Dei Ex Machina Read online

  Dei Ex Machina

  Kim Fielding

  Copyright © 2015 by Kim Fielding

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About the Author

  Also by Kim Fielding

  1

  The ghost perched atop the tall limestone walls of the palace, gazing down at the colorful crowds that strolled the Riva promenade. Beyond the cafés and vendors, the harbor sparkled in the bright sun and the distant islands floated like clouds in the Adriatic Sea.

  On the bad days, the ghost had no sense of self. He floated in an inky soup, grasping desperately for anything at all: a sensation, a memory, a thought. Sometimes his efforts were fruitless for a very long time, and then he was lost, he was nothing, he was—

  No. Today was a good day; he remembered. Once—a very long time ago—he had been a living man, and his name had been Sabbio. He’d been able to smell the salt air and the fish at the market, to taste the tang of an olive and the sweetness of a fig. And gods, once he’d been able to feel the breeze against his skin and the touch of a hand. People had seen him and spoken to him, had listened to his accented Latin. Once he’d been real.

  Now he was only a ghost.

  He’d been a phantom long enough to see civilizations die and new ones born. He’d eavesdropped on a basketful of languages, sometimes only turning the strange words over in his mind, other times listening long enough to understand what people said. He’d witnessed a cornucopia of clothing styles, some odd enough to make even a dead man laugh. He’d viewed some wondrous machines that he never could have conceived of when he was alive. But for all these centuries, even on his best days, he’d been simply an observer. Seeing, but never seen.

  The Riva was paved in big marble blocks that gleamed like glass. People walked slowly with their lovers, their children, or their friends. They sat on benches under the palm trees or at tables shaded by sail-like canopies.

  It pleased Sabbio to know that people still treasured the palace, especially since its construction had cost him his life. He’d been nothing but a slave, one of hundreds killed in the rush to erect Emperor Diocletian’s retirement home. But however insignificant he once had been—and he was far less significant now—at least he had helped create something of lasting value.

  He felt the emptiness growing inside him and knew his good day would soon end and he’d fall back into that endless pit. As always, he feared he’d never claw his way back out.

  At least he could make these moments count.

  Using only effort of will, Sabbio descended from the palace wall and drifted over the promenade. He watched as a proud young couple bought their young child a dog-shaped balloon from a vendor’s cart, and he listened as an older couple on a bench argued in Italian over where to eat dinner. He liked Italian because it was so close to Latin and because the syllables rose and fell like music. Even a disagreement sounded like a song.

  He wafted over to the busy cafés. There had been no coffee when he was alive, and anyway, slaves were given nothing to drink but watered wine. He wondered what coffee tasted like and why it was taken in such tiny cups. Some café patrons drank rakija instead—he imagined it tasted like very strong wine—or beer, which he’d smelled so very long ago.

  He hovered for a time near a group of young men who discussed sports and boasted about women they’d slept with. They were handsome. And although they spoke Croatian and wore sunglasses, T-shirts, and track pants, they were not very different from the older boys he’d admired in his village before he was captured and enslaved. He watched them wistfully.

  In a shadowy spot near the wall, a beautiful man and attractive woman sat silently, watching the people around them. He was younger than she was, with dark hair, and her chestnut tresses cascaded over her shoulders. Something about them unsettled Sabbio, so he avoided passing too close.

  A few tables away, tourists conversed in German about the city of Dubrovnik, farther down the coast. They thought it was beautiful. Sabbio had never been there, of course. It hadn’t existed when he was alive—not that he would have been free to travel in any case—and now he couldn’t go far from the palace. Still, it was nice to hear about the other city, just as he’d heard about so many places over the centuries.

  Not far from the Germans, an older woman sat with several young people, telling tales in English of the emperor Diocletian and his palace. Not all of what she said was accurate, but Sabbio knew he wasn’t the only one who forgot things as time passed. Entire nations forgot—and were forgotten. He enjoyed listening to her anyway, especially because she so obviously cared about her subject. Not all of her students were as rapt as Sabbio, however; two teenaged girls flirted with each other, brushing their knees together under the table where nobody but Sabbio could see. He smiled. Many things changed, but human beings remained essentially the same. That was a comfort.

  The group three tables over also chatted in English. Sabbio had been surprised at the speed with which English seemed to take over, and although he was more than a little hazy about politics, he assumed the English empire must have exceeded the old Roman one. Strange, that. In his day, the British Isles were populated by barbarians in mud huts. Or so he’d been told. In any case, he liked the way the language itself seemed to gobble up other tongues, using their words as it saw fit.

  These English-speakers—four men and a woman—were drinking wine. They looked relaxed, as tourists ought to, but one of the men toyed with his glass, a faraway look in his shadowed brown eyes. He was very tan, as if he spent long hours under the sun. Even though he looked slightly underfed, he was still very nice-looking, with pink lips and honey-colored curls.

  Ignoring the lively conversation of his friends, the handsome man glanced up. For a moment it was almost as if he stared straight at Sabbio. Sabbio swallowed and reached for him. But then the man’s gaze shifted to the side and he sighed, slumping in his seat.

