The Comfort Of The Knife

“Does anyone see Melissa?” I asked my entourage.

As one they called back, “No.” Their tone flat and weary.

We’d posted ourselves on the second floor of the club the Lodge had commandeered for the night. From the balcony that ringed the room I could see everything. The surging mass of dancers on the first floor whose steps and motions flung water up into the air to clash against the conjured raindrops that poured from the ceiling in a column of ever falling rain. Around that column of water I could make out the other bars posted against each wall of the second floor, and the semi-circle couches that formed mini-cubbies along the inner rim of the balcony. They weren’t perfectly private and so I could see the pairings off of Lodgemembers and secretaries conjoining in different erotic configurations. Both in how the body fit together, and how many bodies could be involved at once.

All of this set to the highly saturated and cool color palette that shifted in surging leaps to the beat of the music. Though so constrained that it never found its way deeper than indigo or brighter than a dark illicit magenta. It was an ever flowing loop of blues and purples that painted the planes of the body, the face, and even memory.

“Temple, we’re going to find her,” Amber reassured me. “She told us she’d be running late.”

Amber waved her sorc-deck in my face—slow enough I could reread Melissa’s missive for the twentieth time—before dropping it back into her storage-spell. It was well-intentioned of her, but my anxieties couldn’t help but detail the heavy shadows that could be drawn from a message as brief as: We’re running a bit behind, don’t worry.

Why were they running behind? What made it a bit? Was she busy being fed poison into her ears by Ina, or worse were they deciding to pre-game on the sexual festivities by linking together before arriving? Then there was the ‘don’t worry’ which I could only weave through ideas of losing her. That we were well and truly done, and it’d be someone else’s job—duty—pleasure to worry about her.

My thumbs pushed the glass of my tumbler inward inadvertently, sprinkling shards into the whiskey Amber had ordered for me. I set the glass back down, and let Amber guide me to her shoulder. She’d decided to wear a jumpsuit that was reminiscent of a tux what with its central pleating. An aspect her designer had extended across the jumpsuit down to the slightly billowing pants leg that looked closer to the hakama Mom had us wear for training when she felt formal. Over the jumpsuit, Amber wore a thick jacket across her shoulders like a cape. It was a heavy wool that felt softer than any sheet as I pressed my cheek against it feeling my skin press against the steel like muscle it turned out that Amber hid beneath her clothes.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You didn’t come out here to deal with me.”

“If I would be so upset at the idea of ‘dealing with you’ then I wouldn’t be on this trip at all,” she said. “Though I do think maybe we stop wasting the good japanese whiskey.”

Amber removed a super-fine strainer from her storage-spell and poured the remains of my drink into her own before returning the strainer and sifted glass fragments into storage. #225 slid a new glass in front of me. It was a graduated cylinder filled with a fizzy liquid topped with about a half-inch of foam. They dropped a straw that wound itself into a celtic knot inside.

“Drink,” they ordered.

I asked, “What is it?”

“A Bacchanalian Ballast.”

“It’s conceptual?”

Amber stroked my head. “Don’t go accepting drinks from strangers, Temple. First rule of parties.”

“Oh don’t worry,” #225 said, “if I wanted to drug them I’d use a method better than a laced drink. Though at this rate, drugs might be the only thing that’ll make her relax and enjoy tonight.”

I extricated myself from Amber, and shifted my gaze from drink to #225 who did look concerned. A bit of annoyance underneath but I’d deserved it. No one felt comfortable leaving me at the bar on sentry duty, so for the past half-hour everyone was stuck looking out for one girl just for me. I bit down on the throat of guilt that roiled within me. Slipped the straw between my lips and drew up the drink and foam through its swirling loops.

When the first drops hit my tongue it was pleasant and soothing—tasted a smidge like lychee flavored cotton candy. Then came the conceptual flow as I drained the glass. It was a river amidst a storm that lifted up all my worries and feelings. Carted them off to some other moment downstream in time, and left only the stormy waters to press heavy on my spirit. Sinking me into the moment until most other concerns became astigmatized points of thought on the other side of an opaque window. So thick that it had its own color that just happened to match the shifting hues inside the club.

