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Chapter VIII

LOREN

L oren hoped the nightmares would stop, that whatever strand connecting Felix’s psyche to his was satisfied now they’d met in the flesh, but that was before he blinked awake – not awake – to a knife running through his chest.

Cold pain punched a hole in his core. Loren gave a rattling gasp, the act ripping him in two, and fought for context. Details didn’t immediately solidify. He stood suspended in a void while his pain-lagged brain slowly filled in the rest, staring at the blurry handle protruding from his ribs.

Revenge, Loren thought with sour irony, for stabbing Felix in his dream the night before.

More details trickled in, mist wisping into shape, and the image of Felix stepped from the darkness ahead, lifeless and ragged as ever. Ghostly. Seeing him after meeting real-world Felix gave Loren a startling sense of dissonance.

The ghost said something, but, as usual, Loren heard nothing – frustrating to no end. If he could only hear the ghost, work out what he needed, maybe Loren could put the spectre to rest.

He swayed. Black spots bloomed across his vision. The dream world inched towards clarity, familiar cobblestones forming underfoot, buildings lining the street, colourful awnings sending a throb through his heart that had nothing to do with the knife.

They were about to be destroyed.

‘Why?’ he demanded in a bloody choke. Every part of him blistered from icy shock. He fought to take a single stumbling step forward, and Ghost-Felix mirrored it backwards, stepping onto one of the road’s crossing stones.

Loren had hopped across those stones yesterday. Nonna’s yellow shop was ahead. The Temple of Isis stood a street away. This was his sharpest dream yet, accurate to the cluster of dandelions growing through the kerb.

Of course. Because Felix was in Pompeii now. He’d seen these details himself.

Dark clouds churned. Heavy. Noxious. Smouldering ash drifting down singed Loren’s braid.

Vesuvius distilled last, peak visible amidst the storm. Loren looked to it with futile, desperate hope. If only it could stop this. If only it could form a shield against the ghost collapsing the sky.

The ghost’s face twisted, mocking. His mouth moved again, and Loren could almost hear him, but his voice was muffled and distorted, the way sounds vibrated underwater.

‘Why?’ Hot tears burned Loren’s cheeks, the only warmth in a body cold as stone. ‘What did I do to you? What do you want ?’

Another step. Then his legs gave out, so he crawled. He wanted to grab Ghost-Felix’s face, close the distance, force him to whisper his demands straight into Loren’s ear. Gravel dug into his flesh. He hardly felt it.

Still on the stone, the ghost stooped. His flat gaze held enough edge to be cruel. More words. Loren stared at his lips, reading the shapes. You .

‘You.’ Loren coughed. ‘You do this every night. To me. But I’m close, Felix. I’m so – close to figuring you out. When I do— ’

The ghost pointed at Loren’s chest. Loren followed the jab of his finger. At first, what he saw didn’t register. Rather, it registered as impossible.

His own hand gripped the knife.

Fear, confusion – he wouldn’t – Loren jerked up in time to catch the ghost’s mouth form one last sentence.

You did this to yourself.

Black caved down. All went still, a crushing, soundless tomb.

When Loren jolted upright, he felt the knife in his ribs. A phantom.

A ghost.

His chest heaved, and he blinked rapidly to dispel the tears he’d carried with him. His ears buzzed. The room was dark. Abruptly, Loren missed the moon with such a raw ache, it reverberated in each of his fingers.

‘Loren?’

He nearly jumped out of his skin, but it was only Felix.

Real Felix, kneeling beside the bed, hand stretched to shake Loren awake.

Felix who, yes, bore a slant to his mouth, but not one of cruelty; one of sardonic self-preservation.

The Felix who dropped curses like a first language but had promised to see Loren tomorrow.

And here he was. Loren’s thudding heart skipped.

At night, Felix’s copper curls tangled like a storm-tossed ocean. Loren stared at their waves, letting the soft, sleep-mussed swoop drag him back to shore.

‘You were thrashing,’ Felix said, tight with something that Loren almost placed as worry. ‘Shouting.’

‘I don’t talk in my sleep,’ Loren insisted even as the back of his neck heated .

‘You said my name,’ Felix pressed. ‘You said I do this every night.’

Loren dragged his attention from the edge of Felix’s cheekbone, illuminated by the faintest sliver of lamplight seeping in from the street. He pressed his palms into his eye sockets, then dropped his hands to twist in his lap. ‘Forget it. Bad dream.’

‘Sounded like it. Have you dreamed . . .’ Felix frowned, but Loren could infer the rest of the question. Had Loren dreamed of him before?

