. From past lives.”

Chet jerked back from a skeleton he’d been
studying. “No!” he said, barely remembering to keep his voice down.
“Knife couldn’t—she wouldn’t. Would she?” It seemed obscene.
Would
she have kept her own bodies, preserved under her
property?
Ew.
He started down the tunnel again, his eyes
directly forward.

He blinked. There was a light ahead: it
seemed to be an indistinct, ambient light, not a flashlight or even
electrical. He crept closer, turning off his flashlight, Clementina
following suit beside him. Chet heard noise, a bubbling, churning
sound. The light grew brighter, and the wall of the tunnel opened
abruptly on one side. They stopped, clinging instinctively to the
edge, poking their heads out just a little to see what lay beyond.
There was an enormous body of... not water.
Lucid mud,
Chet realized, gaping. The ambient light seemed to emerge from the
lucid mud itself.

What had Journey said, back at the dig site?
“There’s still an active system beneath Allistair, you know. Quite
the churning river of lucid mud.”

A lone figure stood beside the river of mud,
reeling in a length of rope. It was Fenimore. The Raptus wasn’t
visible, though he did have the duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
Was he fishing in the lucid mud? Something was being pulled in at
the other end of the rope. A hand... an arm. It was Journey! Chet
gasped, then touched his mouth, hoping Fenimore hadn’t heard him.
She—her tits were vivid through her muddy shirt—was breathing
heavily, eyes closed as Fen reeled her in.

Fenimore knelt beside her. “You ready to sing
your little song, Journey?”

“Never.” Though her voice was low, Chet could
hear her clearly through the churning of the river.

“Then back you go. Crawl into the mud; you
have my permission to hold onto the rope again.
This
time.
Though I might just grow weary of holding it myself.”

“Then... you’ll never unlock... the
Raptus.”

“Mmm. You’re growing weak, Journey. I think
next time you surface, I’ll dance a jig with your diddly pout. You
should still have enough energy to shape your ass to suit me, but
not enough to be tiresome. I grow weary of being rejected by
you.”

“Abyss... to that.”

She was crying, Chet saw, as she crawled
backwards into the roiling mud. Journey was under the thrall of the
Raptus, or very nearly under its thrall. How long was Fenimore
planning to keep this up? Hours? Days? Journey couldn’t hold out
forever, especially if Fenimore raped and abused her. Chet watched
as she vanished beneath the surface. Hadn’t Journey said sleeping
in lucid mud would be a horrible fate? Fenimore clearly remembered,
too. He must have taken note of her words, patiently mapping out
her fate even as they walked to Othnielia’s farm.

Asshole,
Chet thought fiercely.

“Professor, you go first and distract him
just like we planned,” Rory’s voice whispered. “Chet, you’re in
charge of rescuing Journey.”

“Right.”

They hadn’t known in advance what kind of
situation they might face, but Chet had been clear that if Fenimore
took Flame hostages, he should be the one to save them. Rory was
focused entirely on the Raptus, and Clementina just didn’t care.
Chet wasn’t a fighter, and he had no knowledge of weaponry, but he
could help Journey.

“I’ll get him from behind, Professor after
you stop shooting,” Rory continued. “The bullets won’t matter while
I’m invisible, but I don’t want to get shot once I’m corporeal
again.”

“Certainly.” Clementina unslung her rifle.
“I’m going in.”

Chet wanted to call her back. He wasn’t
ready! He didn’t feel up to facing Fenimore, even with Journey in
danger. Chet realized it was because Fen had been dominating him
all week. His strength of will was stupendous, exponentially more
powerful than anything Chet could summon. The protective bracelet
around his wrist seemed thin, flimsy, barely anything at all, but
Clementina was already striding out to into the cavern.

She didn’t waste words. Clementina simply
began shooting with the rifle. Chet crammed his fingers into his
ringing ears, shocked at her lack of honor and chivalry. Except she
was right: a pure frontal assault was more practical than warning
her foe in advance. Fenimore wasn’t a moving target, though. He
stood, looking smug, as Clementina fired shot after shot. Chet
could even see the streaks of light as bullets rebounded off the...
yes, that had to be the infamous shield.

Fenimore faked a yawn, patting his mouth.
“You seem familiar, madam. Have we met? Ah, yes. The frumpy
strumpet from the ship.”

Chet watched the rope from the tunnel,
holding fast as bullets flew. The end of the rope disappeared in
the middle of the muddy torrent. How could Journey breathe in
there?
Lucid mud,
he thought grimly,
is a
preservative.
Journey didn’t need to breathe. She would hold
onto the rope because she’d been ordered to by the Raptus’s master.
Fenimore had
definitely
planned this.

“You can’t keep it up forever,” Clementina
growled through gritted teeth, loosening three more rounds in quick
succession. “The Raptus was created thousands of years before
bullets.”

Fen touched the duffle bag at his side.
“Abandon this arsenal and walk into the lucid mud, madam.”

“I don’t think so, LaDaven.” Clementina threw
down her rifle and unslung her pistols.

The rope wasn’t fairing well under this new
barrage—it unraveled as bullets grazed it. The fibers parted and
Fenimore was left holding a short, slack rope as the other end
slithered along the bank, headed downstream.

Swearing, Chet broke from the safety of the
tunnel and ran for the trailing end of the rope. His pace turned
into an all-out sprint as the rope slid into the mud. He dove and
caught it, spattering mud down his front in the process. Chet began
reeling in the rope hand over hand. It was hard. The current was
something fierce.