The way in which my muscles unclenched and my spirit became so loose that it would sag if held between two hands, brought Amber rushing to the brink of concern.

“What was in that?” Amber asked.

“A fun blend of Suppression and Indulgence,” #225 said. “Suppress the worries until they’re so light she won’t worry about them until tomorrow. While pushing down hard with the guide to indulge so she might actually be in the moment.”

“Isn’t that just what normal alcohol does?” I asked.

“Yes,” Amber said.

“Apparently not,” #225 said. “You’ve sipped and ruined enough imported whiskey that you should at least be buzzed by now.”

“If you hadn’t heard,” I bragged, “I have like really good spell resistance.”

The room tilted itself for me so I didn’t have to lean in much to inform #225. They were smirking up past me to Amber while nodding so attentively.

“Oh, really, that’s amazing,” they said. “Amber, why don’t you order one.”

They slid the menu past me and my now drained glass. Amber quickly scanned the sheet. It didn’t take much time to find the cocktail #225 had plied me with—for the bartender’s ease the Lodge had a pre-set menu of cocktails Real and conceptual.

“Alls below, this is a viscount-grade drink,” she said.

“I know, and I just heard from someone that she has a really good spell resistance,” #225 said.

“Can I have another one?” I called out to the bartender.

“You heard her,” #225 said, “she wants another one. Hey, #404 do you want…”

They trailed off as they sought out #404 at the other end of the bar. They sat perfectly poised on their stool while facing two people I’d not seen before. Retreating from that end, #322 and #375 made the slow march back toward us—they’d abandoned me to my worries earlier and slid down the bar to chat or gossip with #404.

“What are you doing leaving them with those two?” #225 asked.

#375 said, “#404 told us to leave. Said it’d be more interesting over here than dealing with them.”

“You know them, they never want to seem weak.”

“Still, leaving them feels—hey, Nadia come back,” #225 said.

In the midst of their quick exchange I’d gotten the gist. Those two were—for whatever reason—bothering #404 which stoked an unrecognizable feeling in me. It rolled its heat in my gut bringing an extra sway to my hips as I stalked down the bar on stiletto heels.

“It’s so early in the event that I’m surprised they have you lower ranks on break already.”

The words came from the mouth of a slight boyish figure that clung like ivy to the firm flesh-slab of a person that stood next to them. It was my sharp bark of laughter that announced my intrusion to what no one would call a conversation. The two strangers turned to regard me—you could see the formations being laid in their minds as they tried to figure out who I was. Taking the initiative they so easily gave me, I let my arms drape over #404 as I laid my head into the crook of their neck.

“#404, I was so worried you were held up I just had to check up on you. Make sure it wasn’t anything serious,” I said. Then, with a glance of my eyes half-hidden beneath my heavy painted eyelids and a glimpse of fangs within a bemused smirk, I finally acknowledged them. “Though I’m glad to see it’s nothing.”

From how the small figure’s mouth fell agape, my words, it seemed, had struck a blow against a fragile ego. The man next to them bristled and postured toward me. I blinked on the Omensight for a quick assessment that reeled up another laugh meant to lacerate the go.

“Oh back down,” I said.

“If anyone, it should be you,” the man declared in a dull voice fit for a brick. “I’m a Baron.”

“Barely.”

“It doesn’t take much to put down a cocky little soldier like you.”

“Actually,” I said, “you’d be surprised how many people underestimated what it’d take to put me down. I’m—oh wait a moment.”

My drink had arrived. I forewent the addition of a straw and opted to chug the mixture in one long drag. Then blew out an invisible cloud of alcoholic vapor into the brick-voiced man’s face.

“Where was I, oh, right. I’m the type of summoner your secretary—I’m presuming the little twink’s yours—tells you you are when bouncing on your dick to make you feel better every time someone you know graduates. After which they try to coax you to attempt the trial yourself. You’ve probably had that chat at least ten times?”

The small secretary looked away then in frustration.

“Oh, it’s more? Yeah, it’s much more. Tell me when to stop. Was it twenty, thirty, forty—”

“That’s enough, little brute,” #404 said. Their fingers gently laid against an arm.

