Page 29 of Vesuvius

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 accusationreminded 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.

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