To Felix, the answer would be impossible. They’d known each other less than a day.

‘I said forget it.’ Too snappish. Loren softened. ‘Sorry I woke you.’

Felix shot a glance at the door. ‘I was up already. Had to piss.’

Loren would have believed the lie if the teller had been anyone else.

As another grounding exercise, he picked out a handful of clues, like how Felix’s sandals were strapped on and the trunk lid ajar.

Felix had meant to leave. He would have, too, if – ironically – his ghost-self hadn’t intervened.

Hadn’t made Loren call out in his sleep.

The soft glow that lit when he believed Felix worried for him extinguished.

When Loren looked to Felix, stoniness met him. Felix knew Loren knew, he must, but he also didn’t walk his fib back.

Loren swallowed anger. It would do no good to fling accusations of broken promises.

He thought – hoped – Felix shared some of his interest in solving the helmet’s mystery, whether he admitted so or not.

But it was clear now Felix’s desire to leave outweighed any bargain.

Loren had been a fool for trusting him at all.

Now both had to sit in the discomfort of a plan foiled.

Dawn couldn’t be far off, and sleep was no longer an option with Felix’s intention to flee revealed.

Instead, Felix left the bedside to sit against the wall and stare, eyes reflecting in the dark, faintly animal.

Loren shuddered, drew his knees to his chest and pretended none of this was happening.

You did this to yourself. Loren tried to riddle out the implication, that he’d fallen on his own blade.

In a way, Ghost-Felix’s accusation reminded him of Camilia, blaming Loren for worsening things by meddling.

Maybe Loren had finally stuck his nose in one too many places.

Maybe Ghost-Felix didn’t want Loren figuring him out either.

They were far from friends. Whatever he had done to make Felix, or the ghost, rather, hate him so badly, Loren wondered if he would ever know.

Or if he’d be forever doomed to silence.

Sunrise didn’t bring answers, but it did bring resolve.

Reality intruded with the stirring of early risers outside, birds and bakers alike.

Loren crawled from bed when it was light enough to see without tripping, looked anywhere but at Felix, and fished in his trunk for his only clean tunic.

The hair on his arms prickled when he brushed the cloth-covered helmet.

Directing his anger at the helmet helped.

He could blame it for worsening an already bad situation.

He could blame it for the dreams, the failed scrying, and how now that he needed divine help most, he found only silence and shut temple doors.

What a useless ability: to see the future but never with the time or clarity to change it.

Sighing, he slammed the lid shut.

Shaking wrinkles from his spare tunic, Loren peeled free a scrap of navy silk he’d been gifted by a follower of Isis the other week. He’d meant to bribe Aurelia with it, but the shuffle of days had buried it deep in the clutter. Now it sparked an idea.

If the gods turned away, Loren could shoulder the mystery on his own. And he knew exactly where to start looking.

‘I meant to ask last night,’ Felix started, eyeing Loren as he changed. ‘Is that wine you were covered in? If all you do is drink, maybe I should join your cult. ’

Loren bit his tongue. He’d managed to last this long without stewing on his dismissal from the temple. No chance he would reveal that defeat to Felix.

‘Bad news if you hoped to convert. We aren’t going to the temple today,’ he said as crisply as he could muster. ‘Besides, you hardly look better, all blood-splattered and filthy.’

‘If you want me to strip, you could just say so.’

‘Grab your scarf before I let you rot in those clothes,’ Loren snapped, cheeks flaming. ‘If we don’t beat the crowds, you’ll be seen.’

Felix’s snigger chased him to the street.

For a mid-autumn morning, the heat settled in unusually early from all sides, cloaking the city in a damp, woolly blanket.

Merchants worked in the shade of their awnings, though it wouldn’t be long before they pulled their wares to continue business inside.

The roads swelled in the slow roast as if, at any moment, they might rupture.

Sympathy panged in Loren’s chest for Felix, swaddled in his headscarf and bandages, sweat rolling off his brow.

‘Hotter than Pluto’s arse and smells like it.’ Felix fanned himself. ‘How are you not sweating off your balls?’

Sympathy gone. Loren took off at a brisk pace.

Nonna’s near-empty basket swung from his elbow as he led Felix to the eastern quarter of the city, past the cheesemonger and cobbler who both waved. By the amphitheatre, workers were busy plastering posters to brick.

‘What are they advertising?’ Felix asked as they neared.

Loren slowed. ‘We can stop to look.’

Felix shifted restlessly. ‘Just tell me.’

‘You can’t read?’

‘You can?’