To counteract the memories that stalled him, he told himself that Pertos would thank him for keeping Bitty Belina from harm. Pertos would say, “Why didn’t I see the danger? Sebastian, you’re a herol” And even though Pertos had said there were no more heroes, Sebastian would be a hero. Too, it was easy to convince himself that Bitty Belina’s sharpness had not been disgust at all, but a sort of sympathy.
He touched the door handle and found that it had not been locked.
Puppets laughed.
Belina laughed.
Cautiously he slid the portal open until he could see most of the room. And it was then that the balloon of his head exploded in all directions.
Bitty Belina was naked, standing between the mammoth thighs of Alvon Rudi, caressing him there, laughing as he laughed, the object of her attention every bit a third as large in length and diameter as she was.
Sebastian had only once ever seen a man with desire, and that once had traumatized him for life, had scored into his brain like a lightning bolt scarring the trunk of a gnarled elm. His mother and father had left their bedroom door open, and he had wandered in on some imagined quest or other, discovering them in sex. He had thought that his father had been hurting her, had been stabbing her. He had leaped on the bed, screaming, and flailing at his father with both small hands, biting, kicking. And even hours later, when they had finally calmed him and his mother had assured him, again and again, that his father had not been hurting her, he believed what he chose to believe. From then on, he had been ashamed that he possessed the same flesh knife as his father. And the years since then, devoid of a single erection since his sense of the sexual was all but nonexistent, had been a blessing. He knew that he could never ever harm anybody, because there was no steel in his knife.
And now, seeing Alvon Rudi, seeing Belina there touching the knife that could kill her, he was plagued with visions of Belina dead, bloody, ruined. And over the visions, as if several pictures had been printed on one plate, he saw jenny with the knife in her gut, spouting blood. And for the first time he understood, deep in himself where something of the human mind survived, that the knife in jenny’s gut was his response to his father’s penis in his mother. And he gagged and screamed and stumbled into the room toward Alvon Rudi, attacking himself as well as the enemy.
There were white faces.
Puppets screamed.
He felt Belina beating at his hands, then at his shins, as he knocked her to the floor.
He remembered Rudi’s face, purple and inhuman.
He remembered bloodshot eyes watching him, terrified.
He felt the prince’s sword driven into the calf of his leg.
He kicked, smashing the prince into the wall. The simulacrum’s neck snapped, and it writhed a moment before death was complete, blood running from its ears and nose, its face ashen and painfully contorted, for it had never known the violent death it had so often dealt to Wissa.
Alvon Rudi clawed at his face.
He felt his cheeks running with blood.
He laced his fingers tighter around the merchant’s throat.
The naked man convulsed, pitching to and fro on the bed, his lips almost blue now.
“No! No! You stupid bastardl” Bitty Belina was screaming. She had climbed onto his back now and was clawing her small hands at his clothes trying to reach his neck where she could swing an arm around and go for his eyes.
Alvon Rudi managed to drive a knee into Sebastian’s crotch, making the brute gag and double over, forcing him to break his deathlike grip.
“Help!” Belina yelled.
The golden-winged angel flew at Sebastian, tried for his eyes. But Sebastian batted the simulacrum away with a large hand, sent it crashing against the front of the sutodoc where it broke its left wing and tumbled to the floor, crying and cursing.
Wissa stood in the doorway between rooms, wide-eyed and uncomprehending.
Belina bit his neck, drew blood with her fine teeth.