BooksBarbecue
Back Harrow the Ninth Save as PDF
Chapters (70)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. DRAMATIS PERSONAE
  5. Prologue
  6. PARODOS
  7. ACT ONE
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. ACT TWO
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. 20
  29. 21
  30. 22
  31. ACT THREE
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. 27
  37. 28
  38. 29
  39. 30
  40. 31
  41. ACT FOUR
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. EPIPARODOS
  51. ACT FIVE
  52. 40
  53. 41
  54. 42
  55. 43
  56. 44
  57. 45
  58. 46
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. EPILOGUE
  67. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  68. The Locked Tomb Trilogy
  69. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  70. Newsletter Sign-up

The skull paint dripped down your cheeks from the sweat, and from the blood, and from where I’d wiped it accidentally. Your hair was way too long. It was plastered down your neck, and it was seriously itchy. All of that was the same Harrowhark Nonagesimus. Angular. Ferocious. Terrible. But at the same time, it wasn’t.

Main reason: my eyes stared out of your face. The shape was yours, but the yellow-amber irises were as out of place in your face as my sword was clutched in your thin, straining arms. The expression wasn’t right either—my what the fuck? face was very different from your what the fuck? face. It was like watching a shell of you walk around; like the empty puppets you’d made of Pelleamena and Priamhark. Except that would’ve been easier. This was your shell, but it was all filled up with me. God, the double entendres were hard to resist.

I said hoarsely: “Get back here. Get back here right now, or I’ll make you say the worst shit I can think of. Just mean and gross. Beneath even me, is what I’m saying.”

No response.

“Oooooh, Palamedes. I am measurably less intelligent than you. Put your tongue in my mouth, and I’ll flop my tongue against it.”

Nothing.

“I think bones are mediocre.”

Maybe you were dead.

“Ohhhhhrr, Gideon, I was so dumb to think a tub of ancient freezer meat was my girlfriend. Please show me how to do a press-up. Also, I’m very obviously attracted to y—no, damn it, this is just sad. This is garbage.” My temper was going. Maybe your temper was going. “Come back. I hate this. Eat me, and let’s go full Lyctor. I didn’t fall on a fence for this, Nonagesimus.”

Sound. Motion. Another chittering scamper, close to the door. Then another.

I had forgotten there were going to be more of them. Your memory hadn’t happened to me, and even if I’d had a front-row seat for most of it, it was like watching a play through a blindfold. If I wanted to know something, I had to deliberately go looking through your shit. And I’d forgotten because I was an idiot. It was so hot in that room, and my insides—your insides—felt so cold. I shrugged off that stupid white robe—which looks dumb as hell, by the way, like Silas Octakiseron got into the glitter drawer—and I tried to get you back through sheer force of hope, and sheer force of want.

No dice. I shouldered my sword. Your arms blazed in response.

“Whenever you’re ready,” I said. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll keep the home fires burning.”

And the Heralds piled in.

45

AN AMOUNT OF TIME BEFORE THE EMPEROR’S MURDER