The gunshots had ceased, at least. Behind
him, he heard the unmistakable sounds of a struggle, and he looked
over his shoulder to see Fenimore fighting with a half-visible
Rory. She had him in a headlock, her legs wrapped around his torso.
Why hadn’t she grabbed the bag as planned? Fenimore must have
prevented it while Chet was pursuing the rope. Fen was
cursing—maybe from the electric-like shocks in her half visible
state—and had his knife out. He was trying to stab Rory without
injuring himself.

Clementina advanced grimly while sheathing
her handguns. She attempted to grab at his knife-wielding hand. The
women were calling directions to one another, trying to work in
concert.

It was almost over, Chet reassured himself as
he pulled the straining rope.

Moments later there was a wild yell. He
glanced back in time to see Fenimore bowing in a fight move,
effectively flipping Rory into Clementina like bowling pins. He
grabbed at Clementina’s bracelet and
twisted
. She cried
out in pain as it parted from her wrist.

Fen threw the bracelet away; it clanged as it
hit a rock wall. “Fling yourself into the lucid mud, woman, fast as
you can. Now, where did your Shadow Dancer friend go?”

Rory had grown invisible again, effectively
disentangling herself from the scene. With nothing to impede her,
Clementina turned and raced toward the lucid mud. She splashed
through the shallows, then belly flopped into the churning river.
Not even bubbles marked her passing. Clementina was gone.

Chet swallowed. Clementina was the first to
go, but was she the last?

Chet needed to get Journey out
now
so he could help Rory. Since Fenimore had figured out the
bracelets, it was only a matter of time before Rory would go the
same way Clementina had. At least his efforts were panning out: he
could see Journey’s hand as it surfaced, still clinging to the
rope. He pulled harder, bracing himself.

“Chet,” Fenimore called. “What are you doing?
Saving Journey? What a
romantic
gesture, cream puff.”

“Shut up, Fen.”

“By all means, oblige me and keep my meat
fresh while I figure out where your little friend has—”

Fenimore yelped as Rory engaged him again.
Rory was up against Fen on her own. She needed his help! Journey
was close enough that Chet thought he could—yes. He grabbed hold of
her be-slimed clothing and pulled her in. She coughed and wheezed,
her eyes closed. Frantic, Chet abandoned her and raced up the
tunnel to where Fenimore and Rory were grappling.

Rory could
fight
. Chet could see she
was far better than himself—no surprise considering he was a
scholar above all—but she was also better than Fenimore. He had his
knife, while all she had were her hands and feet, yet she used them
well. Plus she kept turning translucent when he got close enough
with the blade.

Chet hovered at the edge of their battle,
uncertain how to be of assistance. His toe hit something—one of
Clementina’s flash bangs. He bent to pick it up... there was a blow
to his face, then another on back of his neck. Chet collapsed,
gasping. Fear flooded his body as he was lifted by the hair.
Fenimore’s blade was cold at his throat. Something was dripping
from his nose—blood? He didn’t know what Rory was doing, but she
certainly wasn’t attacking. Fen had traded one hostage for
another.

Would Fen keep him as a hostage, though? The
answer was immediate; Fenimore reached over and plucked the
bracelet from his wrist. “There. Chet, walk into the lucid mud and
let it take you.”

“Don’t do it, Chet!” It was Rory’s voice.
She’d turned invisible again.

Mind-clouding fog descended, a very familiar
feeling. Chet regained his feet and began making for the mud river.
He could move slower than Clementina—Fenimore hadn’t specified a
speed—though he echoed her course with the same results to come.
Abyss, his face hurt, his nose bleeding freely. Would the pain
still be with him when he woke from lucid mud?

Behind him, he could hear Fenimore yelling to
Journey, ordering her to return at once. Somewhere in the back of
his mind Chet had hoped that Journey had made her way out. Given
Fen’s exasperation, she may have been running the other way,
farther down the cave. It might have worked if Fenimore hadn’t had
the Raptus.

The Raptus. The very thing that was about to
deposit him in lucid mud. His feet had almost reached the bank.
Chet was about to be preserved for decades... centuries...
millennia... a curiosity for future generations. Canned
archeologist.

There was something was in his hand. The
flash bang, he realized, gazing down at it. A corner of his mouth
turned up. Fenimore had only told him to walk into the mud, but he
hadn’t issued any other orders. Such as, “Don’t fight me," perhaps?
The trick with magic, Chet remembered, was
loopholes
.

Chet turned to face Fenimore, his feet still
walking backwards into the mud, now up to his ankles. Fenimore was
holding onto the duffle bag with both hands, gazing about with an
alert expression, a livid mark on his cheek. Rory had marked him
up, and still might, Chet realized. She was loose in the cave,
awaiting her chance. Journey was slowly striding through the
cavern, too, headed toward Fenimore, her expression grim. He wished
there was some way to warn her in advance.
Ah, well.

“Hey, Rory,” Chet called out. “Now.”

He pulled the pin and tossed the flash bang
to Fenimore’s right. Fen followed the movement, his expression
quizzical. “Hah. Chet, you doedicu, you miss—”

An unbearable sound filled the cavern,
accompanied by the brightest flash Chet had ever seen. He threw up
his arms to protect himself, then lowered them, blinking to clear
his vision. He couldn't hear anything except ringing in his ears.
When Chet’s eyes were working again, he saw both Rory and Journey
were fighting Fenimore. A desperate, knock-down struggle.

Even as Chet watched, he realized the mud was
well above his knees, almost to his hips. It was churning, the
undertow fantastic. The fog still upon him, and Chet knew he would
surrender to it. He had to let the river take him.