  A gaping chasm as big as the heavens tore through Sabbio’s middle, and he fell into himself, into the eternal dark.

  2

  There was an art to catching the eyes of Croatian waiters, and Mason Gould had not even begun to master it. When he first sat down at a sidewalk café, the waiter would always come promptly to take his order, and the drink would arrive soon afterward. But good luck trying to get your bill. Ordering a second round was even more impossible. The upside was that you could park your ass in a chair for hours without the waitstaff sending you dirty looks. The downside was that you could get really thirsty.

  “Nicole,” he said, interrupting his sister-in-law’s speculation on the number of shoe stores per capita in Split.

  “What?”

  “I want another glass.”

  She rolled her eyes, but not very emphatically. She was the only one among their party with a knack for flagging down waiters. It probably helped that she was gorgeous, blonde, and busty. The previous week she had the Italian men practically throwing themselves at her feet, even when she was holding hands with her husband—Mason’s brother, Adam. Croatian men were slightly quieter in their admiration but nearly as obvious.

  Now, when Nicole swiveled toward the nearest waiter and smiled, the guy came scurrying over like his shoes were on fire.

&
nbsp; “More, uh, vino please,” she said, smiling. “For the guys. Espresso for me, please.”

  The waiter nodded, still ignoring the male contingent at the table. “No problem.”

  Adam was used to people ogling his wife. Hell, a lot of women ogled him. He was ripped and tattooed, and he somehow managed to pull off looking like a bad boy instead of a bank manager from Modesto. Mason used to be jealous of his younger brother, but nowadays he didn’t have the energy for it.

  The waiter brought a fresh round. Mason drank his quickly, then played with the stem of the glass. Adam was trying to convince the gang to take a ferry to one of the islands the next day, but Mason’s friends, Doug and Pete, lobbied for finding a beach instead.

  “Or we could rent a car,” Doug offered. “There’s a peninsula south of here. Uh, Pel-something. Lots of wineries.”

  Mason kept out of the conversation. He stared at the Adriatic, wishing it was the Pacific and Carl was at his side. For just a moment, he thought he saw something wavering in front of him, and then it was gone. A trick of the sun reflecting off the bright pavement and blue-green water. Maybe he ought to go lie down and rest his eyes.

  He started to stand, but Doug, who was sitting next to him, caught his arm. “Are you okay?”

  Suddenly without the energy to walk to their apartment, Mason collapsed back into his chair. “Fine,” he mumbled unconvincingly.

  “You look a little….” Doug shook his head slightly. “What do you want to do tomorrow?”

  “I don’t care.” They could get on a plane and head back to California, for all it mattered to him. His friends and family had meant well, dragging him along on a trip to ease his mourning, but it hadn’t worked. He was just as ravaged in Europe as he’d been in the States.

  Doug gave him a worried look, one Mason was familiar with—he’d been on the receiving end of that expression a lot lately. “It’s only been eight months,” Mason said, trying to explain himself. “He was the love of my life and he’s gone and I didn’t even get to say good-bye, and it’s only been eight fucking months.” He kept his voice flat and toneless.

  “Honey, we know,” Doug said. He patted Mason’s shoulder. “And for God’s sake, nobody’s telling you not to be sad about it. But you were always…. One of the things Carl loved about you was your energy. Your zest. You know he’d want you to move on a little, to enjoy life. He’d hate to see you so miserable.”

  He can’t see me at all because he’s fucking dead! With an effort, Mason bit back his retort. Carl’s death had hit Doug hard too—the two of them had known each other since they were kids. Carl had introduced Doug to his husband, Pete. And Doug was right. Carl’s pet name for Mason had been Spark. “My firecracker,” he used to whisper fondly as he stroked Mason’s flank. But Carl got killed and Mason’s spark had extinguished, leaving only ashes.

  Clenching his jaw, Mason looked away. At a table several yards down the Riva, a man and woman stared at him. She was gorgeous, with a curvy body that reminded him of a 50s movie star, long red-brown locks, and the kind of face that would be beautiful no matter her age. Her younger companion was pretty in a goth kind of way, with pouty lips, bedroom eyes, and almost preternaturally dark hair. The woman leaned over to say something to the man, and Mason was quite certain they were talking about him. Usually he didn’t give a crap what other people thought, but there was something odd about those two, something he couldn’t put his finger on. Their regard made him uncomfortable.

  Mason stood, and this time Doug didn’t grab him. He dropped some kuna onto the table to pay for his wine. “I’m going for a walk,” he announced. Maybe a ramble through the old town’s narrow streets and alleys would clear his head a little.

  “Do you want company?” Doug asked, still frowning with concern.

  “No. Don’t worry, I’m not going to throw myself off the cathedral tower or anything. I just want a little exercise. I’ll meet you guys back at the apartment for dinner, okay?”

  Although nobody else at the table looked especially pleased, they nodded. Mason gave them the shadow of a smile and wandered off.

