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up like fireworks.
    Missed you, darlin’,
Rook rumbled, into his neck.
You miss me?
    Not . . . as such.
    Liar.
    Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you? ’Sides—you got
her
.
    A dark laugh as answer.
Oh, now, don’t sell yourself short. Maybe
she
missed you, too.
    You fuckin’ son-of-a—
    But Rook just stroked him, grasping at all Chess’s most betraying spots—thumb and forefinger skinning the swollen head of Chess’s cock, callused palm slicking briskly up and down, clever and inescapable. Chess arched, cursing his own response.
    Uhhhh, shit, God fuckin’ damn. . . .
    Yeah, that’s it. Just . . . like . . .
that
.
    And now Rook too seemed caught up on the same wave of sensation, the same damnable trap—panting a bit himself, unable to quite keep from grinding against Chess’s body. Both hands kept equal-busy, with one dipping lower still—right into the sweaty nest of him, to probe at its leisure for that oh-so-familiar entry-point.
    Chess gritted his mental teeth, bit his equally mental lip.
You really think this is goin’ to go that way, after all you done? Please.
    Rook laughed again, muffled into the sweaty nape of Chess’s neck.
Still fussed over my methods—I understand that. But I do believe you’ll thank me for it later.
    Hell I will!
    Hell you
won’t
. You uncivilized, rude, improvident young man.
    Improvident—that mean selfish?
    Rash, thriftless, not providing for the future. Which you don’t much, do you?
    Hell, no. I’ll be dead long ’fore I gotta worry about that.
    Into Chess’s ear, a hot breath chased with a gentle bite:
Not if I can help it.
    And now you think you got me
well
in hand, don’t ya?
Chess thought, anger and desire messing with each other all through him, the way laudanum could be used to cut liquor.
So he raised his chin to pin Rook fast with a backward glance, felt the Rev huff in quick, and smiled just a touch at the rush of power that reaction afforded him:
See? Still got it.
A quarter-turn more and they were staring straight at each other head-on, without the mirror to mediate; Chess felt it like a touch of fever, mildly vertiginous.
    But then the whole scenario slid sideways, as it so often did in dreams, ’til Rook and Chess stood together on a balcony overlooking what Chess could only think must be Rook’s new home. All around reared up buildings slapped together from rock, mud and magic, black and strangely shaped; smoke billowed up from a hundred chimneys, limned in heat-shimmer. The sky was the colour of sugared absinthe.
    So,
Rook “said,” weirdly sociable.
Since you don’t seem all too eager for my regular blandishments . . . here we are.
He swept one hand out, leaning back ’gainst the balcony’s oddly sharp railing, its wrought iron curlicues reminiscent of those Chess had seen on row house verandahs.
Gaze upon New Aztectlan, o pilgrim, and wonder.
    Chess snorted.
Uh huh. This where you and her are supposed to be rulin’ all America from, one of these days?
    That’s the plan . . . part of it, anyhow. How’s Agent Morrow, by the by?
    We have our fun.
Chess shot him another look.
Jealous?
    With a tiny tilt of the head:
Should I be?
    Just another mask, smirk and all—another prepared face, be it Good Man Gone Wrong, High Priest of Darkness or Unflappable Mastermind with a plot for every contingency, surprised by nothing. Might’ve even fooled Chess, he hadn’t already seen its like so damn often. And maybe it was just the smoky gloom around them—the dream-sick unreality of everything that green light touched—but for a moment, Rook’s face really
did
seem bone-hard, frozen in something more grimace than smile, its eyes dark as glass.
    You’re not lookin’ too good, Ash.
The words came out flat and quiet, wiping Rook’s visage further, a scrubbed slate.
    And after a moment, the answer came back—his mouth’s utter stillness betraying this whole illusion, almost absently:
Probably not. But . . . I made my bed.
    Sure did,
Chess thought,