89. The Parts of a Heart (II) (Patreon)

After Eudora left the room was utterly silent.

Then Feiyang let out a bestial roar. One of the crates exploded, scattering a plume of tangy dust onto the floor.

One part of him wanted to run out, grab her, and fuck her ‘till she was so sore she was stumbling over herself. Hold her down by those long, soft legs and fuck her till that proud, smug look on her lovely face was replaced by a lolling tongue and eyes rolling back and those high, quivering moans she let out on nights he really rammed her. Another part of him wanted to hold her tight and kiss her every wound well and RIP OUT THE INTESTINES OF ANY MAN WHO DARED TOUCH HER.

But a third part of him—the strongest by far—simply wished she wouldn’t play these games with him, games that made his heart feel like it was being sliced open by molten knives. A little respect. Was that too much to ask of a lover?

That part of him kept him awake at nights, wondering if she was only with him because he was an amusing plaything, or because he’d make her father apoplectic if he found out. Feiyang didn’t dare hope that she loved him back. He knew she didn’t. If she loved him she wouldn’t find it so easy to hurt him.

He didn’t think it was possible to be so horny and so angry at once.

He was made out of so many broken-up parts, all shouting at each other, and he didn’t know what to think. His head felt stuffed full of wool. Groaning, he held his face in his hands.

He knew he was too far gone. He knew he’d give his life if it meant she wouldn’t suffer so much as a hangnail. He knew it and he wouldn’t stop feeling it even if he could.

But damn if it doesn’t fucking hurt!

One of the girls—Talia, or something, it didn’t matter; one of Slicknail’s friends—touched him on the arm. “Milord,” she said, fluttering her lashes at him, pressing her tits against his arm. Compared to Eudora’s they were sad, flabby sacks of flesh. He batted her away.

“Leave,” he said. One clipped word. His eyes were knife-sharp as he scanned the room. “All of you except Slicknail and Yu. Venk—fetch Pebble. Fetch Thakker. Bring them here. Then reach out to all our contacts in the Artificer’s Guild. Every one.”

His breaths echoed in his ears. His heart was still hammering in his chest like a desperate prisoner pounding on a cell door. “Tell Pebble I want to hear every detail of every second he met Io Rust. Tell him to scour his memory. By the end of our briefing I should know the exact number of hairs that man has on his fucking head.”

“Yes!” yelped Venk. The boy scurried out; the rest of his crew followed, looking worried, and he was left alone with Yu in the musty room. He turned to Yu with a snarl. “I need you to trail them. Make sure nothing untoward happens between them. Understood?”

“Of course, my King,” said Yu. “Err—I don’t mean to overstep my bounds—but that, that lady sure is… prickly.”

Feiyang said nothing. Yu seemed to take this as a sign to keep talking. That bald little fatty never knew when to keep his dumb mouth shut. “She saunters in here, all proud—we’ve killed fools for less than that! Sure, she’s got a nice face, and her body… damn! Those tits, that ass, those legs… I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve beaten off to her my fair share,” he chuckled. “But, err, what I mean is—you there are plenty of other gals out there—“

Strange. Everything in Feiyang’s gaze throbbed blood-red. His blood was slow, heavy, and scalding in his veins.

“Say that again,” said Feiyang softly, “And I will twist your legs around and around ’till I snap every ligament off of your knees. I will sever every nerve from your fingers, and pluck out your eyes, and carve out your nose, and blow out your eardrums, and cut out your tongue, and dunk your mangled body in a vat of mud.”

He stared Yu in the eyes, so the boy knew he meant every fucking word he said. Yu paled, rooted to the spot.

“But I won’t kill you. I will feed you the most flavorless gruel, and let you breathe, and shit, and piss—I will allow you the very barest definition of living. I will leave you in an eternal lightless void without feeling, without any senses, not even touch, only the nothingness, without the ability to so much as MOVE. The only thing you could do in that void is to think about what you just said to me, over and over and over again, and to feel sorry you ever opened your FUCKING mouth for the rest of your sorry FUCKING LIFE. Do you understand?”

In that moment Feiyang Shen was deadly serious. He envisioned it, let the image play through his mind, and felt a blossoming of vicious joy. Yu gulped.   “Y-“ He doubled over, hacking and clearing his throat; there seemed to be a new lump blocking his words. “Y-yes, sir,” he finally got out.

“Good.”

He went back to holding his head in his hands, feeling acutely that this wasn’t him, but he was too molten-hot to care. Something about Eudora brought out the ugliest and most tender parts of him.

Then Slicknail came in again.

“We’ve got another visitor, my King! Ah.” He looked to Feiyang, then to Yu. “Bad time?”

“No,” said Feiyang through gritted teeth. “Sorry. I’m…I’m under control. Speak.”

“This will cheer you up, sire. We caught the traitor.” Slicknail was grinning ear-to-ear. “It was exactly as you suspected! It was one of our most senior accountants. He was smuggling flying swords out with the textile shipments, and fudged the numbers to hide it. Grud and Mud caught him with his Sand-Devil contact by the docks. Didn’t catch the Devil, but we’ve sure snatched his fat behind.”

Grud and Mud, two huge blocks of chiseled meat, strode in carrying a very wide blob of meat between them. The blob was trembling, cringing. It had wet itself.

