Sublunary (EBOOK, LGBT)

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ONE

HUGH GAZED OUT across a field of brilliant red, dotted here and there with lighter blotches of purple and lavender. “Are those…?” he began.

“Poppies?” His companion raised a raven-dark eyebrow. “Yes. For many, the Night Lands are a place of forgetting. Or, at least, a place of setting down one’s burdens for a time.”

Morpheus seemed somehow more himself in this strange dreamscape of gently waving flowers and golden half-light. It was hard to describe—he looked the same as he did in the waking world, but there was a certain tension, a certain fish-out-of-water aura surrounding him there that appeared absent here.

Hugh tore his attention away from the perfectly sculpted profile with difficulty, in favor of turning a slow circle. Taking everything in. “It’s not nearly as… uh… dark as I expected from the name.”

Morpheus exhaled a small huff of amusement. “Perhaps not this part of it. You might feel differently, were you to visit my uncle in Tartarus. Which, by the way, I would not recommend.”

In recent centuries, Hugh had possessed more reason than most to keep up with his classical mythology, so it didn’t take long to dredge the name from his memory.

“The pit where deceased souls are judged for eternal punishment? Yeah, thanks—I’m good.” He paused, letting the words sink in for a moment. “So, all that stuff is real, then. Terrific. Really, that’s just wonderful.”

Morpheus turned his head just enough to give Hugh the side-eye. “I feel compelled to point out that you were the one who decided to kick the God of Death in the groin six hundred years ago.”

“He was annoying me,” Hugh retorted, feeling his ears heat. “So were you, for that matter. You were just smart enough to stay out of striking range.”

The faintest curl of amusement graced Morpheus’ full lips.
Hugh tried not to stare at that lush mouth.

Failed abysmally.

Sighed.

After a few helplessly moonstruck moments, he cleared his throat. “I imagine you’re glad to be back. Have you let your family know you’re here?”

As soon as the words left his lips, he realized how potentially fraught they were. This was confirmed when an implacable mask slipped over Morpheus’ expression, erasing the traces of amusement as though they’d never been.

“Not yet,” his companion murmured.

Before Hugh could stumble over some kind of apology for bringing up a subject as complicated as Morpheus’ family, movement in the air above them caught his eye.

“Iridaceae!” he exclaimed, as the owl glided neatly down to land on Morpheus’ outstretched arm, flapping a couple of times to gain balance. “Your wing is better!”

Iridaceae preened, stretching the wing out to show off the glossy feathers.

“She is healed,” Morpheus said simply. “As I told you, it was only a matter of getting her here, where my powers are strong enough to fix the damage.”

Something about his tone made Hugh examine him more closely. “And what about you? Did coming here heal you as well?”

A look of vexation furrowed Morpheus’ brow, as though he were unaccustomed to people asking after his welfare. He drew breath—but before he could speak, Iridaceae hopped down from her perch on his arm, transforming even as her feet touched the ground.

“Why do you think he hasn’t talked to his family yet?” she asked dryly.

“Clothing, Iridaceae,” Morpheus prompted.

Iridaceae made a disgruntled noise, and a light, toga-like dress materialized, draping over her slender body from shoulder to knee.

“It’s really good to see you, sweetheart,” Hugh said with sincere relief. “You’re okay now?”

She shrugged a shoulder carelessly, the arm attached to it now straight and unblemished rather than twisted and broken. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Her tawny eyes narrowed, darting between them. “Wait. Have you two been doing naked stuff again?”

Her accusing gaze landed on her master.

Hugh sighed, resigned to the weirdness that his dreaming life had apparently become. “Maybe a little bit. Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it, yeah?”

“Such things are not a suitable topic for conversation, Iridaceae,” Morpheus told her firmly.

She snorted. “Try telling that to Phantasos. Do you have any idea how much time I had to spend sucking up to that conceited prat while you were gone? Because it was a lot.”

“And I, for one, appreciate your sacrifice,” Hugh said, before Morpheus could get a word in. “If you hadn’t found a way to reach me on Earth and let me know what was happening, our mutual friend might still be stuck in that bunker.”

Iridaceae beamed under the praise, and Morpheus softened visibly.

“He is correct. Your loyalty and resourcefulness have been noted, Iridaceae,” Morpheus said. “However, any discussion of my private matters—and Hugh’s—remains inappropriate. Did you have anything else to report to me?”

“No,” Iridaceae replied, not seeming much concerned by the rebuke. “Mostly, I just wanted to see Hugh.”

She bounced forward and wrapped her arms around Hugh’s neck, taking him by surprise. He hugged her back tightly.

“Thanks for getting him back,” she whispered in his ear before stepping away. “Oh, and tell Baphometh I said hello.”

With that, she transformed once more, flapping away on silent wings.

Hugh blinked after her. “Right. Tell my cat that the shapeshifting owl girl says hi. I’ll make a note.” He hesitated. “Or possibly not. Am I going to remember all of this when I wake up?”

“Yes,” Morpheus said. “You will.”

A sense of relief washed over him. “Oh, good. There are several parts of the last few hours that I’d hate to lose.”

Morpheus wandered slowly through the sea of poppies, his hand trailing among the blooms. Hugh paced him, more interested in the play of subtle emotion across his face than their fantastical surroundings.

When the God of Dreams finally spoke, it was with an unaccustomed hesitance. “I am unsure whether I have adequately conveyed the risk you take by accepting a place at my side. It would perhaps be for the best were you not to draw attention to yourself, or to our… arrangement.”

“Morpheus,” Hugh said, “I honestly have no idea what our arrangement even entails. Not in practical terms. But whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it won’t be improved by pretending it doesn’t exist.”

Morpheus continued walking; his blue eyes focused straight ahead. He was silent for long enough that the atmosphere between them grew heavy. Still, Hugh refused to break it.

“You asked if I was recovered fully from my ordeal,” Morpheus said eventually. “The answer is no—I am not. You are placing yourself in a vulnerable position at a time when I am ill-equipped to protect you from harm.”

Exasperation for this impossible creature walking next to him swelled in Hugh’s chest. He reached out, hooking Morpheus by one arm and pulling him to a stop. They faced each other among the sea of flowers, Morpheus frowning down at Hugh from his slight advantage of height.

Hugh resisted the urge to shake him. “Morpheus. The point here is that I want to help you. Which I can’t do if I’m busy pretending we’ve never met, and that I don’t give a shit about you. So, here’s what’s going to happen. When I wake up, I’m going to track down Philomena fucking Waldenpole and figure out if she’s after you for her own purposes, or if someone else put her up to it. And by someone else, I mean your creepy brother.”

Morpheus drew himself up straight, his expression vexed. “You must not attempt to confront Phobetor.”

“Because that admonition worked so well in the eighteenth century,” Hugh said, deadpan.

“You do not understand what you are dealing with when it comes to the divine,” Morpheus shot back, his expression darkening.

“Maybe I don’t,” Hugh said, “but that’s not going to stop me. In case you’ve forgotten, the divine dropped itself in my lap eight hundred years ago; I didn’t go seeking it out.”

He still had his grip on Morpheus’ arm, and he used it now to reel him in until their foreheads rested against each other, mildly astonished when Morpheus allowed the manhandling.

“My point is,” Hugh told him, “you’re not alone.”

In the next moment, Hugh’s surroundings swirled into a gray blur, vertigo assailing him. He awoke on the ratty green sofa in his sitting room, to the soft tap of Baphometh’s paw on his cheek, demanding breakfast.

“Bollocks,” he said groggily, shooing the animal away and sitting up.

Somehow, he felt the last part of that conversation—assuming it had truly been real—could have gone a lot better.