My mouth goes dry. The tales of Midas are true.
My chest aches, and the lines between fantasy and reality continue to blur then blend, like they have since Harpoc entered my life just days ago.
More shiny smears. They start and stop randomly, at times shoulder height, at times lower. Others decorate a large area on the floor before continuing on, like someone dropped a paint bucket, then slipped and fell in it, smearing it everywhere.
My mind has shifted from grotesque imaginings and is running wild with images of man and metal, joined in the most unnatural of ways.
Midas will be no elegant cyborg.
Chapter Forty
Dread pools in my stomach as Harpoc and I continue on in silence, down the length of the tunnel and finally out the back door that’s practically coated with gold at waist height and lower. It’s propped open with a mound of gold that acts as a doorstop.
The human body can live for twenty-one days without food, but water’s a different story. At least seventy percent of our body is made of the stuff, and we can last only three, maybe four days, without it, max.
It’s been four since I read that scroll to Jude.
Midas—I’m no longer calling him a con because no one, no matter how bad they are, deserves this—lays slumped and barely moving beneath the rock lintel that juts out a ways adding stability to the doorway. The front door had one, too.
The shortish overhang is wide enough to protect him from the bright sun, but does nothing to fix his dehydration, nor his equally large problem, the liquid gold that’s dripping from his fingertips. It’s formed a puddle beneath him.
Midas smiles up at us, but only half his face moves because gold freezes the other side of the taut skin. It smears his forehead and a normal looking ear—thank god—holds an eye shut, and is through at least half his hair where he’s touched himself. And it’s all over his robes and feet.
My breathing labors. He had no choice in this, I did this to him. I can’t escape responsibility this time, it’s all on me.
“God of Secrets,” he pants in Greek, forcing a smile. “Pardon my not rising. Dizzy. Can’t stand straight.”
It’s my fault. I want to shout it because guilt is again eating me alive.
“Had a feeling you were behind this.” Midas’s words are strained, from his parched throat.
Harpoc looks him in the eye. “It was not intentional.”
“Didn’t say it was. Too many secrets, finally got all twisted up, eh?”
Harpoc frowns. “Not exactly.”
Midas lifts his only moving brow, not believing.
“He needs water,” I say, my voice quivering.
Harpoc shakes his head, then says to Midas, “We’ve come to ease your pain through this trial.”
“But…” I object.
Harpoc gives me a stern glare.
Midas looks at his fingers. “Serves me right for lusting after gold.” He coughs a laugh. “Too much of a good thing.”
“What do we do?” I ask.
Harpoc draws that baggie of joints Zeki gave him from his duster and hands it to me, then sheds his coat, laying it out beside Midas.
He looks at the fallen monarch and says, “Don’t touch,” to which Midas chuckles.
Harpoc motions for me to hand him the baggie, which I do, then he takes one out, raises it to his nose, and inhales deeply, sniffing the white wrapper. “Zeki always had the best quality.”
“Who are you?” Midas asks, staring me down. “And why did he drag you into this metal-some”—he looks at his dripping fingers as he draws out the word—“affair?” A smile mounts the part of his mouth he can still move.
It’s macabre, but I can’t help but smile at his pun. Even in his ghastly condition, he’s joking, and it somehow frees me to talk, to explain myself, to apologize.
I step toward Midas, but a stern look from Harpoc keeps me a safe distance away. “I’m the one to blame, not the god of secrets.” I’m not sure if Midas and Harpoc are on a first name basis so I use his title.
Midas’s mouth turns down. “You, girl?”
“I’m so sorry.” I draw a hand to my chest, clutching my jacket, and my story of the whole naïve, bumbling, whatever adjective you care to assign to the mess, comes out in a rush, as if explaining will somehow absolve me of guilt.
Midas watches gold drip from his hand throughout my telling, and when I’m done all he says is, “Greed got you, too.”
“Greed?” I open and close my mouth.
“You deciphered my secret even though you knew what would happen.” He scowls, and his breaths come short and fast. I doubt it’s all because of his dehydration, he’s ticked. I get it. In his sandals, I’d be livid, too.
I swallow down guilt. “I read your secret to keep Jude, my friend, awake to save his life.”
He’s watching me intently, and it’s making me fidget. “Even though you knew… you knew…” His voice rises and he coughs. “You’re greedy.”
My defenses rise in an instant. I’m not greedy, I’m caring. Harpoc called him ‘a batty old geezer’ earlier. I’m beginning to understand why.
“To you, saving your friend’s life is… caring,” he says, but accusation flavors his words.
It’s like he’s reading my thoughts, and my stomach tenses.
“You gave not one… care… for me.” He draws it out.
I’m suddenly feeling overheated in my jacket, and I shrug it off.
He’s wrong, Pell, I tell myself.
I flip my hair, then cross my arms, preparing an impenetrable defense. But I can’t do it. The longer I stand here fuming, looking over his gruesome form, the more I know he’s right, I