  As he stalked through the palace, he thought maybe it would have been better if his friends had taken him somewhere else. Somewhere new and shiny, without a hint of history. Vegas, perhaps. Because Carl would have adored Split. He would have read a dozen books about the old city, bored them all with lectures about why and how it was built, and stopped to inspect every ancient stone. By the time they headed back to California, Mason would have been the reluctant recipient of an encyclopedic knowledge about the crumbling Roman empire and the Croatian wars. Carl would have taken about a million photos and browsed every goddamn shop, until Mason was about ready to strangle him. And when they packed for the return home, Carl’s suitcase wouldn’t have fit all the shit he’d bought, so he’d have stuffed Mason’s bag full too.

  Mason found himself stalled in front of an ice cream stand, blinking back tears. If he’d only had the chance to say good-bye. Hell, he’d barely glanced up from his coffee when Carl left for work that morning. Mason had been sitting at the kitchen table, deep in thought over his new landscaping project. He was trying to talk the client out of redwoods, which would grow fast and soon overpower the small front yard. Mason might have mumbled “Haveagooddaybabe” as Carl hurried out the door, but maybe not.

  Shit. Maybe he should have had another glass of wine.

  He wandered an erratic path through the old town until his feet grew tired, then found himself in a large square just outside the palace, surrounded by newer buildings that still predated any California structures by several centuries. Picking one of the many cafés at random, he plunked himself down. The waiter materialized almost at once, took Mason’s order for coffee, and strolled away. He returned quickly, bearing coffee and a glass of water. He never once smiled. Mason had concluded that Croatian waiters smiled only at Nicole.

  He was halfway through his coffee when he rubbed his face tiredly. Hiding behind his palms felt so good that he stayed that way, like a young child frozen in a game of peekaboo. He startled when he heard someone sit across from him.

  The man looked a few years older than Mason—perhaps late thirties—and he was big. Broad-shouldered, muscular, and tall even when he was sitting down. He was handsome too, in a slightly brutish way, with a strong jaw, prominent nose, and pale blue eyes. His brown hair was cut very short. He wasn’t smiling as he assessed Mason, but he didn’t look hostile either.

  “Um…,” Mason said, unsure how to react.

  “I am Viktor Lulić. Where are you from?” Lulić had a thick Croatian accent.

  “Um, California. But—”

  “American. I thought maybe you were English.” He nodded slightly, as if he were pleased with the discovery.

  The guy definitely wasn’t trying to pick Mason up. For one thing, gay life in Croatia tended to be somewhat subdued. Doug had said that thousands of antigay protestors had turned violent just a few years ago during Split’s first pride parade. Doug and Pete had been careful about public displays of affection, and Mason hadn’t exactly been flying the rainbow flag since he arrived. Lulić didn’t seem to be sending any subtle signals that he wanted to get into Mason’s pants. At least, Mason didn’t think so. He hadn’t flirted with anyone since he met Carl almost ten years ago; he was pretty rusty.

  Maybe Lulić wanted to sell him something. A room for the night, a guided tour. The locals didn’t seem especially pushy, but this guy could be an exception.

  “What can I do for you?” Mason asked. He would have just walked away, but he hadn’t paid yet—and, of course, his waiter was nowhere in sight.

  Lulić quirked the corner of his mouth. “I think I can do for you.”

  Drugs, maybe? Mason hadn’t seen evidence of anything harder than rakija, but maybe the locals figured Americans were a bunch of stoners. “Whatever you’re selling, man, I’m not in the market for it.”

  “I am not selling. I am making free offer. I heard you
and your friends at café on Riva.”

  Mason tensed as he tried to remember what they had talked about. Had this guy been stalking him all afternoon?

  Probably sensing Mason’s unease, Lulić sighed and set his hands on the table, palms up. “I am sorry. I know it was rude, but I try to practice my English. But now I can help you.”

  “Help me how?”

  “You said someone you love died. I am sorry to hear this. And I know…. My wife, she died too. Three years. Cancer.” If the grief on his face was fake, he was a hell of an actor.

  “I’m sorry. But, um, my someone was a man. My husband.”

  Lulić shrugged. “This is not important. Pain in heart is same, yes?”

  “Yes,” Mason murmured.

  “I was with Ivana when she was in hospital. I held her hand when she died. This… this was very hard. But also good, to say I loved her. You did not do this with your husband?”

  “He was murdered. He was walking across campus, and some psycho just opened fire. Carl didn’t know him—the bastard wasn’t even a student there. He was just having a really bad day, I guess, and decided the university made for easy pickings. He killed four people before he turned the gun on himself.”

  “Guns,” Lulić said grimly. “My father died in Homeland War. It is not same as murder, maybe, but still….”

  “The pain in the heart is the same,” Mason said.

  “Da. But your pain, maybe I can help.”

  Mason leaned back and crossed his arms. “Unless you can turn back time, Viktor, I doubt there’s much you can do for me.”

  For a moment or two, Lulić rubbed his jaw and looked at Mason. His fingers were broad, the knuckles scraped and calloused as if he worked with his hands a lot. But his fingernails were clean. After a decade as a landscaper, Mason had dirt permanently embedded under his. Carl used to claim that Mason’s work-roughened hands were one of his best features.