“Who even are you?” the secretary asked.

“They’re my little brute. An asset all my own, and already valued by the Lodge for her achievements. Of which she isn’t lying when she says that too many people have already died thinking she was just a cocky little soldier.”

At the admission of how I was connected to #404, the little secretary and their big meaty loser shared a pair of sickle-sharp grins. My brow furrowed at how their own ego seemed to revive at only a few words of truth despite being laid in the grave at mine.

“Okay, good luck with the exam then,” the talking brick said. “It wouldn’t be the first time #404 here picked out a perfectly talented summoner just for them to choke at the finish line.”

“I’m not going to choke,” I said.

“That’s what the last guy thought,” the small secretary said.

“And then I passed and he didn’t,” the other finished.

Together the two of them swung away from the bar to take the stairs down to the first floor. I scowled at their receding backs. #404 shrugged me off of their shoulders.

“I didn’t need your help,” they said.

“Sure.”

“I didn’t.”

“So it was just your plan to let them berate you all night or something?” I asked.

#404 swiveled their stool to face me. Their eyes thin with condensed anger at wrongs I’d not committed, but for whom I was the only target they could vent it out on.

“Maybe it was,” they said. “It’d still beat you pining for some girl you don’t even love. You just hate to see someone play with what you think is yours.”

“Really? That’s what I’m doing. Okay, but I’d rather pine than sit and let some utter losers walk all over me for what?”

“Diplomacy,” they said.

“Looked more like punishment to me.”

Their expression twitched in the manner of someone keeping a lid on so much anger. Maybe it was the drink, but I wanted to see them let it all out.

“Who was the last person you brought to the exam?” I asked.

#404 turned away from me to sip at their drink through a straight steel straw.

“Did you meet them at a train outpost like me? What kind of test did you give them? Did you also kiss—”

“His name was Cedric. Bonded to Tranquility. He died in the last test before the exam ended.”

They didn’t breathe as they rattled off the facts about the ghost that seemed to haunt them even now amidst so much conspicuous living. I used my heel to swivel #404 back to face me. Leaned forward to bridge our gap.

“How are those two involved?” I asked.

“They killed him,” #404 said. “The Lodgemaster had decided that the final test that year was about infiltration. Every group had a traitor that had to be found by the end of the test-mission the group was assigned.”

“How’d that lead to him dying—”

“Murdered.”

“Yeah, murdered.”

#404 sighed and shook their head in disbelief of a fact long made history.

“The Lodgemaster offered extra points. Every person the traitor took out was extra points. If the traitor was more permanently dealt with then everyone else got those points,” #404 answered. “Cedric was the traitor, and #389’s asset—Sigmund—wanted those extra points so badly that he convinced everyone that it was worth it for Cedric to die. Better he permanently be removed than get free and foil things.”

My own scowl deepened at another example of the incentives that Nemesis threw about the entire exam both past and present. Cedric died for points. I didn’t know the man, but if ever there was a hollow reason to be murdered it’d be that.

“It’s a shame,” I said.

“No,” #404 argued, “it’s just how Lodgemaster Khapoor runs things.”

I pushed myself off my seat. Held out my hand for #404 to take it.

“What are you doing, little brute?”

“Helping you down from your guilt so we can go dance.”

“My guilt?” they asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “You feel guilty because you brought a beautiful but weak person into this place.”

“Cedric wasn’t weak.”

I shrugged, “He lost to Sigmund. Cedric was weak, but I’m strong. You broke a four year streak of choosing nobody because you saw that in me.”

“So this is how you’ll glorify yourself?”

“Alls below, #404, this is how I help you stick the knife in those assholes even if it’s only a little bit,” I said. “Now, you chose me because I’m strong. Strong enough to use and use again. So take my hand, and use me.”

They raised their hand—it shook as they oscillated between doubt, worry, and that clinging guilt which had been with them for so long.

