Page 125 of Vesuvius

Lantern light glinted off Mercury’s winged feet in the temple. Felix waited alone, legs dangling off the altar block. Lately all he knew was alone. He missed watching his father’s magic tricks, hearing his ghost stories. He missed the time before cups of sticky wine were pressed into his small hand by the priest. He missed when being here didn’t leave him with a hurt he couldn’t name.

Smoke bit the corners of Felix’s eyes. A fiery boulder hit an awning to the right and it shattered. Flaming fragments of wood and rock exploded outwards. Felix ducked to avoid a blow from a piece sailing past. On his left, a building shuddered and collapsed in a plume of dust.

Loren twisted his wrist. Terror seized Felix, and he dug his nails in, a last-ditch effort.

‘Let me go.’ Loren’s other hand clawed. ‘I won’t make it, let me—’

Felix snarled, the least human he’d ever felt. It ripped through his chest, splitting him in two angry pieces. He said no words. He had none. His brain had ceased thinking in language, only noise and sound and chaos. Primal. Horrifying, but he let the ferality rock through him, the only defence he had.

Loren let out a muffled sob and stopped resisting, and Felix’s eyes burned and blistered as he dragged him along, useless as a doll.

Laughter surrounded him, until the laughter stopped, replaced by quiet poppy. Little Felix had no words then, either. Not beneath the priest’s wandering, hurtful hands. Not when the stark temple chilled Felix’s skin, bare before the hollow, impassive stare of Mercury’s statue.

Watching, and doing nothing.

Felix bit his tongue and learned what silence meant.

The horse was a surprise.

It announced itself with a terrified whinny, hooves stomping on cobblestones. Some monstrous owner had cruelly tied it to a stake beneath a roof to burn with the rest of the city. Felix darted for it. He could do it. He could save all three of them: himself, Loren, this unlucky bastard of a horse.

At least, that was Felix’s plan.

And it fell to shit so gracefully.

Felix scrambled to untie the reins. It wasn’t until he reached back that he realised Loren wasn’t there.

The world stopped.

Felix turned.

Loren had his palms against the ground.

Another of his visions, striking at a bad time as always. That, Felix could have handled. He could have slung Loren’s semi-conscious body over the horse and ridden far and free. Loren would come around miles from this wretched place. They’d be together. They would heal.

But the truth came ugly when Felix dropped to Loren’s side. Because he wasn’t drifting, lost somewhere in the urgent future. He was wide-eyed. Shivering.

‘Go!’ he shouted, shoving Felix away. ‘Forget me, I can’t . . .’

Felix dropped the helmet. It chattered against stone, an angry thing. He gripped Loren under the arms, tried dragging him, but Loren gave a sharp gasp.

The truth came uglier.

His ankle was crooked, bent in a way that made Felix’s own bones ache. Loren must have slipped in the blood pooled in his sandal.

Yesterday, Felix had teased Loren about this, on the road to Vesuvius.

If you twist an ankle, I’m not carrying you back.

This was more than a twist.

‘Let’s get you up now,’ Felix muttered.

‘Just leave me,’ Loren begged. Tears streaked through soot, clean tracks on dirty cheeks.

‘I can lift you.’

‘You can’t. It’s over. I did this. I did this to you. It’s my fault. It’s over.’

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