“Meet Accountant Wang,” said Slicknail. “What shall we do? Would you like me to perform the execution? I’ve been grinding my nails to the whetstone for just such an occasion, sire…”

Feiyang heaved another breath. “No. Thank you. You’ve done well, Slicknail. Leave the rest to me." He fixed each of them with a harsh stare, one by one. "You’ll want to leave for this.”

He, Grud, Mud, and Yu didn’t need any further encouragement to shuffle on out. The door clicked shut behind them.

Feiyang’s massive hands curled up to trembling fists. There was enough pressure in his hands to turn sandstone to sand. Good. We’ve got a big fellow. Hopefully he can take a few hits before he gives out.

“S-sire?” croaked the man. Fat, hairy piggy of a man, rolling with flab, legs like meat skewers. “It’s me—Wang Feixao! I-I’ve been your loyal s-subject for five years, sire, half a decade! Please, sire—forgiveness! Forgiveness, I beg of you!” He was on his knees, leaking water out of his eyes. “Please…”

The man was only early Profound. Feiyang wasn’t optimistic.

The first time Feiyang struck him he caved the man’s head in. Wang Feixao died on the spot. Then he hit, and hit, and hit, and kept hitting, screaming, feeling that molten chunk of rage burn up his heart with every collision of fist on flesh. Feixao’s lifeless, watery eyes stared out at him. THUD. It exploded in a shower of clear fluid. THUD. The head hung off the neck by a bare thread of spine. THUD. Headless; the head was a splatter on the floor; pink squelches of brain-matter slid slowly down the walls. THUD. Neck caved in, sinking between the shoulders. THUD. THUD. Lungs erupted in a blood shower. He kept hitting, and hitting, and hitting, until man was blood and broken bone, and the bones were ground to dust, and the fat was split apart like sandbags torn open, and what was once a recognizable man was reduced to his basest constituent parts, splattered over the floor like spilled bucketfuls of paints. The thudding kept going, shaking the room to its foundations. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.

Some unknowable time passed, marked only with that horrible rhythm.

The room was made of the highest-grade Spirit Steel, ceiling to floor. It looked like crumpled-up wastepaper when he was done with it. Feiyang stood there, breathing heavily, up to his neck in blood and body fluids. He wasn’t sure how much time had past. Maybe an hour? Two?

He looked up. Sunlight wasn’t streaking in through the skylight anymore; the whole room was drenched in shadows. Outside, the sky had dimmed to the light-gray of dusk. The stars twinkled bright tonight, grains of shining sand spread out on a darkening canvas. All that hot air had finally leaked out of him. All that was left of him was a cold, sore hollow.

He wasn’t angry anymore, just morose. A little sad. “Oh, Dora,” he sighed. He went to grab a towel or tunic to wipe off his hands but found that everything in the room was wet with blood. He looked at his knuckles. They seemed whiter than usual. Huh. Bones. He’d punched so hard he’d stripped the flesh off his own hands. He sighed again. “You’ll be the end of me.”

The thudding had stopped for a few minutes when Pebble poked his head in.

“Sire?” said Pebble, surveying the floor. His lips bunched up in a corner of his mouth as he did. “I’ve come, as you asked! Forgive me. I didn’t come in earlier because, erm, you seem a little upset. Erm. Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Feiyang said. He swallowed. He was tired. “I’m fine. First… tell Yu that I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have blown up at him like that. That was… immature of me. Tell him I owe him.”

“Gotcha.” Pebble flicked at a strand of hair. “So! I went ahead and combed through every Io-memory, like you said!” His face scrunched up. “I, err, um. Only got to six-thousand five-hundred seventy hairs before I lost count… or maybe it was six-thousand four-hundred seventy?”

“That’s alright. Your first briefing was enough…there’s no reason for another. You may leave.” He gave Pebble a strained smile. “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Pebble paused. “Was it that Io character that’s upset you?” he said, perking up. “Was it ‘cause Mistress Azcan was making eyes at him? Well, I’ve got good news on that front!”

“…”

“Trust me, sire, you’ll be glad to hear this!” he chuckled. “After she followed him into the restaurant—“

“Please…” croaked Feiyang. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

A weary silence wore on between them.

“Would you like me to take care of him, sir?” Pebble said it in a whisper. “I can. It’d be easy. I have friends among the Tournament higher-ups. I could do the deed—then we could erase his name, erm, fudge the numbers, as our good friend Mister Feixao did. No-one would be any the wiser.”

“No.” Feiyang had to remind himself to keep breathing. “Don’t do any of that. Don’t hurt him. His… idea. Wizard’s stick. It’s very promising. And his alchemy is sound, too. Tell him… tell him the Rat-King would be glad to enter a business relationship with him. Tell him we have more than enough labor and resources for whatever ideas he wishes; he only needs to provide his mind and guidance. Tell him the Mischief will compensate him fairly. Arrange a meeting.”

“Yes, sire.”

Pebble made to scurry off. He paused at the doorway, silhouetted against the purplish starlight.

“Sire? Are you sure you’re alright?”

Feiyang swallowed yet again. He took a while before answering.

“Do you think—“ he couldn’t finish. His voice was hoarse and sore. “Do you think someone like her can… can ever love someone like me?”

“You know I don’t lie to you, sire.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know, sire.”

“… I see. Thank you, Pebble. I’ll be fine. You may leave.”

“Okay, sire.”

The door creaked shut. Feiyang staggered over to the remnants of the table, sagged down onto them, and cradled his head for the third time that day in his bloodied, broken hands, and let out a long, shuddering groan.