“You can’t cry to me if your muscles burn and give out, little brute. If I do this, we dance until they’re nothing.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#404 placed their hand—their rage—in mine as I guided them down from their stool. They had always been shorter than me but it’d been by a handful of inches. Only now, atop heels that others might describe as dizzying, did they seem truly small, fragile, and my lips drew back in sadistic grin at the idea of drawing blood—even proverbial—in the name of their defense.

I yelled over the music to Amber, “Let me know when you spot Melissa.”

She raised her tumbler in understanding. “Go fuck ‘em up, Temple.”

The other secretaries roared in approval of us as I walked arm in arm with #404 down to the first floor and its churning horde. Of which our arrival was met by a shift in the music that brought the mass consciousness of dancing humanity to a standstill. Gone was the hooky bass heavy beat that guided everything, and in its place was something old that burned even now on the other side of the Changeover. The tune was full of popping syncopations and frantic guitar—a love affair between swing and salsa if I had my Old World music correct.

Dancers quickly paired off and took to the floor ready to compete in the language of muscle and motion that I doubt mankind could ever forget. Even #389 and Sigmund found their way to the open floor. I held #404 back from rushing out after them.

“Are we suddenly not dancing, little brute?”

“Oh we are, but we’re not running,” I said.

Instead, we waited as pair after pair hurried out. The guitar player reached an early furious crescendo before hanging the room onto a precarity of silence. That was when we entered. My heels—even muted by water—clacked against the glass of the dance floor. Clack clack clack. All eyes turned to me as the stars with which Ferilala Nu-zo had clothed me in played tricks upon the air as each raindrop seemed to catch the shining glory of a star.

I brought my heels in line and with a sharp twist of my waist as if snapping #389’s neck, I turned hundred-eighty degrees. The speed of the motion made a wave that slapped against the dancers around me who lacked the gravitas for this fight. Wet and dripping they cleared way, but I paid them no more mind than I would a chair or any other prop.

Elegantly I extended my arms out to the crowd as if I’d embrace each and every one of them. My eyes catching on theirs teasing at the idea that they were the one…and then I landed on #404. I let my lips curl at the end in a feline sort of pleasure.

“Now, we enter,” I mouthed.

#404 shook their head before charging toward me. Each step in time with the singer who’d taken the stage and made her way to the mic. She grasped the stand by its skinny neck, brought it close to her lips, inhaled right as #404’s hand found mine and my other found their waist while they found the back of my neck.

“I should lead,” they said. “I am your handler.”

“Yes, but if I won’t bow to an Earl,” I whispered into their ear. “What makes you think I’ll follow?”

The singer shattered the silence with a powerful note that disemboweled the tension and unleashed the reins of us mad dancers. I twirled #404 in my arms, dipped them, and swung them low in display to the entire room of who I’d chosen to share this moment. They popped back up and pressed forward in a coup to steal the lead from me.

I let them for a few steps, before swiftly sidestepping their advance letting them carry forward—our arms now parallel bars to each other. I spun again driving myself low to the ground to retrieve the lead position #404 thought was theirs. Caught off guard, they let me and their body became light as I swung them low before extending upwards. Momentum carrying them up across my back and over my shoulder.

Their own smaller heels came down in a swift cutting arc that whistled in harmony with the crooning trumpet that joined in to the music. When they touched ground I wrapped them into my arms by crossing theirs atop their chest. We quickly moved back, I went right while they went left, before meeting in the middle. They kicked up into the air forcing me to let go though not before I set their leap into a tight spiral that drilled once, twice, three times before they descended, arms outstretched for me to catch them.

I guided them back to earth right when the singer took a breath letting the instruments croon like some big band menagerie. Our fingers intertwined as I pulled them close to me, and in the other’s eyes—for we were that close face-to-face—we saw ourselves. I lived in #404’s eyes as something that couldn’t possibly be Real. Too tall, too shining, and, from how I smiled with my fangs on display, altogether too confident. I could only hope that #404 saw themselves as I saw them in this moment, the only person for whom this, our competitive power stealing dance, could ever be possible. Their hair wet and skin glistening in the saturated light, I beheld the face of someone who I could see myself in a forever rivalry. We could argue, snipe, and joust until the sun melted into the sea never to rise again.

“I hope this never ends,” I said.

“You’re drunk, little brute, and all things end.” They whispered into my ear, “But only tonight, you can lead.”

It was probably the drink, but that wrenched a moan from deep within my chest. That for the first time—maybe the only time—#404 would cede power to me and be mine to move. When the singer swung the mic back to her face delivering a run of notes that crested like a wave crashing onto the dance floor the two of us—#404 and myself—were already in motion. This time no longer fighting for control, but slowly melding with every twirl, pirouette, and dip until we could understand each other in that ancient language of muscle and motion.

I’m surprised, little brute. #404 disappeared behind my back, hand tracing my shoulder, but gone when I turned my head.

Because I can dance? I quickly snapped my head to the other side as #404 tried to dance back the other way. Caught them by their hip and guided them through a no-hands cartwheel in the air.

No, that you’d dance with me. They landed and immediately leaned back. Their leg whipping up toward my face as if to cleave it in half.

You make it sound like I hate you. I shifted my body. Their leg swung up past my face, the wind rushing behind to tousle my hair. I caught their back with a hand while the other grasped their thigh. My cheek grazing their inner flesh.

You don’t? They swung upward using every muscle hidden in their core, and caught my face between their hands as they searched my eyes for a lie.

Maybe once, maybe tomorrow, but not right now. I lifted them from the ground and shrugged their thigh from my shoulder. Rotating them in the air.

So gallant, little brute. Do you enjoy playing hero? #404’s legs scissored back to wrap around my waist. In concern I took a wide stance so they might rest their weight upon my thighs. Instead, they arched their back so their face could be near mine.

I’m as much a hero as you’re a damsel. I ran my hands down their body to guide the crowd to the slight curves and pleasing angles of #404’s form. While my fangs teased at their skin.

Such a sharp rejection. Do you cut Melissa with that tongue? They wound their arm about my head, and used me like a pole to swing around my body. Hiding behind my back. Fingers teasing my ribs.

No. I took a sliding step forward away from their touch that suddenly felt so frigid. Whirled about to face them.

Then why are you dancing with me and not her?

We stood there, the two of us, for an interminable moment as our eyes met across the floor. The most recent mini wave of water caused by my step only now settling in the music’s lull. If I had looked I’d see the way the crowd had eyes for #404 and myself. On the edge of non-existent seats to discover the answer to #404’s unspoken question.

The drums rolled light and fast. Building up speed. No other instrument in their way as they advanced. As I advanced across a dance floor that felt empty but for me and my handler. Until suddenly, bang crash. Snare and hi-hat struck with the ferocity of a musician whose rhythm has overflowed beyond what one piece of kit could handle.

Cause I swung too close to the skin. My head whipped one way, #404’s the other, and when we whipped back I saw myself in their eyes. Sliding down their body to my knees.

Oh, little brute, I retract what I said earlier. They tilted forward, and with both hands like one would a teacup they lifted my chin.

About what? I swept my arms up and to the sides. Blasting their arms out from me and baring my chest for whatever blow was to come.

That you don’t love her. Only a lover can trace the knife’s edge against your skin, and leave you still craving them. Their arms came back. Hands cradling my jaw, and with no strength at all they lifted me from my knees as I rose in time with their motion.

I shouldn’t have been swinging it around anyways. I embraced them, and ran my finger claws down their back as we moved together in a rocking one-two.

You say that as if her marks aren’t on you either. They rotated in my grip. Unafraid that my claws would scar them.

What do you know about love? I noted the faint trace of blood that painted the hook of my claws. My hands splayed as I leaned my upper body backward.

Enough. #404 leaned with me. Caught my arms by the wrist.

Did you love Cedric? My hands held #404 by the shoulder and opposite hip, swaying them one way and the other.

No. Just lucky enough to be loved by him. The fool. They lurched forward away from me. Curling up in frustration at the past.

There’s nothing foolish about loving someone. I let go, and traced my bloody claws across the air around them until I stood in front of them. One hand behind their head and the other at the chin. This time I raised them straight until they met my eyes and my conviction.

In the normal world, maybe, but lovers don’t live long in the Lodge. They rolled from my grip. Arms wide as they spun again and again. Looking like a windmill or a dervish—convinced of this truth.

Is that why you chose me? That I didn’t seem like a lover. My hand shot out to grab them. We’re still.

I never wanted to choose you. They looked away.

Yet here I am. I twirled them into my grasp.

And for that, I’m sorry. They looked away again.

Don’t be, I’m strong enough that I’ll pass. I lifted their head up to meet me. Guided them into an elegant dip.

If you do then you’ll be nothing like what you were before it. They reached up and stroked my face.

And what will I be after? I righted them. Held us at arms length away.

Alone with no one to stand in your light. They twirled me, and I let them. Then they released me and I spun like a top across the water. Sliding away from them as the feathers of my skirt flew away according to some hidden design of Ferilala Nu-zo’s.

All around me the feathers exploded into stardust. Cloaking me in a nebula mist that the rain loved even more than the stars on my skin. I stood there in the glorious starlight clad now in just the cosmic skinsuit and my heels. The horn on my forehead scintillating from the water that ran in thin rivulets down its length to meet my face. Where it rolled down my cheeks to fall in place of tears.

I couldn’t help but search the crowd. They didn’t seem to breathe nor to move. The rain had lost all motion becoming frozen gems in the air. Out within the crowd I saw my double weave before and behind onlookers. A crown of Inviolate Stars about her head. She turned just slightly to make sure I saw her—the Baron whose aspect I’d yet to discern. I blinked. Sound returned in one rushing tide of rain, horn, drums, guitar, and more.

I won’t be alone. I threw my hands up and out in the direction of Amber and the secretaries watching from the second floor.

You’ll see your bonds as burdens and shed them. #404 spread their arms wide in gesture to the crowd which meant nothing to me.

I’m strong enough I’ll carry them. I’ll carry you. I pointed at them.

You won’t benefit by having me. They shimmied their body as they shook their head.

It’s cause of you that I’m here. I rolled my body unfurling it for the step I knew would come.

I’m using you to climb the ranks. They threw their arms back, chest bare to me in truth—or what they believed to be truth.

And I’m doing the same. I clapped. Then opened my arms again. Now, come to me.

You’re incorrigible, little brute. Don’t you ever let go? They ran toward me.

If I did, I wouldn’t be strong. I laughed.

Then you better catch me. They smiled. Skipped once. Twice. Preparing.

Then leaped into my arms. My hands found their waist, and my body moved to meet them pushing them up higher and higher. All the while they turned forward on some invisible axle until they were upside down. Our faces met each other. Our noses kissed.

“You caught me,” they said, disbelieving.

“I don’t make it a habit to let my people get hurt.”

They smirked at that. “So I’m yours now?”

“You’re my handler,” I said. “You’ve been mine and I’ve been yours since you brought me that mask. Or have I disappointed you?”

“Maybe you will tomorrow,” they said, and elegantly fell back down without need of my strength for a stable landing. “But for now, Nadia, you’re adequate.”

Our breath was heavy. The moment’s exertion caught up to us. It had pounced on the band as well. Dragging them to a stillness as the final notes echoed in the air mixing with the pitter-patter of rain. Then the club exploded into a furious applause.

I blushed as I looked around at everyone cheering. Grinned when I saw #389 and Sigmund had vacated the dance floor if not the club itself. Then I spotted Melissa at the standing bar with Ina and Amber on the other side of the crowd on this floor.

“Go talk to her, little brute,” #404 said. “You’ve waited long enough.”

“Are you sure?” I asked as nerves slid up my back.

“Your use for tonight as my date is over.”

I nodded—the word date going unnoticed by me as I gathered the strength to make amends. As I passed #404 they stopped me for a moment. Eyes looking down and away from me.

“Do it right, little brute,” they whispered. “Longing is a horrible thing you never want to feel.”

Then they let go of me, and disappeared into the crowd in the opposite direction. I took a deep breath to re-center. All thoughts on getting my ex back, and repairing what I’d broken. Then with a clack of my heels I set off for the bar to do just that.